Bowzer Is Back

Some genius yet masochistic Peace Corps Volunteer decided it would be a good idea to bring 5 seasons of Bravo’s hit show “Top Chef” to Mozambique. I stupidly decided to start watching it. It is one of my favorite shows back home (I mean what could be better than a reality show about people who are actually talented, and that talent being in the realm of creating delicious food) and I soon became engrossed in it. But, it was a unique type of torture because I am wholly unable to make, or even purchase, any of the food I am seeing on the screen. Here are people making 5-star food while I am eating starchy pasta with no sauce because the market didn’t have tomatoes that day. But one lazy Sunday afternoon, I was in my room watching an episode of this beloved show when all the kids of the neighborhood came tramping and screaming up to my porch. I unhappily dragged myself away from my computer and asked them what was up. “BOWZER RETURNED!” they yelled. I told them that was impossible since Bowzer died two months ago, and they just repeated themselves, “BOWZER RETURNED.” And then as if on cue, a little runt of a dog that looked exactly like my adored, deceased dog Bowzer streaked in front of my house. Upon further inspection, I obviously noticed that this dog was not in fact Bowzer, but probably his offspring. And now the whole neighborhood thinks it is hilarious that my one-balled dog had succeeded in procreating, and in producing a similarly one-balled child at that. I aptly named this new dog Bowz Jr, a nice appellation in comparison to most of the other bush dogs that were christened by me as Black Dog, Brown Dog, Piece of Shit Dog that enters my house and chews things like my computer charger chord, STD dog, etc. He is totally scared of me, as all non-Peace Corps Volunteer dogs are in the face of people here, and I do not touch it or allow it in my house, because it has not received a Rabies shot I’m sure, but I can’t help but feel a certain connection to it. One neighborhood woman called him my grandson…oy.

This past weekend, I took some of the kids who do morning announcements at my school to a leadership conference (if leadership is mostly related to learning about gender, sexual health, and HIV…) with 3 other schools put on by PCVs. Overall, it went well, but per usual, the participants (students and teachers) were greedy about everything. Some idiot foreign aid official decided decades ago that giving people in developing countries a massive per diem when attending a training or conference was a good idea, and now every time we put on a training or conference, we reap all the negative effects: “This free money is not enough,” “My free t-shirt is too big,” “I must go walk around the city and buy a keepsake before I go home,” “I don’t get my own room?!” “Do you have any smaller bills?” “I don’t like this free food” were just a few of the complaints. It is just frustrating because they think that because we are foreigners were have an infinite amount of money to spare and they are owed their share, when really it is not our personal money we are using, the training took a lot to plan and a thank you could go a long way, and the training is not supposed to be for money, but rather to gain skills and knowledge, FOR FREE I might add. But overall, it was a good, informative weekend.

A few of the students, however, got “sick” at the workshop. And not matter how minimal the symptoms, the other teachers wanted the volunteers to take them to the hospital. I outright refused to take the kid with slightly swollen lymph nodes who I had just witnessed wolfing down his lunch and running around during free time. But I conceded for the girl who had chills, a fever, and was crying, and the kid who said it hurt when he took a breath. All the other teachers were certain that the girl had malaria, but I reminded them that yes, she had some of the symptoms of malaria, but until we did a test, we shouldn’t call it that. They were also pissed at me for not taking the other boy who also “had malaria,” though in my non-expert opinion, that diagnosis, without the presence of a fever, is complete crap. I understand that people often get very sick very fast here, and often die, but that does not mean that you need to miss this once in a lifetime conference for a stuffy nose. Mozambicans go to the hospital here like it is their job and it annoys me because they always miss school and other commitments simply because they aren’t drinking enough water in the hot Mozambican sun and got a headache. But I took these two kids to the hospital and it was an eye-opening and very explicatory experience, as it was the first time I had gone to a Mozambican health center. We got there and there was no line or seeming order to the place. Some creepy technician warmed up to the female, crying student, in a manner that reeked of sexual harassment and took some blood for her malaria test. The other kid was simply given a prescription for some meds. I asked him what the nurse had said, and he replied that he should take his meds twice a day. What meds? I asked. He didn’t know and handed me the baggies. It was an antibiotic and some ibuprofen. Now I am no doctor, but I know that just giving out antibiotics for everything is not advisable. And he had not received even the hint or a diagnosis or the concession that he even had something wrong. Two hours later, the girl was also given a baggie of meds “for malaria” she told me. I took the baggie (I had given her the money for the meds, so it was my due to see what it was) and saw it was another antibiotic. Again, I am no doctor, but I know that the anti-malaria was not this med, so I asked her if her malaria test was positive or negative, and she said they had just given her the meds. I figured it must have been negative since they didn’t give her the anti-malarial, and I proudly boasted that I had been right about her diagnosis when I got back and reported to the other teachers. But is struck me: the hospital staff were just on one big power trip. They don’t inform the patients of anything because this is what gives them power: a population of people who don’t know anything about their own health, go to the hospital for the smallest of symptoms, and just blindly follow the advise of medical staff. I was rather pissed off at the whole process. I mean come on, the girl wasn’t even told if her malaria test was positive or negative, leaving her to believe that the meds she was given were to cure her malaria. I hate to think of what goes on when the hospital administers its anti-retrovirals for HIV positive pateints…

And finally, at this conference, one of the other PCVs there eloquently summed up what I had always sensed being here but was never able to rightly express: “The schedule and agenda that Mozambicans demand that every event has don’t actually exist, but the people attending the event do exist. Therefore, as long as there is someone who has something to say, the time and the uncovered topics are irrelevant and the person can go on talking until the end of time.” No matter if no one is listening or if he is repeating what has already been said seven times by other people, it is his right to delay everyone because the schedule is this ethereal, intangible concept. Nicely put.

Topic 5: Money Problems

In a chapa the other day, the driver and I were chatting after someone had just tried to pull a fast one on him and not pay for his ride. The driver highlighted a very common thread here: “Moçambicanos são cheio de problemas” or “Mozambicans are full of problems.” Money problems is just one.

Because community is the overarching entity here, people lend money to family and friends until they have no more money left to lend, or to even use themselves. They now move to the bottom of the money-lending chain and need to borrow from someone. No matter how much money you have, you inevitably follow this cycle. Once money is lent out, there is no expected return date. You shouldn’t expect to see that money again, unless of course, it comes in the form of you asking them to lend you some money at some later date, no matter if the original amounts do not match up. I am fairly certain that people often get the wrong idea of me because I generally refuse to lend money on principle. Yes, I would like to help out, but my Peace Corps living allowance does not afford me very much room to play with each month. I am currently holding a student’s ID card and wife’s bank card hostage until he pays me back the money he claimed he was going to use to remove a cancerous-looking growth that resides on the back of his head. He said he would have the money in 2 weeks. That was 3 months ago. And he is still sporting the awful growth on the nape of his neck. It is nice that Mozambicans look out for each other but it also means that no one ever has any money.

            The reason for this lending-borrowing cycle is that Mozambicans have no concept of budgeting or saving. One of my teacher friends, Bemvindo, desperately wants a laptop and always asks me for mine. As I decline, I always advise him that if he saves 500 meticais a month, in a few years you will have enough to buy a laptop. And if he saves 1000 meticais a month, that laptop will be his in a year. He has a steady job as a teacher and a consistent income that just about matches my Peace Corps allotted living allowance, definitely enough to work with if he is truly dedicated to saving each month. But this concept of saving goes nowhere with him. He always just claims poor: “I have to buy food for my daughter,” “I have to buy soap and other household items,” “I have to buy gas for my motorcycle.” That’s it! I tell him. Put your motorcycle on hold for a little while as you save money. But he always claims he needs his motorcycle (for what exactly I am unsure since he can literally see his place of work from his house). Then ok, we will sit down and make a budget. We wil plan out what you buy every month and see where we can cut back so you can save money and buy your laptop, I tell him. Easier said than done. When we actually tried this once, I started with food. “How much do you spend on oil per month?” He didn’t know how much a bottle of oil cost because he had never thought about it. He either bought it if he happened to have the money or didn’t if he didn’t have the money. He had never actually paid attention to the price. It was like this for every item. He made purchases when he felt like it without thinking into the future or preparing to buy more when the one he had ran out. So I told him, for the next month, write down everything you buy and how much it cost. He didn’t, even when I bugged him about it each week. So I gave up. He didn’t have any desire to do what it would realistically take to buy his laptop; he just wanted me to give him mine. Mozambicans also always want to know how I can afford to go on all these trips when I also insist that my salary is the same as, and often less than, theirs, and they can’t afford to travel as much as I do. I tell them that I plan ahead: I know it will cost me x meticais to take the trip that I want so I make sure that I keep that much in my bank account. Instead of buying 5 beers on a Friday night like the male teachers, I travel to Quelimane. They are blown away and can’t understand why I wouldn’t just buy the beers.

The reason that Bemvindo seems to be unable to plan for the future is a cultural lack of understanding of future consequences. It is why students don’t study for tests or why they come to my door after I have turned in my grades and ask to do a make-up test. It is why they don’t save or budget money. It is one of the many reasons why people have like 8 children. It is why buses do not run on a schedule and meetings/school always start late. And it is because the local, Bantu languages do not have a future tense. I have been told that the local language in Gurué, Elomwe, uses a phrase to indicate the future, that when translated from the local language to Portuguese for me, translates to English as “from here to nothing,” as in “from here to nothing, I fix your cellphone” or “from here to nothing, the chapa leaves.” Or also as in “better sit tight, wait, and make some friends and small talk with the others here as your cellphone is fixed or the bus prepares to leave because it could be a while.” They simply combine this esoteric notion and declaration of the future with the present tense. The time frame is so general and inconclusive that they can get away with totally neglecting the future and no one gets too upset about it. When your first language doesn’t have a concrete way to express future time, it is downright impossible to wrap your mind around future planning.

Mozambicans lack this propensity towards the future with food as well. If they have a lot one day, they will eat until they explode and then have nothing the next. They will go to see if they have corn flour and realize they have none to make for dinner and go to bed hungry. Didn’t you realize yesterday when you used the last of the corn flour that today you wouldn’t have any? It is the same with water. Maybe before you use your last bucket of water, you go get in the water-line so that you have at least something to work with while you wait. That’s what I do and I somehow never go without a bath or without washing my dishes.

            It is great that Mozambicans are so helpful of one another, and I realize that many Americans have the same difficulties with budgeting. But it is still extremely interesting to live in an entire culture that is so unconcerned and indifferent to the concept of what will happen later today, tomorrow, this weekend, next year. In my 11^th grade English classes, we are currently learning the future continuous (I will be doing) and the future perfect (I will have done). I hope I have elucidated some of the reasons why this unit is particularly challenging for us. Perhaps a happy medium between my own hyper-vigilant, American, future planning and the Mozambican, laidback, unworried attitude is in order. From here to nothing, that will be the day.

Apparently, I Am Scary

Apparently, there comes a time in every Mozambican baby’s development in which said baby’s optical maturity achieves a certain capacity to discern skin color. They are suddenly aware that the all-too-pale, hominid-like figure disrupting what would otherwise have been a snuggly snooze wrapped against their mother’s back in a capulana is markedly different from the rest. At about 9 months of age, many babies become afraid of me. While we had been buddies just the day before, BAM! I am suddenly scary and provoke a fit of tears, screams, and attempts to hide behind one’s mother. Then, just as magically, a few days or weeks later, the same baby will brighten and cheer when he lays eyes on me and the admittedly goofy face I am trying to win him over with. I realize that I am a rather fair person, but I had never thought that my skin color could incite such horror as to make a baby cry. Alas, I was clearly very wrong. The women of my neighborhood find this sequence of events incredibly funny and love to joke with me about which babies are currently scared of me, which used be frightened of me, and which are soon to assuredly harbor the same terror of my whiteness. Much to my relief, however, other PCVs have also admitted to elicit the same reaction from babies.

            I am also apparently just as capable at alarming the elderly. It doesn’t happen very often but I have been known to stop a crusty old man carrying lengths of sugar cane on his head or a preciously toothless old woman toting around tomatoes in a reed basket right in their tracks. Like the babies that tremor in my wake, they are scared of white people. But, in this case, I believe, they are mostly afraid I will beat them if they don’t show me respect: i.e. stopping to allow me to pass while bowing slightly at the knees and neck, and then meekly offering up an open-hand as if to greet royalty. I am sure this subservient behavior is a remnant of the old colonial days when the white man ruled all and bred fear. Whenever an instance such as this happens, I make a big effort to humanize myself, greeting them in the local language and holding out my right hand, with my left one cupped under my elbow, the universal way to greet someone of a perceived higher societal rank here. Usually, they accept my peace offering and take my hand, though they have also been known to simply stare back unmoving, and I can continue on my way, idealistically thinking I have done something to improve race relations. I try to think of myself as a harmless white person, perhaps even a helpful one, so I usually walk away rather befuddled and pensive after interactions such as this.

            Though I don’t like to be seen as an imposing figure, I am glad I do not rouse hateful words or violence, as do the Mozambicans that are considered “crazy.” Just earlier today, I was sitting on my porch watching the events of the neighborhood unfold (shocking I know), when a shirtless man came storming into the middle of the neighborhood and promptly broke two buckets that people had left near the water pump. For obvious reasons (buckets are a necessary household item and larger ones such as these can get pricy), people got all up in arms, screaming at the guy, at each other, and generally just ranting and raving. Finally, the man left, and from my porch, I saw him terrorizing some innocent passers-by. My neighbors then talked all day about the “malouco,” until, about 5 hours later (again, I was on my porch reading), the man returned. This time, however, people were not as passive in their response. Some of the young men started beating him: punching him, throwing 5-liter buckets at him, and whacking him with sticks. Not surprisingly, as Mozambicans are generally bored and always looking for a good show and some afternoon entertainment, the whole neighborhood turned out and formed a riotous crowd around the fight. And this time, I was also more enraged at the situation. Careful to stay on my porch, I started screaming things like, “You aren’t helping! Stop beating him! He is sick!” as they forced him out of the neighborhood, passing right in front of my house. Finally, he left bleeding and I ran up to some of the guys who had been the main perpetrators and asked them why they had beaten the guy. “He is not sick or crazy, he has been smoking” was their response. I replied, “Even is he has been smoking, it doesn’t mean you should beat him. He is also a person and clearly something is wrong with him.” I do not believe the man’s actions were due to drugs, but rather, I wholeheartedly believe they were a result of mental illness. I do not believe I made any impression on these guys, but I momentarily felt better about my role in it all. Mental illness is not really understood here, as people who are considered “crazy” can get no help, and therefore generally just roam the streets, eating trash, covered in dirt, clothed in rags, and begetting negative attention in the form of taunts and physical abuse at the hands of other citizens. So I will take a few crying babies and bows of respect as the alternative to that which I witnessed earlier today, which was downright petrifying. Mozambicans are not xenophobic and generally accepting and welcoming of guests, e.g. me. Most of the attention I get is wholly too positive: men who find my being here interesting and think I can give them money or sleep with them (warranting smooching noises as I pass by), or the most coveted prize: to take them back to America. Fat chance.

            I have written recently about the water problems we have here in Invinha. The pathetic water pressure of our tap makes water dripping through a coffee filter look like a steady stream. Last week, the chefe do bairro (head of the neighborhood who handles neighborly squabbles like “The dog of Teacher Ana ate my chicken and I need her to pay me back”) called a meeting for the people who fetch water from each of the 20 houses that use our communal tap. Naturally it was all women in attendance. The flawed system was addressed and ideas for improvement were shared. An hour and a half later, the sun had gone down, and there we stood, in the dark, with screaming, hungry children running in circles around us, and no definitive consensus had been reached. I have learned in my 20 months in Mozambique that when planning an activity or trying to estimate how long something should take here, I must double, and at times even triple or quadruple, the amount of time the American version would last. But I was still a little peeved at the situation. Finally, it seemed that some decision had been made and I woke myself from my Portuguese-overload daze and joined back in the conversation, eager to hear the news. But alas, the new and improved system would be exactly that which I had already thought the system to be. Essentially, we would all put one bucket in line and everyone would amiably take their turn filling up four 20 or 25 liter buckets. The extra buckets of the people who had been trying to cheat the system and have 5 different buckets in line were taken out. Some more bickering ensued, and then we all went home to cook dinner. The next day, a Saturday, I noticed early in the morning that I was second in line. Oh the joy I felt. But seeing as I had to go to the city to run a review session some students had asked for, I couldn’t hang out until I filled my quota of buckets. So I asked a student who lives in the neighborhood to watch for my turn and fill up my buckets for me (honestly not a difficult or uncommon favor). He agreed and off I went. I returned 6 or 7 hours later, my line-stand-in bucket had been moved to the end of the line, my empty buckets remained empty, and the kid I had asked to help me out was nowhere to be found. Naturally, I was outraged. Apparently, you snooze; you lose. You are just supposed to aimlessly hang out in line all day, shooting the shit with everyone in the vain hope that you will potentially get some water and therefore, maybe wash some clothes later in the day. It is not laziness, it is just that there is literally nothing else to do so why not hang out at the water pump for 6 hours? Unfortunately for me, 20 months of Mozambican life has not been able to even create the smallest of chinks in the armor established by the 22 years I spent living in a culture that attempts to fit as much productivity into as little time as possible. I stormed home and sent one of my “houseboys” to fetch me some definitely less than sanitary river water that afternoon.

Crianças (Children)

For Mozambican children, the world is their oyster. They live in the world’s greatest playground, complete with endless places to investigate and endless opportunities to make-up games. They can run around with their friends, exploring, romping in the mud and dirt, and playing to their hearts’ content. Only when it is time for a bath or a meal does someone come and wrangle them up. The kids in my neighborhood from ages 2-7 gambol in a pack, making toys from sticks and trash, drawing at Tia Ana’s house with colored pencils or in the mud with sticks, and using their imaginations to pass the time in a state of utter ecstasy. If it weren’t for the alarmingly high possibility of contracting cholera or malaria, being malnourished, and receiving a poor education, I would totally be a Mozambican child.

Kids are constantly dirty, even the “rich” ones, like the children of teachers in Invinha, because they play in the dirt all day. Visiting the US over Christmas, I immediately noticed that my friend Liz’s three-year old daughter Natalia was sparklingly clean. Not a speck of dirt on her. It was quite a shocking and amazing sight to behold after a year of playing with kids covered from head to toe in dirt. And after a long day frolicking through the bush, the kids will inevitably be given a bath before dinner. It is customary to give small children baths in the front yard. So every day at about 6pm, you can scan the neighborhood and just about every house will have the kids standing there in a line of nakedness, as they await their turn in the bucket.

In one of their jaunts through the greater neighborhood, when nature calls, a kid will just go in a bush. But, other times, they will also just poop on the floor. A fifteen-month-old pooped on my floor the other day. And then started to cry as her mother cursorily cleaned it up with a rag. I immediately threw a load of bleach on the infected area. A few days earlier, I had been walking back home from school when I passed the house of my favorite siblings, Belsa, age 2.5, and Gigantinho, age 5 (yes, Little Giant is his given name). Belsa was crying and Gigantinho was just standing there. When I approached them and asked what was wrong, Gigantinho informed me that Belsa had taken a shit in the coal stove. Yes the five-year old had indeed used the swear word “to take a shit” and yes, as I was horrified to lay eyes on, Belsa had relieved herself in the coal stove. Why? God only knows. Where was their mother? God only knows. This was one of those moments when I think to myself, why in hell am I living in Mozambique? And needless to say, I hightailed it home after that. As far as diapers, most people use pieces of cloth that are generally unable to contain the products they are intended to contain, meaning I only hold kids for about 5 minutes because I don’t want to push my luck too far before one of them inevitably pees or poops on me. And as far as potty-training, most mothers use the philosophy that the child will learn when the child learns, leaving a trail of shit wherever they go until about age 5. Mozambican children are absolutely beautiful, but they are also absolutely disgusting.

Some of the teachers in my neighborhood have a child that works for them, usually a 10-year old girl from the bush that is an orphan and is now essentially performing child labor in exchange for room and board. She hauls water and carts around the babies and does any bitch-work she is ordered to do. It is a pretty rough and unforgiving life (without an education!), but unfortunately, I try to ignore it because there is really nothing I can do about it, though it is indeed devastating to be forced to witness everyday. But every kid once they are about 5 years old, often even younger, will commonly be sent to run errands: Give this to so and so. Go buy (insert last minute meal item like oil, salt, some sort of vegetable) at the market. Go sit in the water line. This is not necessarily child labor (though 5 is awfully young) but a manner of teaching responsibility and chores like we do in the US. But it is still odd to me when I see a kid of 6 years with a baby of 6 months strapped to his back, carting a haul of items from the market back home. Apparently, “stranger danger” and the fear of leaving kids unsupervised for fear of kidnapping or accident does not apply here.

I always try to get kids to use their imaginations as much as possible because I know that once they hit 1^st grade, all of their creative thought will be squashed out of them by the rote-memorization-filled, mind-numbing, utterly dull school system. I have been told by many a Mozambican that I need to start having children because “children are our riches.” I agree, I tell them, but I probably won’t have any kids for about 10 years, and when I do, I will probably only have two, maybe three. Shaking their head in a combination of dismay and disbelief, they walk away. Mozambican women think that it is a, and I quote, “white woman thing” to only have two kids, and at such an advanced age. I would like to observe this conversation about proper child-bearing age between a Mozambican and a black volunteer. But, it is obvious that children are coveted here in many ways. Obviously, parents love their children. They just have different ways of showing it. I had a kid come crying to my door the other day because the picture he had drawn for his mom at my house had been rejected as garbage by her. I told him it was beautiful and took it from his as if it were pure gold. They love their children but are wholly unworried that the schools are crap and the majority of kids finish 7^th grade illiterate and without basic arithmetic skills. So I do what I can to instill creativity and self-confidence in the kids that visit me. They can draw all day if they want, until they poop on the floor, at which time they are swiftly sent home.

            I recently visited Malawi, from a bus that is, as I used the tiny country as a corridor to pass from one Mozambican province back home (Malawi intersects Mozambique to the west of my province) during my school break travels last month. I had never been to Malawi before but can safely make these observations: Malawi is pretty much the twin of Mozambique. The much smaller, heavily-accented, almost linguistically incomprehensible, chock-full of errors English-speaking twin with sweet roads (I don’t think we even came across one pothole in 1 full day of travel!) and brightly painted shops. Malawi is just barely nicer than Mozambique and speaks English as a second language to the local language of Chichewa (meaning the English level is low and many do not actually speak it), but clearly still suffers from the same problems of development. It is, however, an absolutely stunning country, and very reminiscent of my district in Moz, with whole zones dedicated to the cultivation of beautiful-for-the-landscape tea plantations.

            I also recently celebrated my birthday. And do not fret, it was celebrated in true Mozambican fashion: lots of singing birthday and other party songs, me being forced to make three different dramatic and schmaltzy speeches intended to inspire everyone to bring about the “new” Mozambique, hoards of people lined up to “greet” and kiss me, and a ritual cake-cutting ceremony that I had witnessed many times before but never before had to lead, causing me to commit many a cultural faux pas I’m sure. Overall, a very distinctive, but enjoyable day.

            Probably the biggest news of late is that Invinha recently got a tower for the new cell-phone service here in Mozambique, and it has revolutionized the whole town. Welcome to the 21^st century Invinha! I can now send texts, check my email everyday, and take phones from my students when they ring during class…

            And finally, my grant to buy a copy machine and printer for my school was filled a few weeks ago. I wanted to send out a big thank you to everyone who was able to support my school. My director shrieked from excitement when I told her that we had secured the money (I thought she was going to jump out of her habit!). Other teachers and students who have heard the news have demonstrated equally exultant responses. Pictures and personal notes are sure to come as I am able to put the plan into action in the next month or so. Obrigada!

Malaria

This past weekend I ran some trainings for the leaders of girls groups, with the main goal being to equip the women with basic knowledge of our girls group program and how to be a good facilitator, as well as with basic (sexual) health information so that they can hopefully begin to effectively lead girls groups in their own communities. I was super excited for the weekend to finally be realized, as I believed that it would be the first of many important steps in actually building some inchoate vestiges of sustainability into Peace Corps Moz’s girls group program. And even within the midst of a few unanticipated and utterly demoralizing logistical trials (one being that a Peace Corps staff member had suggested to me the location, which inadvertently ended up being a venue primarily used by men and their prostitutes: perhaps not the best place to lead a conference with women you are hoping will be positive role-models for young girls), I do honestly believe that we in part reached our goal. One of the women commented, “I have learned so much, which I will guard in my heart and in my mind so that I can help our girls and the future of women in Mozambique.”  She wins.

            A last minute programming addition was the catalyst from which our last day was finally able to be what I had envisioned that the training could be: a bunch of women dancing and singing, certificate in hand, pumped to go home and get the ball rolling. In honor of April being World Malaria Month, and April 25 being World Malaria Day, we decided to incorporate some malaria information and games into the otherwise heavily anti-HIV focused campaign of the conference. In sub-saharan Africa, every two minutes, 3 children under the age of 5 die of malaria. Malaria is the number one killer of children under 5 in Mozambique specifically, as 142 of every 1000 children do not make it to celebrate their fifth birthday, and 42% of these deaths are linked to malaria. Malaria is the number one cause of death for all ages here as well, accounting for 29% of all deaths in Mozambique, while HIV/AIDS comes in at “only” 27%. I have been unable to find the exact number of people who die from malaria each year in Mozambique, but these statistics are staggering enough. HIV/AIDS gets all the attention, though malaria is a much more deadly peril. Though all provinces of Mozambique are considered to have high malaria threats, the northern part of the country, where I live, is most affected. And unlike its more legendary killing counterpart, HIV/AIDS, it is preventable and treatable, as well as more realistically eradicated. The game we played at the conference dealt with this first aspect of malaria: prevention. The rains came late this year, and therefore malaria is still a threat at this time of year, with the big mud puddles serving as breeding grounds for hoards of mosquitoes. Therefore, one area of prevention is to get rid of standing water around the house. Also, properly hung and utilized mosquito nets over every sleeping area, using naturally found and grown bug repellents (lemongrass, etc), and cutting down overgrown weeds are methods of prevention. The winners of our prevention-game each won a medically treated bed net as a prize. Aside from the lack of knowledge about or the plain neglect of adherence to simple preventative measures, I believe, in my admittedly inexpert opinion, that the number one contributing factor to the malaria epidemic in Mozambique is how “malaria” has become synonymous for “sick.” A far too frequent conversation here:

Me: Where is so-and-so today?

Person A: Oh, he is out sick with malaria.

Me: Did he do a malaria test at the hospital?

Person A: No.

Me: Then perhaps he doesn’t actually malaria, and perhaps just has the flu. He should go to the hospital and get a malaria test.

Person A: look of disbelief on face

By equating “malaria” with “sick,” the scariness and realness of the disease becomes less influential, because people are constantly overcoming and living through bouts of assumed “malaria.” The great threat that malaria does play will never be realized and taken to heart until this myth that all flu-like symptoms implicate malaria has begun to dissipate. Not only do constant real malaria infections regularly keep people at home and absent from school or work, only adding to the lower productivity of many aspects of society here, but to be honest, people are systematically dying by something that is easily cured with medication. Even when someone is rightfully diagnosed by means of a malaria test at the hospital, it is quite common for the hospital to then be out of stock of Coartem, the anti-malarial drug, (and quite often, the hospital has run out of the diagnostic tests) leaving people understandably less inclined to return to the hospital and wait for hours in line for their malaria test the next time they are sick.

            As Peace Corps Volunteers, it is beaten into us during training the importance of adhering to our malaria-prophylaxis daily or weekly regimen. I have probably lost half the volume of the hair on my head as a side effect of my weekly malaria-prophylaxis pill over the last 19 months (not to mention the vivid dreams and occasional mid-sleep hallucination of rats climbing all over my mosquito net), but at least I am protected. We are given bed nets and a constant supply of bug repellent. We have both the rapid malaria test as well as the anti-malarial drug easily available in our Peace Corps issued med kits. I don’t even know a single PCV who has ever even had malaria. And yet our counterparts, students, friends, neighbors, etc all remain at an extremely heightened risk every day. Our school year is only 4 months young and already, 2 students have passed away. All I know is that they were sick, and then the school posted a notice on the front gate, ambiguously informing us of their passing. Though it is incredibly rare for someone to have their neighborhood-gossip-chain cause of death actually be “malaria,” due to the already explained misconceptions regarding this particular disease, I can’t be sure that malaria was not the principal cause, and I am statistically inclined to say that it was. The average lifespan in Mozambique is about half that in the US, and dealing with death is an overly routine experience. Yes, malaria’s more famous mortal counterpart HIV/AIDS, with its assumed link to sexual promiscuity and all that accompanies this fact, is also a massive player in this circuit, but malaria must start to be seen as on the same level, as it attacks the most vulnerable: children under 5 and pregnant women.

            Bet nets are the most eminent means of prevention. The previous ideal for net distribution was one per household, which leaves the children, who often sleep on reed mats on the floor and have also not yet developed any semblance of immunity against the disease, wholly unprotected. Now, the suggestion is one net per sleeping area (most people don’t have beds), but they are expensive and even if received for free, often end up being sold in the market the next day as a vehicle for easy cash used for something deemed more important. People also are often uninformed as to proper use of the nets, occasionally using them as blankets or not knowing how to hang them up. It seems for the first time that the more attention is being paid and more funds allocated to prevent the biggest killer in Africa, as it rightfully should.

Topic 5: Religion

Mozambicans may think they, and they only, are correct, religion-wise, and everyone else is wrong, but this certainty will certainly not prevent them from treating someone from an opposing religion any different. I have never encountered any animosity or any acrimonious words. They only want to know that you have a religion. This is the only thing that matters: you believe in something. “Are you Catholic?” they ask me. “No, then Muslim? Seventh Day Adventist? Jehova’s Witness? Do you go to the Jesus is the Man church?” (probably the buildings say, “Jesus is the Lord” but it is the same word for lord and man so I prefer this interpretation). I respond negatively to all and they seemed stumped and concerned. I temporarily relieve their pain when I say I’m Jewish. Then they think more deeply about this and realize they have no idea what I am talking about. My preferred way to continue, especially when talking to a Christian, is to say, “Well, Jesus was a Jew.” They invariably do no understand, apparently this core tenet of Judeo-Christian teaching is not imparted here. “We use half the same Bible,” I continue. Now, they are really skeptical, thinking, what in hell is the white lady babbling about? Half the same Bible? Bull-shit. So I conclude, leaving them forever thinking that I am crazy, by saying “Somos irmãos” (we’re brothers) in a tone that says, “Don’t worry.” They are quite mystified and puzzled, but at least, according to them, I have a religion. Even if it is some seemingly made-up, crazy, never-before-heard-of, white, American, lady religion.

Last year, I taught my students to say “Happy New Year” in Hebrew around the time of Rosh HaShana. They thought it was absolutely awesome (if awesome means hilarious and crazy, but in a good way). Now I am often greeted by my old students with “L’Shanah Tovah” at all times of year. I respond with “Feliz Ano Novo” (Happy New Year in Portuguese) and they laugh and laugh and laugh. Pouco a pouco (little by little), we are all learning.

But just being Catholic, or Muslim, or believing “Jesus is the Man,” is not sufficient. They intertwine the Western tradition into the traditional religion. And no one has a problem with it. Jesus is one thing, but feiticeiros, evil spirits, are quite another. They will go to the curse-disseminating person, put a curse on you for stealing their vegetables, and then go to Mass. Hey man, whatever floats your boat, just please don’t curse me for failing you when you most likely never showed up to class and therefore deserve it (this has happened to other Peace Corps Volunteers).

Superstitions are also very common and vary depending on your region. In our training town, women weren’t allowed to eat raw coconut because they will get diarrhea. But seeing as coconut meat is pure fiber, I don’t see how having a uterus makes you any more susceptible to diarrhea-by-coconut. Here, in Invinha, women can’t eat turtles, or you will have turtle-shaped babies. I have two problems with this: one, I have never seen anyone (man, woman, or child) selling a turtle or eating a turtle, nor have I seen a turtle strolling down the dirt road. So I’m confused as to the origin of this superstition. Two, what would a turtle-shaped baby really look like? I’m not going to lie, I would like to see that.

When people go to Mass, they dress to the nines. “Sunday best” is an understatement. Full prom-dresses, disco suits, baseball tees, whatever is sparkling clean and new is what you wear to church, no matter what era it is from or how crazy you look. If you don’t really have any money, then you scrub your one outfit so that it is as clean as it can possibly be, even if that risks putting holes in it. But damn, your capulana may have a hole and be held together by a thread, but you are looking good. Once dressed and ready to go, you often travel miles on foot to church. Once you arrive, you spend the next 2 hours wailing. One of the only things Mozambicans assuredly learn in primary school is how to carry a tune, so church music here is absolutely beautiful. But then some of the women start with the wailing and its all downhill. Loud, nonstop, 2 hours of pure screaming. Like I said, Mozambicans love them some religion.

If I were a Mozambican woman, I would be a nun. They have a great life: food security, a job (many are teachers, nurses, school directors, etc), educational opportunities and, most awesomely, socially-accepted exemption from marrying a Mozambican man. The order of the nuns in Invinha is based in Portugal so each nun, while completing her training, is sent to Portugal. All the nuns have thus been to Europe, and thus kinda have an understanding of what my world is like back home, which is interesting for all involved parties. The nuns in Invinha are great: smart, funny, happy, compassionate, and giving. And they are some of the only Mozambicans I have ever met to know what Judaism is (though they do seem a little worried that my people do not consider Jesus as our Savior) so we get along swimmingly.

One Ball Bowz

My dog Bowzer was the runt of his litter. He was a puny little thing to say the least. Once, when he was an adolescent puppy of about 4 or 5 months, we actually found a banana that was practically bigger than he was. He was always covered in wounds from the fights that he invariably lost at the hands of the bigger dogs, aka any other adult dog in the entire country. But his size was not the only thing that let him down in the Mozambican dog-fighting circuit. He was also just the chillest, most non-chalant, most relaxed dog ever. He simply just went with the flow and tagged along with whatever happened to be going on at the moment: dog fights, a jog into the bush with his owner, a trip to the market, an afternoon snooze under a mango tree on a hot day. Bowzer was down for anything. When the other dogs were running wild, Bowzer was right behind them, nipping at their heels, mostly just wanting to join in the fun and play around rather than fight. His preferred spot to doze off the day was in his reed-basket turned bed, contorted in any of a multitude of ridiculous sleeping positions. But most strangely, Bowzer was famous: famous throughout the neighborhood. Now why would everyone around, from a culture that both abhors and fears dogs, inevitably know about the dog of the crazy white teacher, you might ask. Well, Bowzer only had one testicle, the other one apparently undescended. The women in my neighborhood thought this fact was absolutely hilarious and would constantly blame Bowzer’s odd-dog behavior on it (as well as claim that any eccentric or bizarre human male must be as such because he is “like Bowzer,” aka with only one ball). Thus, my old roommate and I nicknamed him as “One Ball Bowz.” Basically, Bowzer was a character and I loved him dearly up until his passing just a few days ago, shortly after his first birthday.

            I am running a few trainings in the northern part of the country for the leaders of girls groups and I needed to go to a city about four hours away to access our girl’s group national bank account. So I was hitchhiking outside Invinha. And Bowzer, my other dog Devin, and two random dogs were apparently keeping me company as I waited. The four dogs were wreaking havoc in the middle of the road when a car pulled up. I was mostly concerned with flagging it down, seeing as it seemed like a safe, quick ride. I was wrong. The car ignored me and plowed right in the middle of the dogs, running over Bowzer’s two back legs, and then speeding away. Somehow Bowzer managed to drag himself to the shoulder of the road and I streaked over to him. The bones in his two back legs were severely broken and sticking straight out of his leg. It was clear he would never walk again. He was shaking from pain and couldn’t lift his head. As I tried to comfort him, I ultimately decided to pay some guys from the bush 100 meticais (about four dollars) to take him into the bush and kill him, ending the suffering he was undoubtedly experiencing. Meanwhile, a crowd formed and mocked me for petting this dying dog and talking to it in English, practically in tears. (Why is the white teacher crying over a lowly dog?) As I walked away with his collar in my hand, I heard him squealing in pain, as I can only assume he was being dragged away to face his fate. But I honestly believe I made the right decision. Even in the US it probably would have been difficult to salvage his legs, considering two of them were totally and completely mangled. If it had been only leg, I would have tried to find some, however far-fetched, way to amputate just the one leg, making me not only the crazy white lady with the uni-balled dog but also the crazy white lady with the uni-balled, three-legged dog (which I admit, would have been quite the legacy to leave on the community of Invinha). I briefly considered buying a lot of rat poison to feed to him as a means of euthanasia, but I’m glad I didn’t, as I learned afterwards that death by rat poison is incredibly painful and protracted. So, I believe the guys from the bush snapped his neck with a rope/chord. But I really had no other options. There is no vet that can administer whatever drug they use to humanely put down dogs in the US. Dogs are not a man’s best friend here during their lifetime, so that which ends it is apparently equally callous. Thankfully, Bowzer didn’t suffer too long, but as I write this, Devin and I are for sure mourning and feeling his loss.

            The week before this incident, the students at my school completed their first trimester final exams, for the first time administered by the Ministry of Education. This means that not only were the English exams full of grammatical errors, but they were also completely un-evaluative and irrelevant to the students’ lives. The text that the students had to comprehend for the 11^th grade exam was about pets in America: how we buy them their own food, treat them as a member of the family, and even use them to assist people with disabilities. Then the essay they were to write was to describe their favorite pet. This topic could not have been further removed from my students understanding of the world. Not only did they not know the word for pet when I translated it to Portuguese to help them out, but they also just do not view dogs and cats in this anthropomorphized and personified sense. It would be like asking an urban American student to write about killing a chicken, goat, or pig for dinner. Essentially, the test was exactly what I predicted it to be: the worst test they could have possibly thought to give, which is, however, another story and another tirade for another day. But as the crowd stood deriding me as I was saying goodbye to Bowzer, I couldn’t help but think about this dichotomy, between how I, an American, and the people of Invinha differ so greatly in our ideas of how dogs can fit into our lives. Obviously, there is no right answer. My dogs are seen as my children to my neighbors because of how I treat them, while Mozambicans use dogs solely to deter unwanted intruders. We all have our place.

But this blog goes out to One Ball Bowz, an odd, little dog that I absolutely loved.