my neighborhood kids.

Kids love playing in my yard. I think they like it as much for my mango trees as they do for the opportunity to play with the neighborhood’s mazungo (the Sena word for branca, white person; this word completely annoys me as I feel its offensive, but here it is completely acceptable to use instead of a name). There are a few groups of kids that come by, and each has there own distinct characteristics.

There is Five (who when he introduced himself said “como (like): one, two, three, four, five; it is one of my favorite English word names, second only to my friend “Give”) who comes by with three little girls. They like to play with Nehru and always tell me when I have ripe fruit on my trees.

There is a group of about eight seven-year old girls who like to come by and see if I will dance with them. They always ask if they can have my hair and tell me the days when I am looking particularly “sheiky.” I see them sometimes on their way to school and they get so excited that I will say hi to them on the street because it makes them look very cool in front of their friends. I also taught these girls how to whistle with grass, a talent that has now become somewhat of my trademark as they clearly told their friends who told their friends, and all of whom have come by to learn how. I never knew the trick my dad taught me when I was little would soon become such a hot commodity.

My next door neighbor has two quiet girls and Nino, a two year old boy. Nino always brings Nehro home when he walks into their yard, and the girls are always joking with him about it. Unlike the other neighborhood children, these girls rarely come to play in my yard, except when there are lots of mangos falling or when they are playing tag. Twice, however, I have gone and helped them have a “picnic” (a word they use) in which they cut coke cans in half, put a little bit of charcoal in the bottom of one have and random leaves and water in the top half and cook them until they are ready to “eat.” This is perhaps one of my favorite Mozambican games as it reminds me of the “stews” I used to make out of dandelions and grass when I was little.

And lastly there are the boys with the tires. These boys were my least favorite group until recently when we reached an understanding. The group consists of about seven boys under the age of seven. As you can imagine, a group of this demographic has the potential to be great playmates, but they also have the potential of being little brats. When I first moved in, the boys would roll up with their three old tires, which they always seem to have and can do some pretty awesome tricks with, I have to admit. They sometimes stack three of them against a tree and use them to climb up and then jump back down into the center. They can also clear the three stacked up if they run and jump (all but one who usually falls and makes everyone laugh). Anyway, they would show up and just stand outside my house chanting “mazungo, mazungo.” I tried to tell them that my name was Naomi, and they seemed to love the fact that calling me mazungo seemed to frustrate me, so they obviously kept doing it. They also did not treat my kitten very nicely, which is common here, but I have no patience for. I eventually just started telling them to go home and that made them laugh even harder. They would leave and then come back and repeat exactly what I had said to them. They were infuriating.

Finally, last week, one of the boys came up to my house by himself. I talked with him about calling me “Tia” instead of “mazungo” and he agreed. Then I taught him how to play rock, scissors, paper and played in the sand with him for a while. The next day, he brought one other friend and we all made faces at each other for about an hour until their moms called them home for dinner. I was finally getting through to them. Little by little more boys would come, call me Tia, and play for a little while at my house. They still like doing things like hitting each other and throwing sand in the littlest ones faces, but I think they were starting to understand when I would tell them that was really not a nice way to play.

I sometimes feel like I have about 15 kids. Sometimes I do not understand how I can possibly be entertaining enough for them to hang around all day long, but for some reason they do. Though I sometimes wish I didn’t have so many little kids around all the time, its pretty nice to have the company, even if the company sometimes throws sand.

the hospital.

Visiting hospitals is something we did during training. We visited two different health centers and compared the services available. We talked about how many people were waiting to be seen and how many resources we would have expected to see were just not available. Both of the health centers we visited were small, local health centers. Granted, these “small health centers” serve hundreds of thousands of Mozambican residents a year, but they are not the big, fancy district hospitals.

Last week I visited Beira’s central hospital. I walked onto a huge campus that overlooks a beach. With four different buildings including an entire maternity ward, I was impressed. To get in, I had to pass through a gate and talk to a guard (well, he really just said hello to me, but in Mozambique, as a white person, that is what most guards to do me when I walk into a buildings, one of the perks). Once inside, however, the fancy aspects of the hospital seemed to disappear.

I was there to visit Adelina. Adelina became sick about two weeks ago and last week took a turn for the worst. Catassefo took her to the hospital last Monday and as she was still in the hospital on Friday and I had decided to visit her. I walked into the main medical building and there was no formal registry of the patients. There were two women sitting at an “information” table who seemed annoyed to have to answer my questions, but told me a person with her symptoms would be on the third floor.

I walked upstairs (despite the fact that it was not visiting hours, another perk of being a well dressed foreigner) and entered the women’s ward. The man standing at the doorway did not know which room Adelina would be in, but he told me I could just walk down the hall until I found her (the idea of patient privacy does not at all exist in this country). I walked down the hallways and peered into rooms full of emaciated women sitting or sleeping on beds close together in the hot hospital. Each room had about six beds and one sink. There was one bathroom in the entire hall and at the end of the hall there was an employee room. After peering into all of the rooms (two of which were labeled “private rooms” but had three beds in each), I did not see Adelina. I went back and asked the man if he by chance could look on a registry for her name and he seemed uninterested. He told me she might be in the building next door.

The next thirty minutes consisted of me walking through most of the buildings of the hospital asking for my friend. Each hospital worker seemed as uninterested in helping me as the last and I finally gave up. I called Adelina’s sister and told her I would be waiting outside when she arrived.

Soon her sister found me and we walked back into the first building and down the same first hallway I had walked down. At the end of the hallway was Adelina. I had not recognized her. She had lost a lot of weight and her arms were extremely boney. Usually a sarcastic and fun person, she could barely talk with us at all. I sat with her for about an hour and she just kept asking me why, if she had not eaten anything in days, was her stomach so big and painful. I had no idea how to respond.

It was one of the hardest hospital visits I have ever made, and I have made quite a few. The doctors were doing nothing her Adelina, she was not receiving fluids or even any medicine. I decided to use my foreigner card one more time and marched up to the doctors’ table and asked why she was not receiving any medication and why her family still did not have any results from any tests. The doctor told me he had done a test a few days ago, but it being Friday, was unsure when he would receive any results. He told me they did not have any more fluids to give her at the time. Frustrated, I went back to her room and rubbed her back. I think she appreciated that I was not afraid to sit with her. I do not know the culture of caring for the sick here, but her brother and sister also appreciated that I sat with her for so long and tried to make her feel better. I just felt like there was not a thing I could do to help, and it was horrible to realize that is the way the system here is.

But that is the way the system here is. This week it affects my friend, but everyday it affects Mozambicans. There are no resources. There are not enough doctors or lab techs or cleaning products. There is no privacy. The walls are not painted bright colors and there are no tvs to watch Jeopardy during the day. There is no call button for when your pain increases because there are no pain meds to make you feel better. I was told to be prepared to realize these things, but it does not make it any easier when you have a sick friend. I have sat for hours wondering whether it is even worth it for her to be in the big, fancy central hospital, or if she should not just be at home, in a private bed, with a fan and clean sheets and her son at her side. And I still don’t know the answer.

first month.

So, I have been at site for over a month now, and it is starting to feel like home.

I recently bought some beautiful capulanas at the market (and I think I made the vendor’s day when I decided to buy seven capulanas) and then I spent an afternoon hand sewing curtains. The curtains look great with the paint I got, and my house is starting to look very much like a home. I am starting to put things up on the walls, and as soon as my friendly carpenter starts moving on his work, I should have a dresser and a nice shelf.

Ghandi never returned, but my neighbors felt terrible about me losing my child and I have helped me adopt a street kitten whom I have named Nero. Nero is adorable, has a little scratch on her nose, and loves when I give her a cup of milk (now to be specific this is reconstituted dehydrated milk, she is really quite laid back about her food). She is not at all vicious, and will probably thrive a lot more in my house than she would have in the wilds of Dondo, but I am still hopeful that I can teach her how to attack cockroaches and to scare away mice.

My neighbors have become my favorite part of my house. I can sit for hours with my neighbor Ana, who will often come over to talk with me about her boyfriend problems or about how she is nervous to move to Maputo for police school. Her mom has informed me that when she leaves, I will be inherited as her daughter. I pointed out that neither of us would be alone, as we will have each other. She laughed and said she would be spending a lot of time with me in my house. My next-door neighbor has a beautiful two-year-old boy named Nino. Nino loves to run around and loves it when I chase him. I think his mom appreciates someone else playing with him and has begun to look after me like an older child. She helps me pick through vegetables from the market, gives me cooking tips, and alerts me when it is about to pour and I should take my laundry inside.

Dondo itself is proving to be a great city to live in. It is big enough that I can always get just about everything I need, and I have already found my favorite cucumber lady, the best deal on eggs, and the cutest bread boy. I have become fast friends with the owner’s of the internet shop. Last time I went in, they called me by name, cleared off a table for me, and brought me a cold Fanta. It was great.

I have been trying to dedicate a few afternoons a week to exploring new parts of the city. I have found an amazing pineapple farm, a soon to be high class hotel, and a lot of fertile farm land. When I go on long bike rides, I always get funny looks (because why would you ride just to ride around aimlessly) but I have found it’s a great way to see the town and its outskirts. I bet the fact that I am not only one of few white people riding around town (there are some American missionaries whom I have met), but I also tend to wear shorts on these rides, both out of comfort (its too hot for pants and wearing a skirt on a bike can get tricky) and to make it seem like I am doing something truly athletic. After my first week with my bike, and my Peace Corps obligatory helmet, one of my co-workers explained that in Mozambique, only true cyclists, who ride for sport, would wear a helmet. Since I have to wear the helmet (not wearing a helmet is one of ten ways you immediately get sent home, along with riding on a motorcycle, being active in political protests, etc), I figured if I paired it with shorts, maybe I could make people think I was training for the Tour de Mozambique. If they stopped to think about it, training for any event on my single speed beach rider would be pretty impressive, but if I don’t have them fooled, at least I have them totally confused.

Work with ASVIMO is starting to become more interesting. With a slow December month because of the holidays, we are finally starting to think about what exactly my role will be within the organization. I am learning to take slower steps in each process of my work here, as everything happens much slower than it would in the states. Most days, I arrive at the office at 8, unlock and open my office door, and sweep the inside. Then I sit around reading various documents until about 9 when other people start showing up. We all sit in the shade and chat until about 10 or 10:30, when someone brings mangos or a coconut and we have a break (from all of our hard morning work). Around 11, we go over something work related as a group. At 12, all the neighborhood kids show up for lunch, I go to say hello to the kids and talk with the great lady who lives next door to ASVIMO (who herself has eight kids and likes to think of herself just like my mom ever since I told her I was the seventh of eight; I never thought being one of eight would be an icebreaker). Around 1 or 2 we all decide it is way to hot to work, and we all go home.

There are obviously days that are different. On “trabalho do campo” (field work) days, I can accompany one of the activistas to the houses of our beneficiaries and talk with them about whether or not they are adhering to their medication, how their nutrition has been lately, and whether or not their kids are registered for school. I am also hoping to start working in the district hospital in Mafambisse (another community, about 30 minutes from Dondo). ASVIMO is starting nutrition workshops at Mafambisse once a week, and I am hoping to use that as an opportunity to work in the hospital in whatever way I can. I am also hoping to start a youth group, which I think I will be able to start in the next month or so.

I am excited for the next few weeks, as I am hoping I will be able to do some exciting work. Katasefo, my counterpart, is excited for me to meet the community, and I think he will be a huge asset in the next few months as I am starting work. Everyone respects him and he knows what is going on in all corners of the city. My other co-workers are also doing well, and excited for me to feel like I am being productive (I think they sense my lack of patience). While I love eating mangos every day, I would rather do so as a celebration of work, rather than yet another thing that must happen before we work.

electricity.

The last few weeks have been pretty eventful, but this blog is dedicated to today: the day I got energy!

When I first moved into my cute yellow house (pale yellow with deep red trim, pictures to come), I was told within a few days I should have electricity. That was three weeks ago.

In the past three weeks, I have waited on my landlord who demorar-ed beyond belied and taken matters into my own hands. Last week, I showed up at the electricity agency, asked where the director’s office was, and walked right in. This is a very gouch move, as usually to talk to a chefe, you must go through all the necessary means. I was counting on my clear difference in appearance to get me into his office. I was totally right, and he promised me energy that day.

Of course, that did not happen.

I left the next day to spend Christmas with some friends in Gorongosa (where there is a national park that is closed, but I got to see my first mountains in Mozambique, my heart lit up and I cannot wait to get back), and asked my house-keeper to stay at my house while I was gone. She told me she would wait for the electricity men to come.

I came back to site on Monday only to find (not at all surprisingly) that my prematurely purchased rotating fan was still just sitting collecting dust. This morning, I hopped on my bike and braved the chefe’s office again. He took one look at me, apologized, and told me to go home and someone would be there this morning. Around 1:00 pm, a truck pulled into my yard.

I am now sitting, computer and cell phone charging (the number of batches of cookies I need to make for my neighbors who have graciously charged my phone over the last few weeks will keep me busy until about February), and fan blowing right on my bed.

My bed is, you should know, my favorite place. My first night in my house, I did not have a bed. I put my trusty purple thurmarest on the floor, set up my mosquito net, and was ready to go to sleep after a long day of meeting various important people and repeating my name over and over (Naomi, to Mozambicans is very similar to the word “nome” and people often think I am just saying “name” in response to their asking mine; it gets very tiring). After a few horizontal minutes, I heard the sound that I know all too well from my apartment in DC.

I had a mouse problem.

I grabbed my can of bygone, which I had used before I snuggled onto my thermarest, to kill all of the cockroaches I could find invading my space. I proceeded to spray the area where I heard the mouse (which was all of 5 inches from where my head had beed). The rest of the night was much the same. I sat under my mosquito net, spray can in hand, with my head-lamp on, ready to attack.

The next day my supervisor called me to see how I had slept. I told him about my mouse problem. He apologized, and later that day showed up with the tiniest kitten I have ever seen. Ghandi, as I quickly named her, was so cute. An added bonus, that night I did not hear a single mouse.

I have grown to love Ghandi. The neighbors think I am crazy because I give her baths and cuddle with her. I call her my fliha (daughter) and tell people that I live with my one child, not alone.

Yesterday, however, when I came back from Gorongosa, Ghandi was no where to be found. I asked my neighbors if they had seen her, and no one had. I went to bed, and the next morning my house-keeper told me that on Monday as she was cleaning, she thought Ghandi had wondered out of the house (which she does but has never gone beyond my yard), and my house-keeper thought that since she was so pretty someone probably put her in their pocket. Ghandi was beautiful, tan with bright blue eyes. Like a doting mother I had shown pictures of her to all my friends in Gorongosa.

My housekeeper has offered me one of her kittens (which are white and not cute and older by about nine months) and though I do not want them because there is no replacement for Ghandi (and because I am naively expected the darn thing to show up at my door right now), I do not want my mouse problem to continue.

I suppose I can decide in a few days. I have asked all of the neighborhood kids to keep an eye out for Ghandi, and if they can't find her, no one can. In the meantime, as I mourn and call Ghandi and make kissy noises, attracting even more attention to myself, I plan to spend my vacation getting the rest of my house ready. I want to paint the inside (obnoxious, bright colors) and I want to dig up a good garden in the back.

And tomorrow, I want to buy some appliances. You know the kind, the ones that plug in.

move in day.

I figured moving into a house in Mozambique would be trickier than moving into my last apartment in Boston.

I think, probably, had my mom offered to help move me into Dondo it would still have been smoother than the move into Roxbury.

The process started about two weeks ago. Peace Corps gave us each a big cardboard box, which was ours to fill up in whatever way we felt best. The next day, a Peace Corps car came to each of our houses in Namaacha and picked up said boxes. A few days later, the cars returned to Namaacha to pick up our big bags that would meet us the next day in Namaacha.

Excited about the “Swearing in” ceremony, I went to get my shampoo out of my bag once we were in Maputo. After trying twice to open the zipper, I realized I was fighting a losing fight and borrowed my roommate’s shampoo. The next day, however, I really needed to change out of the hideous capulana dress I wore to swear in (which you should look at pictures of, the dresses are terrible, though mine has become maybe my favorite article of clothing and I refer to it as my moo-moo), so I tried the zipper again. Miraculously, it opened and I was able to pack myself a bag for the next few days. I closed the suitcase thinking I would not have to open it until I was in the comfort of my new home.

But I am a risk taker. Last night, in my hotel in Beira, I decided it would really be nice to change my running socks (yes, Dena, I am back to re-using my running socks, and I am not ashamed – you try washing those things by hand). Upon the first try, the zipper came off the teeth of itself and I knew I was now left with an unopenable, unclosable suitcase. Annoyed I used my dirty socks and went on with my morning. When I came back to my room after breakfast to pack my stuff up and head to Dondo, my suitcase had decided to open. So now I had an over packed, open suitcase.

I have forgotten to mention that at some point in this process, one of my friends, Autumn, decided it would be a good idea to tape up the broken part of the zipper. We were all given red duct tape to close our boxes, and Autumn had been smart enough to rip off a little extra which she kindly shared with me. To give you an appropriate picture, my suitcase now was broken completely with a couple of small pieces of bright red duct tape keeping it together. Having packed my duct tape in my box, I was left with rope (because you should never travel without rope and I don’t). I tied the bright green p-cord around the suitcase and hoped that Gimo, my advisor, was picking me up in a car, not a public chapa.

Luckily, Gimo came in a standard NGO 4-wheel drive vehicle. I was able to slide the suitcase in and just needed it to make it to my house.

When I arrived in Dondo, Gimo said it would be better to go right to the office to take care of a few things. Nervous about an open suitcase holding basically all my possessions in Mozambique (except of course those dirty gym socks), I agreed and hoped whatever we had to do would not take too long.

We pulled up to the office of ASVIMO to about sixty people singing and dancing. I got out of the car and was immediately wrapped in a maroon capulana with pineapples on it and given a matching headscarf. The next two hours consisted of different groups of people presenting dances and theater and songs in my honor. The teenage activistas sang a song about how “Tia Naomi” was now part of their family. It was a beautiful party, and I felt so welcomed. After the presentations, we had a great lunch with all of the members of ASVIMO.

ASVIMO, to clear up for everyone, is the organization with which I will be working for the next two years. Their work focuses on orphans and vulnerable children, widows, and the elderly. ASVIMO works throughout Sofala province in the areas of health, education, income generation, and food security. I will be working with the activistas (community health workers) on nutrition projects and helping to build capacity on monitoring and evaluation of the many programs of ASVIMO. ASVIMO also has a “centro abero” (open center) for the orphans in the area. Hundreds of kids come to the center each day for lunch and also receive professional training and work on income generation projects. I will be working with these kids a lot, and I am so excited. There is also a huge well at the ASVIMO office, and people come throughout Dondo to get water because it is so clean.

Anyway, after lunch, I was anxious to see my house. Gimo told me I couldn’t stay in it tonight because it was cleaned yet. I explained it did not really have to be that clean for me, and it would be fine. I walked in and was just in a bit of shock.

First, about ten lovely women were scrubbing the house from top to bottom. I was so humbled and thanked them for the hard work. Unfortunately, in the process of cleaning, the women had decided to take off the door. A dirty house I can stay in. A house with no door, harder.

My house is totally lovely, but completely empty. In the states, an empty house means cabinets and closets to fill. In Mozambique, an empty house means an empty house. There was not one single surface to put a cup, a key, or a lamp. The owners had apparently gotten bored of painting and stopped after one wall. There is not yet a meter to count electricity, nor are there any light bulbs.

Finally understanding the work I had ahead of me and mentally making a list of necessities (door, bed, locks, table, bowl, knife, etc), I looked around the house and found that I have two huge mango trees and a huge yard that will be great for a garden! I also had two neighborhood goats roaming around, which I intend to quickly train not to eat my garden. I was excited about my house and ready to start buying little things in town, but Gimo insisted I talk with the landlord right away.

The landlord, stereotypically, was very concerned about his money. He informed me that he had worked out with Gimo that I was to pay three months at a time. No one had told me about this agreement and three months rent is basically my entire move-in allowance. Plus I never carried that much cash on me. I gave him one month and told him I would get him the rest the next day (before which I intended to talk to my director to see what I should do). That was not an acceptable plan for this man, and he decided to accompany me to the bank to retrieve the rest of the money. Gimo said it would be fine, I was set to stay in a hotel in Beira again, and we could stop at the bank on our way.

Annoyed, I went to the bank to withdrawal basically every dime I had (quickly vanished my mental pictures of a beautiful, comfortable bed, a stove, and a refrigerator, and I just hoped that my box with my thermarest would be delivered soon and that I could buy a cheap hot water heater). Unfortunately (or possibly fortunately), Barclay’s denied my withdrawal and froze my account. Confused, and it being 5:30, I knocked on the door to the bank. The nice bank teller had no idea what happened, but also had no intention of helping me until the next day. I told my landlord he was out of luck, but he told me to try again.

I went back to the ATM, did a balance inquiry, and found that though the bank had not given me my money, it had deducted the money from the account. Frustrated, and without the language capabilities to handle the situation, I told the landlord he was not getting his money. I then told Gimo I did not know what else I really could do at that point. Gimo, though slow on picking up my frustration, could hear my voice crack, and decided since I now had all of 20 mets to my name (equivalent to about 80 cents), there was no reason for me to return to Beira to try to buy stuff for my house the next day. He put me up in a little hostel in Dondo, and told me not to worry, that it would be worked out. I tried to explain I was not worried just annoyed (still not knowing the word for annoying, I described it like when a little kid pokes you over and over), but he had no clue what I was talking about and I think he actually thought I went completely crazy during the entire bank situation.

Luckily, throughout this entire ordeal, one of my new co-workers, Adelina was with me. Adelina is completely adorable and the perfect person to balance Gimo’s apathy. After Gimo dropped me off with my still broken, duct taped, roped together suitcase at my hotel, Adelina said I could walk with her to her house. She lived in a great house with her four year old son. On our way back to the hostel, she bought me a Fanta and talked to me a little about her life. 22, years old, she is still finishing school and dating a boy who lives in Beira. We bonded about long distance relationships and talked about what she wanted to do when she was done with school. She laughed when I told her I get nervous in big cities and did not believe me when I told her how expensive mangos are in the US.

I think I have my first friend in Dondo.

No home yet. But a house. And a friend.

Nova Vida

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So for the past few weeks, I have been working with three friends: Jess, Emily, and Autumn on putting together a “palestra” (workshop) for Nova Vida, a small community based organization here in Namaacha. For our “Practicum,” each of the health trainees was grouped together and assigned to work with a different Namaacha-based organization.

At our first meeting, about eight members met with us to talk about their organization and its goals. After a lot of talk about their ambitious but well intentioned aspirations (that ranged from buying video recording equipment to holding weekly workshops for community members about agriculture), we were able to understand that Nova Vida is a theater group.

A group of all teenage students, Nova Vida performs community theater on a variety of different social issues including: HIV/AIDS, education (especially for girls), nutrition, and health.

Nova Vida was started a few years ago with money from the National Aids Network of Mozambique. Because of its funding, members of Nova Vida are expected to do home visits to families in Namaacha to discuss issues similar to those highlighted in their theater. In particular, these visits are to ensure people living with HIV/AIDS are taking their ARVs and maintaining a healthy lifestyle.

Unfortunately, home visits are an afterthought for many of the members of Nova Vida, who are much more excited about performing theater at the market on Saturdays than visiting and counseling their sick neighbors. As Eduardo, the group leader said, he is an actor first and an activista (health worker) second.

In Mozambique there is this phenomenon that I imagine will drive me crazy over the next two years, we call it chefe syndrome. The chefe, or the boss, shows how important he is by making you wait for him. The more important the person, the longer you will wait. After many hours of waiting and being stood up twice (after an hour of waiting we gave up each time), my group was able to meet with the head of the group. Eduardo was very patient with our Portuguese and helped us to understand how the group was started and what the members do on a daily basis. When Autumn asked him what he would want to happen if he had a Peace Corps Volunteer working with Nova Vida for two years, Eduardo explained he would want someone to help re-train the people who do home visits. We told him we would be happy to put something together for him, and after some brainstorming, we decided on four different options. Eduardo liked the idea of both a workshop on transmission of HIV and one about adherence to ARVs. Though the two subjects are related, we had to work a while on making them logically go together in one one-hour session.

We were all nervous about having to explain things like drug resistance and sexual networks in Portuguese, but we practiced all day on Tuesday under our lichi tree (the house where we have our health tech sessions has this great lichi tree under which we have most of our classes – it is our inspiration). Nova Vida was supposed to be there at 3:30, and knowing Eduardo, we expected that meant closer to 4:00. At 4:15 we called and he said he was on his way. Pessimistic that anyone was going to show up at all, I set out a couple of chairs. To our surprise, six members of Nova Vida showed up at 4:30. Not only did they show up, they all brought paper and pencils and were really excited to work with us.

After a couple of ice breakers, discussion started and we were really able to engage the group in conversation about information they should be bringing into the homes they visit. We did a true and false game about some of the myths surrounding HIV in Mozambique that really got some discussion going. We also played a game that demonstrates how HIV is spread and the ways to prevent it. The group seemed impressed with the creative ways we taught information and we helped the group learn how to do the games on their own, so they could use the games within the community.

As we went to thank them, Eduardo interrupted me and asked if we wanted to see some of their theater. World AIDS Day is December 1, and they have been practicing their piece to perform in the town square that day. Honored that they would perform for us, we rearranged the room, and watched the group perform. The play (or the parts that I understood, theater is apparently at regular Portuguese speed not “oh you are an American so I will talk extremely slowly and clearly” speed, which is the speech that I best understand) was about a man who is diagnosed with HIV and then not allowed to work at the bar where he works. The people in the bar and the bar-keeper discriminate against the man and eventually leave him all alone.

Discrimination can be a difficult thing to talk about, and we have discussed in our tech sessions about how to address these kinds of issues, and I never thought of theater as a venue. Addressing discrimination against people living with HIV/AIDS is extremely important because home visits can be potentially very stigmatizing. We talked with the group about some of these issues and then celebrated the afternoon with some cookies and lots of pictures.

While we spent a lot of time waiting for Nova Vida, in the end I think the practicum was a total success.

Also, the group asked for us to be “extras” in the play, so on World AIDS Day, you can see me asking for a “refresco” in the bar in the play!

running in Namaacha.

When you run everyday in a town like Namaacha, people notice you. Namaacha has become somewhat accustomed to strange foreigners, like myself, who really love going for a run in the morning despite the muddy road, tremendous heat, and unsympathetic chapa drivers that like to run us off the road.

I have been running nearly everyday since I arrived (there was one day that I woke up and just walking to the latrine resulted in an embarrassing fall and a muddy mess and I decided it was just not worth it to run that day), and I have had some pretty great interactions during these runs. This post is dedicated to the children I high five at 6 am, the lady with the pink spandex, and the bread vendor.

Usually, I am the only person running for fun in the morning. Usually I will see a couple of people running after chapas (public buses about the size of the big, blue, 13 passenger van we had when I was little), but no one is running just to run. Last week, however, I was heading up one of the big hills in my neighborhood, and I saw four women, power walking up the hill. For a second I was displaced back to Roxbury, Massachusetts, where the four women in bright pink spandex, power walking up a hill in the morning, would have been somewhat common place. The barbed wire fence separating me from Swaziland reminded me that I was in fact still in Mozambique. As I got closer to the women, they turned around and giggled after all looking at me. When I passed them, one started running with me. Excited to have a local running partner, I quickly started a conversation with her. Our short-breathed conversation lasted all of five hundred yards when she told me she was going to join her friends again.

Younger kids on their way to school usually join me for short periods during my run, too. They run next to me and don’t speak at all, just smile. The kids that don’t run with me, high five me. Its like I am winning a race, every morning.

Often my “bom dias” are met with confused glances, chapas chicken fight me for space on the road, and the guards at the boarder say ridiculous things about me as a run by. I have grown to love the English that I get to hear on my run. Clearly a foreigner, Mozambicans take the opportunity to use all of the English they know when they see me, sometimes all strewn together into one word: “hellogoodmorninggoodafternoongood-night,” or “howareyouveryfinethankyou.”

I have gotten three marriage proposals during my morning runs. If anyone reading this has run with me and seen how very sweaty and unattractive I get by the end, you know that I should maybe take the suitors up on their proposal. Toward the end of a run on a particularly hot day, a man said, “I must marry you.” To which I replied, in Portuguese, that I couldn’t right now as I had to get home. He responded, in English, “I must marry you. I am a cup full of serious.”

Running has become a blessing to my host mother, who appreciates my willingness to stop by the paderia (bread shop) on my way home. People will like up at the paderia and buy hundreds of loaves of bread to then re-sell in their neighborhood. The first morning I went to get bread for the family, a girl in front of my in line asked how much bread I was buying. When I responded four loaves, she grabbed my hand and walked me to the front of the line. There the bread maker told me if you want less than ten loaves of bread, you don't have to wait. Now, every morning, he jokes with me about how sweaty I get and how strong I must be. I also notice that he always gives me the biggest loaves of bread, which I find both ironic and fitting.

While it isn't Blue Line coffee, running to the paderia makes me feel useful at home and a little more at home.