This is Mom --- I have written up my own journal from my visit with John. If you'd like to share in my observations and adventures, please read on. If you'd like to skip to the philosophical part, it's the last section (Miscellaneous Impressions and Memories). Part of me is still in Africa - and probably always will be. Just found out that I should not be including place names, so I've had to edit those out....
10/30 Maputo
Due to my lack of sleep and exhaustion from two days of traveling, I barely remember seeing the city as the taxi brought us from the airport to the Pensao Sao Martins. I do remember lots of noisy traffic, dirt, trash and crumbling streets. As it turns out, this was an accurate picture of Maputo! The hotel was absolutely charming, with two of the most beautiful beds I’ve ever seen (OK, so I was a little tired) and an actual shower (OK, so I was a little stinky).
After John and I had become reacquainted, and I had changed my clothes and freshened up a bit, we went for a walk and dinner. Walking was the first challenge, one to be repeated in other towns in Mozambique. The sidewalks, when they exist, are in various stages of disrepair. One must always watch where one is stepping to prevent serious injury. At night, it is even more challenging. I discovered this as we headed down side streets toward John’s favorite Indian restaurant.
Every once in a very long while, a square drainage ditch about 6” across and 6” deep is cut into the sidewalk. Since the street is not well-lit, and the lip of the ditch is flush with the sidewalk, this is an accident waiting to happen. John recalls being in conversation with me, there was a loud splat, and I was suddenly not there. There was also the audible gasp of a woman behind us, as well as the sound of air being forced out of yours truly. I had done a face plant on the sidewalk, landing first on my knees, and then my diaghram. How I managed to not break my ankle(s), I’ll never know, but aside from immediate pain – and a couple of days of swollen and bruised knees, I was in one piece!
The restaurant was a well-kept secret. It was located behind a mosque, accessible only via an alley at the right of the mosque. I was a bit nervous being a white American lady passing the open door while menfolk were worshipping within, but there was just mild curiosity. The restaurant was merely a bare room holding perhaps half a dozen tables, and wasn’t really identifiable as a restaurant – if one wasn’t in the know. It was run by an Indian family. The food was prepared from scratch and was absolutely outstanding.
After eating, we strolled back to the Pensao and relaxed and talked. About 8:00 I no longer remember the conversation we were having, so apparently that’s when I fell asleep – and slept straight through until about 6:00 AM. I never had a moment’s jet lag from that day forward.
10/31 Leaving Maputo
That morning, we picked up the rental car at the airport and left Maputo. This adventure is recounted in the section which immediately follows.
10/31 Chib...
On my first full day in Mozambique, we taxied back to the airport with the luggage in order to pick up the - dreaded - rental car! This was the one part of my adventure I was NOT looking forward to. As a Peace Corps volunteer, John was not allowed to drive in country, so I knew it was up to me. I had had two hours of lessons back home on a standard shift – modern, good-sized Toyota, mind you – and here was a VW Citi Golf (named Chico – yes, it was written on the side of the car) that was about half the size of the Toyota, had a lawnmower for an engine, was brand new (think stiff gears), no power steering and was set up for left side of the road driving. I was doomed….
It was, of course, extremely hot outside and there we were – attempting for 15 minutes to get out of the parking place. I kept stalling when I would start off. One of my audience (a fellow with nothing better to do at the moment) finally came over and explained that I should never completely release the clutch until I was ready to shift up to the next gear, but to give it plenty of gas. This actually seemed to work – at least until I had to come to a stop and went through this exercise all over again. John and I agreed that I should make a loop around the parking lot for practice before heading out, but of course my audience didn’t know that, and couldn’t figure out why the crazy American was going in circles…
I did finally get out of the parking lot only to find myself on the wrong side of a very strange intersection – only one car coming towards me, though, so no big deal (for me, anyway). On towards the road leading out of town. Now, in order to get onto this road, one must head up an incline (probably the only one in southern Mozambique) and stop at a major intersection that doubles as a major chapa stop – think lots of vehicles, especially minivans and buses, no traffic light and lots of people yelling and honking their horns, just because! Of course I stalled – repeatedly – for at least 10 minutes as others went around me, except for one bus who thought it would be fun to stay behind me and sit on the horn…I was having a literal meltdown – psychologically and temperature-wise. How I ever got through that intersection I’ll never know, but I did and we were finally on our way.
I then had my first encounters with Mozambican potholes, a misnomer if ever there was one. There you are on their major highway (well, it is, even though it’s only one lane in either direction) doing highway speed and suddenly what looks like a crack in the road from afar, turns out to be a series of deep craters which one does NOT want to hit at any speed, and certainly not 50 mph or so…It wasn’t really possible to sightsee as my gaze was frozen on the roadway, and my mind was occupied by remembering which gear I was in.
We were perhaps halfway (who knows?) to John's site when we came upon a town (Chib...) that John explained was the site of a couple of volunteers. I immediately suggested we stop (selfishly, I wanted to take some time to breathe) so we pulled into quite a modern complex, although out in the middle of nowhere. Naomi and Nora are teacher trainers and live in an apartment in the teacher dormitories. It’s a very attractive setup for them. We sat and chatted for a bit, and I presented them with brownies (I thought Nora was having a religious experience) and some bath products (Naomi had tears in her eyes). It was then time for me to enter the vehicle of death once more, and try to find reverse (my first time) in order to actually leave this oasis. Yes, that took a while, but on we went.
I can only remember one other “bump” in the journey to John's site. (The rest is just a blur of stress.) We went through a small settlement where the police had set up a checkpoint. Despite the fact that they waved me on, by then I had coasted to a stop and, of course, stalled again. They couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t leaving…very embarrassing.
When I got to C.. (John's site), imagine my shock at discovering that those dirt roads were truly little more than strung together craters. By the time I pulled into John’s side yard, I was ready for the funny farm.
As a postscript to this experience, I must tell you that the next day I discovered first gear! Apparently, I’d been starting out in 3rd gear all along, so finding 1st made starting so much easier. It’s amazing what that gear will do for you! Now this isn’t to say that finding 1st became easy – it didn’t – but now that I was good at 3rd, I at least knew when I wasn’t in 1st and could then adjust. And we later found out that the chapa drivers often start off in 3rd, which was why the guy at the airport had advised me to routinely keep the clutch partially depressed when starting off! He thought that starting in 3rd was a normal activity!
10/31 – 11/5 C-- (John's site)
My first impression as I drove into town was, as I’ve mentioned, the sorry condition of the roads. All roads were dirt, which in and of itself, was not a deterrent. The condition, however, was astoundingly bad. Huge holes, wide and deep, made some roads almost impassable (and certainly would be completely so during a rain), while others became simply a challenging obstacle course.
As I was to discover later, there is a government project afoot – with the help of South Africa – to pave the streets and put in sidewalks. Work is actually moving quickly, so in the coming year, the face of this town will change considerably. There will be traffic! What will that do to C--’s small town charm? And will this improve the standard of living for its residents?
As we later walked through town, we spent as much time picking a path through rubble as we did actually walking. I hope that making navigation simpler will not so increase the pace of life that folks will no longer stop to chat as they run their daily errands. Stopping to ask after a neighbor’s well-being, and playing with the children in the area is every bit as important as being able to get from point A to point B without twisting your ankle!
John’s house. Forgive me, my dear, but you’re in a pit. I’ve seen several other volunteers’ homes, and you’ve gotten the short end of the stick. At the very least, there’s almost no storage space, which adds to the clutter. That, however, is the very LEAST of the concerns.
The walls aren’t sealed well to the ceiling, so bat droppings and whatever leak down the walls in a fall of brown dirt and webs. The bathroom always smells faintly of sewage, although it’s well-vented through a screen – into the kitchen area… The bathroom floor is always at least damp, and rust and bat stains add to the décor. The room is long and narrow, with a sink on your right as you enter, followed immediately by a floor drain (with a shower head above it), and lastly by the toilet.
Since the shower is icy cold, all residents resort to bucket baths. There is a large plastic washtub, a plastic pitcher, and a bucket of water. One fills a kettle with water and heats it on the kitchen hotplate. Then a certain amount is added to the bucket of standing water to make that water more temperate. One may then step into the wash tub and begin scooping water over themselves for the bucket bath. This is a simple process – and the weather is so hot that one doesn’t freeze standing there, exposed (at least at this time of year) – but one never feels totally soap-free.
The contents of the washtub are dumped into the toilet – and you’re done!
The kitchen: this really isn’t a room as much as it is a cooking alcove/indentation and opposing sink surrounding the back door and bathroom. The cooking area is beyond gross. Surrounding the ancient and malfunctioning hotplate is years’ worth of layers of grease and batshit, all embedded in the porous concrete. The only work area is the top of the freezer. There is no refrigerator, only a freezer, but at least that does work. All non-perishable items are kept in the alcove in bins, including eggs (something I found very hard to get used to in 100 degree heat).
Garbage is dumped into a pot outside the kitchen door, where it either disappears into the stomachs of local wildlife, or is periodically moved to the OXFAM garbage pail at the street.
Outside the back door is the cement (?) double washtub for dishes and clothes. And all the facing land in the backyard is devoted to farming by a neighbor. As payment, some fresh produce is always contributed to John’s household.
Close by the house is the secondary school where John teaches Biology. Also very close by is Vukoxia (VOO-KOE-SHUH), the senior citizen community center where John has also established some English classes in the early AM and at night. This is also where Anni, one of “the Canadians” works. She and Charles (who works elsewhere) are a delightful young couple and their house has become the focal point for frequent gatherings, including Friday movie nights. The (NGO) organization that sponsors Anni provides quite lovely quarters for them, complete with car, cook/housekeeper and guard, so this is truly an oasis for John, some locals, and other volunteers from other towns. It has become a place of relaxation and a forum for spirited political debates and discussions of current events.
On the main street in C--, there are many small storefronts, for shops carrying food, and a limited stock of notions, fabrics, auto parts, etc. There is also the bakery on a side street.
The bakery has a small retail sales area with a counter, and bins behind holding small and large loaves of warm, fresh-baked bread. John’s friend was working, and this meant we could tour the bakery itself.
Of course the entire staff had to gather round to meet John and me. We then watched as dough was mixed, shaped, set aside to rise, baked in enormous ovens, removed, counted and sorted. The heat was overwhelming – and it wasn’t even full summer yet. But what a lovely aroma! Those doing the shaping worked at a long table and were able to laugh and chat and sing (the latter especially at night, so I understand), so this seemed like a rather pleasant job to have.
We also visited the open-air market and the enclosed vegetable markets in C---, as well as John’s tailor. The open-air market stretches for some distance, on both sides of the main road on the outskirts of town, below embankments on either side of the road. Everything you could possibly want or need is for sale, from mattresses, to shaving mirrors, to bicycle parts. Interestingly, though, whenever you find a stall with a certain type of merchandise, the very same merchandise will be found in all the neighboring stalls of that genre. It seems that you just have to get to know a seller you trust, and then visit his or her stall from then on. The bottom line – it seems that there’s much more for sale than there really is. There are simply many iterations of the same product.
A growing segment of the market – across the road from the main market – is a line of vendors from Zimbabwe. Not only are they dressed differently, but their merchandise is different and in fact includes handmade crafts, something that you just don’t find in these Mozambican towns. The vendors are also less aggressive, perhaps because they are foreigners and know that they’re there through the goodness of the Mozambicans. The economy in Zimbabwe is so bad right now that many Zimbabweans are bringing their merchandise to Mozambique where the rate of exchange is such that they can earn much more than they could at home. They periodically travel home to bring support to their families left behind. And each day the line of Zimbabwean sellers at the market grows ever longer. I wonder how long this population will be allowed to grow before the locals take exception to this incursion into their local economy.
Once you wend your way through the fixed stalls that face the road, you enter the more covered portion of the market. These stalls and walkways are covered by whatever materials are at hand, with these coverings mounted on sticks and hanging low over shoppers. Stall after stall exhibits the same merchandise, making it quite a challenge to decide upon where to make one’s purchase. And when it’s raining, trying to keep out of the mud becomes almost more important than doing your actual shopping! Of course when you come to the “back” of the market, the main concern is the odor. Here is where the crates of live chickens and other sources of protein reside, and the smell is quite overwhelming, especially on hot days (which is the weather whenever it’s not raining…)
When you walk through this last portion of the market, there’s an old tank – a leftover from the Mozambique civil war – then railroad tracks, and then a mud hut village. It is in this village that John’s tailor has set up shop. You can tell which hut is his by the tape measure hanging from the bars in one window opening of the hut. Here there is an ancient treadle machine (Citren), and an area for ironing, with an iron that is heated by loading in glowing charcoal.
The tailor measures us both for various garments and excitedly – and happily – comments that our waist and hips are the same size. He is very happy that I’m “large”. Hmmm – I really didn’t think I was, nor did I ever consider that a compliment, but hey – I’ve also been told recently that I’m “well-conserved” so I guess I’m pleased! John is having an entire suit made – a native suit, that is, which means out of capulana material. He already has had shirts and pants made separately and they’re very attractive. This will be matching shirt and pants, and a cap (sort of a Muslim style) as well. I can’t wait to see pictures of this.
We also visited the vegetable market. This is a permanent market within a building, and provides space for various vendors. John has two favorite ladies, one of whom I meet, Dona Flora (the other – Dona Marie - is in the hospital, and we will visit her later). Dona Flora is also the woman who teaches him Changana, and she is a hoot! If nothing else, I learn Kalemambo (thank you), and remember it because it’s such a great word! She has very good produce, and we indulge in quite a bit – eggplant, tomatoes, onions, garlic, leafy greens. I, of course, meet her and various other sellers, once more being introduced as “minha mae” (my mother) by John, and being greeted with looks of amazement. The latter seems to be a result of the fact that I’ve come all the way from America – and also that I seemed much younger than they expected. And the comic relief comes in, as it always does, as I stand there and very obviously perspire. Everyone – and I mean everyone – comments wherever we go about how “the senhora is very hot”. Well, yes, there’s not much I can do to cover that up, since I drip profusely and glow red most of the time! (The good side of that is that it helped us through several bureaucrats at customs and immigration, both in the airport, and at the South African border. Nobody seems to want to mess with a very hot lady!)
What else is in C--? Well, there is the Telecenter where Charles (the male half of the Canadian contingent) works. It’s a small but modern office where faxes – among other things – can be requested. What a surprise to walk up to this office and be greeted in English by a young blond man who immediately recognizes me as John’s mother (not actually a great leap of logic…)! Also in Chokwe is The ATM. Every ATM in every town is contained in a small locked room, with a guard outside armed with a machine gun. This is comforting – while you’re in the room – but of course, one can’t help but wonder what can happen when one walks away!
Anyway, everyone lines up outside the ATM room in what is usually an unshaded area. I did this in C---, on my own, and nearly expired waiting for my turn. That is, of course, one way to discourage long lines, especially since the ATM often runs short of cash. I was proud to accomplish all this on my own, however, and immediately thereafter purchased a cold bottle of water!
We also visited the internet center which is again a simple office on a side street that offers a couple of PCs for folks to pay for some time on the Net.
There’s also a video store in town – a huge space with not that many videos, and even fewer folks who can afford to rent any! So it becomes a gathering place for the townsfolk on a Friday or Saturday night, even if no one rents anything.
At one point or another, we hit all the restaurants in town (3 or 4) and are well fed in each. If any of these places was in America, we would never set foot in them. They’re dark rooms with no amenities – just bare tables amid a crumbling structure. In reality, they are family-run establishments where everything is cooked to order and is delicious. I discover here and elsewhere that little time is devoted to making the protein portion of a meal easy to eat. When one orders half a chicken, the bird is literally split down the middle and laid out on your plate. You then wrestle with it to extract the meat.
What time IS spent, however, is devoted to the seasonings and sauces and braising and whatever. The final dish is always luscious and quite obviously prepared with loving care. You may wait at least ½ an hour or more for your food, but it is well worth the wait – and obviously due to the home-cooking that was involved.
In my time in C--- and elsewhere in Mozambique, I ate at least the following main dishes: prawns (prepared and served with their heads), barracuda steaks, carne asada, liver and onions (wasn’t what I thought I’d ordered), beef brisket, chicken, sardine (large local fish), hamburger, chorizo and a local whitefish. All these were accompanied by potatoes (batatas) in one form or another (or rarely rice) and a small salad of onions, tomatoes and greens. We were never offered vegetables (unless they were the main dish, as in a lentil casserole), and the only fruit we saw was at a hotel breakfast in Maputo. My understanding is that veggies and fruit, being so readily available, are considered poor peoples’ food, and thus aren’t offered in restaurants. (I did miss my veggies…)
We also ate in an Indian restaurant in Maputo (absolutely outstanding), a Chinese restaurant also in Maputo (Mandarin style – not bad), and a pizza place (New York Pizza) in Maputo (John was dying for some – it’s very popular with the trainees and volunteers).
We spent one evening at a very popular patio bar in C---, in discussion with Kingston and his brother Justin, Zimbabwean teachers in town. They’re both, of course, fluent in English, well-educated and very interesting fellows. It was also their mission to introduce me to the local varieties of beer. Hmmm…
The one activity I never had the strength to stay up late enough to indulge in was the local discoteca…maybe next time! There may not be much money to spare, but the locals know how to party, so I’ve heard.
One of the attractions I was advised to see was the dam at Masengele (sp?) Although the dam is no longer functioning since the 2000 floods, its size is quite impressive, and abutting it is the beginnings of a game park to eventually grow and join with Kruger in South Africa. The most interesting part of the dam was the ride to it! On our way, we stopped first at a hut village by the side of the road. I asked John if he could get permission to take pictures. A woman was sitting by her hut, having her daughter fix her hair (a common ritual), and she was surrounded by her little ones. John was allowed to take pictures of the buildings, and once she saw them (from the digital camera), she said that he might take pictures of her children. We have these wonderful shots of children who are not quite certain what to make of the camera. When they saw their pictures, however, all fears disappeared and they were thrilled!
We also came upon some women washing their clothes in the river, and received their permission to take photos as well. (They couldn’t imagine why we would want to take photos of them doing such a mundane task, but readily agreed and again were thrilled to see their images!)
We visited the local village market to try to find John’s student, who was to meet us and introduce us to his village, the dam, and the game park. We were told he wasn’t there, but that his mother would be at the church and we could ask there (this was a Sunday). We found the church and thus began an adventure.
This was an Assembly of God congregation and several members were already inside the building, rehearsing some music. I had wanted to hear some traditional singing, and this was exactly what I’d hope to stumble across. In front of the church was a semicircle of seats where various elders seemed to be planning the service. We approached and asked for John’s student’s mother and was immediately introduced and greeted like visiting dignitaries. We were asked to join them, and John was given an explanation of what they were doing. We were also asked to become part of the program as honored guests – and we certainly couldn’t say no. We did make it clear that we had to leave by noon (it was then about 10:00) and the reverend agreed.
One by one, each person who would be attending the service approached to greet the elders, and since we were part of that group (in fact, now first in the line), us as well. Women greeted with left, then right cheek kisses, men with the special handshake (where the left hand gently cradles the right elbow to show respect). Just when we thought we were done, John would whisper to me that “I had another one waiting”. It was quite a humbling experience (and I was very thankful that I’d worn my capulana – as badly arranged as it was).
Eventually we accompanied the elders into the church where we were seated next to them on the dais (well, the mud platform) facing the congregation. The reverend called up one of the gentlemen from the audience who spoke Portuguese so that he might quietly translate from the Changana for John (who then translated to English for me). We were given a hymnal to join in some of the singing – which was great fun. The program was almost entirely little programs put on by groups of, first, little children, then older children, then young adults, then older adults. Each in turn presented a musical program and it was riveting! The reverend had finally had enough, and he made it clear to his congregation that they needed to stick with the program or they’d never be done!
He told them all that John and I had behaved very well and we were going to heaven – and everyone should follow our example (oh my….) John was then asked to rise and give a little speech. I’m sure he was nervous, but it certainly didn’t show as he acquitted himself beautifully and everyone was very impressed (some was in Changana, some in Portuguese).
Before they went into the business portion of the meeting, the congregation took a break so we could leave. We asked if we could take a picture of the church building. Not only did they agree, but they asked if we could take pictures of them as well (we thought that meant the elders). We agreed and filed out….only to be followed by the entire congregation! We now have pictures of them - which I will be enlarging and sending back for John to present to them. There was practically a riot when John showed the digital photos to them. I’d love to see their faces when they get the enlargements!
We later found out that this whole experience was unique – other volunteers, etc., were utterly amazed. Who knew?
We had a picnic lunch at the dam, and then visited the game park. There wasn’t any game to be seen, but it was a chance for some exercise – and for me to experience relieving myself in the brush, with John holding up a capulana for my protection. To assist my balance, I had rested my glasses - in their case – in the fork of the tree under which I crouched. I mention this only because I forgot to take them with me, thus requiring a return trip to retrieve them – totally mystifying the guard at the gate (ah, Americans!)
After we had left the park (the first time), and headed back through town, we picked up two hitchhikers. It should be noted that this is a very common practice. There is a hand signal which people give (the arm is held out a bit with an open hand -fingers together - moving up and down, as though slicing the air). Unless the person looks deranged (which does happen on occasion) or very ill, it’s expected that if you have room, you’ll pick them up. We did this several times, twice in this town. What’s really fascinating is that you never know when you’ll run into these people again. For example, one of these fellows turned out to work in the auto parts store in C--- and had seen John around town, which almost came in handy when we had to go to the mechanic in town and thought we’d need a part! And the other fellow showed up in our hotel in Xai Xai, greeting us like long lost friends!
Anyway, I was still new to this car and the men were confused enough at seeing me – rather than John – driving. When we then went in the wrong direction (to go back to the park to pick up my glasses – which John did NOT try to explain, thank goodness), they were totally confused! And when I bottomed out on a ridge, I thought they’d have a coronary (along with John, I might add). This really made an horrendous sound, although it didn’t appear that we’d done any permanent damage to the undercarriage. Nonetheless, when we tried to run the air conditioning, there was a loud squealing. We knew we couldn’t use it until we had had the chance to have it checked back in C---.
We finally were able to set out for C--- again and had a relatively uneventful trip back (except when I didn’t miss a large bump in the road and I thought I’d lose them both through the roof). Speaking of the bump, the older gentleman was slowly explaining to John that the 2 lines on the road meant that a major bump was coming up --- explaining it WAY too slowly, and certainly too slowly for John to translate in time for ME to react. Oh well…
They were probably extremely relieved when they arrived home in one piece!
Remember the market lady, Dona Marie, who was in the hospital? We visited her in the town’s “rural hospital”. The building is in fairly decent repair, but it’s also fairly empty of both equipment/medicines as well as doctors. A patient’s family is expected to bring food to sustain their family member. This particular woman has a son in America who is able to provide monetary assistance so that she might purchase necessary medicines as well.
We stayed for a time and noticed on our way out that we were passing a delivery room, with a nurse cleaning a newborn. This was not a “protected” or sterile room, and certainly would contribute to the high infant mortality rate.
We also noted that, in the back courtyard, there were some tents set up containing a number of (empty) cots. We could only assume that these were makeshift isolation wards for diseases such as cholera and TB (AIDS patients are in a separate hospital).
I have since heard that Dona Marie is still in the hospital, so we can only hope that she improves.
And a P.S. on the car --- we had it checked out at the Canadians’ favorite mechanic in town (he actually trained in Germany). Anyway, he found that the air conditioning belt was really too small for its track, and my bottoming out had shifted it such that it was no longer balanced. He was able to simply move it back to the center and all was well again. This cost us the equivalent of $2! I should mention, however, that he had a heck of a time getting the car into 1st gear, and stalled a couple of times before he got the hang of it. Boy did that make ME feel better!
11/5 H---
Nimi, the volunteer in H---, had come to John's site to run some errands. We then came to visit HIM in H---: him and his menagerie of goats, chickens, dogs and cats. Nimi has quite the setup with a new house (separate “facilities” out back) with his own little farm and village fiefdom. Even though he was a short-termer and marking off the days until he was officially done, I think he’s really going to miss this way of life.
11/5 – 11/7 X-X-- and Chic---
We arrived midday to check into our hotel and to visit volunteers in nearby Chic---, and to then bring them with us to visit the volunteer in X-X---.
The hotel room in X-X--- was a bit of a shock. It was very bare with little more than 2 beds, and that was fine. It was, however, covered in flies and extremely hot with no fan. I didn’t feel that I could handle it, but John insisted that I allow him to see what he could do. Sure enough, when we later came back from dinner, the room had been sprayed to remove all the flies, and a floor fan had been installed. I felt renewed!
The Chic-- volunteers’ home was in an extremely rural setting (open fields, away from town), and this one, as well as the one in H---, was quite newly constructed, open and airy. They were in process of being plumbed and/or electrified, although “in process” could mean a year or more. Nonetheless, not having these conveniences didn’t seem too difficult a tradeoff for having such attractive facilities.
Aside from getting stuck in the sand in Chic---, it was an uneventful arrival. We met their living attractions (enormous green spider in its web, and tales of the spitting cobra that got away).
As some massive storm clouds gathered, we all piled into the rental car to drive back down into the center of X-X-- for dinner. As we drove down the hill, the skies opened up and I experienced my first African thunderstorm. With such flat terrain and the immediacy of the sky, it was a very impressive show. Dinner turned out to be an adventure, as the roof of the restaurant was thatched, and was not well-sealed, and the howling winds found entry there as well as through and under the walls.
The rain stayed throughout the next day, giving us some time to relax and regroup. Most of the day was spent playing cards in a common area, and feeling very much like a throwback to a 50s European ex-pat. The building was of that architectural genre, and the slowly turning ceiling fan just added to the atmosphere.
We did take time out to visit the market and for me to be initiated into Mozambican mud. The market hardly differed from the one in John's site, with the exception that it was larger there in X-X--, but certainly no more prosperous.
11/7 Be--
After we left X-X--, we visited volunteer Monica in Be--. Yes, this woman does realize how incredibly lucky she is. She teaches in a private Catholic school, and lives in the teachers’ dormitories. The building is beautiful and beautifully maintained, with heavy walls shaded by lovely trees – think natural air conditioning. She has one room with an adjoining private bath, and shares the school’s kitchen facilities. This may not sound like much, but not only is it lovely and adequate for one person, she is one block from the most stunning stretch of beach you can imagine. It fronts a lagoon on the Indian Ocean and is composed of immaculate white sand. When we were there, we were the only people in sight. Since it was just the beginning of summer, the crystalline water wasn’t yet bathtub warm – it was absolutely perfect!
Poor Monica jogs along the beach in the morning. Hmmm…on the other hand, she began her service at another site, and did not have a pleasant experience there, in any sense of the word. She was later moved to this site and knows, by contrast, that she is getting a highly unusual Peace Corps experience and thus, completely appreciates it.
We spent a couple of hours with her, sunbathing, swimming and eating lunch at a beach restaurant. Yes, this is a resort town with many South Africans owning beach cottages here. I’m not sure I could live too long in paradise, since it is as unrealistic as any other resort town you’ve ever been to. Still, it was certainly stunning!
11/7 – 11/8 Maputo
On Friday night, we drove back to Maputo from the beach in Be---. Instead of making a straight shot to the Pensao, however, we encountered an intersection that became quite confusing at rush hour (yes, this was evening rush hour). My navigator had a brain lapse and I ended up being directed through the heart of Maputo, along a chapa route, at the worst time of day. I can only say that I didn’t think I’d survive the experience, but I did it – I really did it. I had obviously learned more driving skills by then, but nonetheless, they were sorely tested! I could only visualize a lovely drink at the end of the trail – but little did I know that there was to be one more test of my (lack of?) abilities.
When we arrived at the Pensao’s driveway, we discovered that there was to be a wedding held in the back that night. This meant that parking was at a premium. I was advised that we could park in a tiny back lot for employees, but would have to back in to it, through an extremely narrow gateway. What a humbling experience that was. This was not an easy car to drive in reverse, to begin with, and then to have to be worried about an inch clearance on either side – that drink I imagined assumed epic proportions! The good news – I knew that the following morning, there was a very direct route – forward – out of the hotel and out of town!!!
On the morning of the 8th, I was given time to get to know this city. As I have mentioned in the final section of this journal (Miscellaneous Impressions and Memories), my overriding impression was one of a city collapsing into itself in a heap of rubble and trash (especially the ubiquitous cheap gray plastic bag), populated by armed guards in front of those few structures remaining at least somewhat intact. In addition, the streets are peopled by vendors selling everything from garlic and tomatoes to windshield wipers, local crafts, cell phones and fresh cashews. There were a few well-dressed natives, but they were few and far between.
There were, in fact, few people dressed as though they were going to offices, nor did many people seem as though they were on a “mission”. The overwhelming number of people on the streets were vendors of various sorts. With a 50% unemployment rate there, I would assume that this is one of the few jobs available. The other most popular job, I later discovered, was armed guard (most obviously in Maputo, but in other towns throughout the country as well). These men are found outside of commercial buildings, ATM kiosks, and any halfway decent residences (private homes or apartment buildings), all with heavily barred windows, gated yards, and often watchdogs.
There were many first and second-hand stories of crime in Maputo ranging from pickpocketing and mugging to assault and rape. This was not a city for a woman alone, at least not a woman of any sort of means – and certainly not a white woman since whites are automatically assumed to be wealthy. Most of the few whites we saw were either South African or Portuguese, rarely American, and compared to the natives of the country, of “considerable” wealth. (There’s a reason for stereotypes!)
The Saturday morning crafts market was a considerable departure from the regular vendors. John insisted that I walk directly in front of him in order for him to not only guard me, but to be certain that I wasn’t surrounded by overly aggressive vendors. I really didn’t feel threatened, but there was probably stuff going on around me of which I was unaware. There were many attractive items for sale with more variety of merchandise than we’d seen anywhere else. Still, there were basically only wood carvings and batiks, but very attractive and well-made, nonetheless. John was able to bargain successfully for me and I left with a number of what I considered treasures, including gifts for those at home.
As we walked to and from the market, a sizeable hike from our hotel, we took note of all sorts of AIDS awareness billboards. Mozambique is doing a remarkable job of calling everyone’s attention to their problems, and at least beginning to remove the stigma of this disease. It was also easy to notice – as one attempted to avoid being run over – that there were very few functioning street lights. Of course, outside of chapas, taxis and delivery trucks, there aren’t all that many vehicles so major accidents don’t seem to be a problem in the city – especially since horns are used with great frequency and glee!
11/8 – 11/9 Kruger Park (South Africa)
The quite short drive to the South African border was very pleasant. As mentioned elsewhere, that stretch of highway is maintained jointly by South Africa and Mozambique and is sheer perfection. Negotiating the various officials at the border, however, was considerably more complex and time-consuming. There was no clear path laid out as to what forms should be filled out, how, and in what order people were to be seen. It was, as always, extremely hot and since this was John’s first experience not knowing what was expected of us, a bit stressful as well.
I do clearly remember a point, however, when I was driving through a checkpoint when it wasn’t clear whether or not I was supposed to stop. This very large white South African man made it clear that I was, indeed, supposed to stop and we were both to exit the car and walk through a pan of disinfectant (hoof and mouth prevention). When I stood there sweating (as usual) and explained that we were very confused, he suddenly softened up and told me not to be confused. He then demonstrated walking through the pan (since I had offered to remove my shoes….NOT necessary!) I think John offered to take a bath in it (hard to break the bucket bath habit).
We at last did make it through the border folk and our next stop was a large supermarket. John was bowled over at all the choices, of course, and considering the rate of exchange, the prices were extremely reasonable. We moved on to Kruger and settled in to our “safari tent”. This was a tent permanently mounted on a platform, fully electrified, pristine, charming and equipped with very comfortable beds. There were a number of “windows” – screened openings with Velcro-attached covers - for cross ventilation. There was also a large floor fan, but the motor was so powerful, it sounded like the entire tent was going to take flight. We opted for the natural ventilation instead. On the front of the platform was a refrigerator and a table and chairs. And on the ground in front of the “porch” was our kitchen - a charcoal grill.
Directly across the parking area from our tent were the facilities – again, ultramodern and pristine toilets and showers. Now THIS is the way to camp! And a few yards away from our tent was the gate leading into the game park itself. Hop in your car, drive a few yards, and you’re in another world – impala, bush pigs, giraffes, hornbills, you name it.
We spent a few hours driving very slowly through the park, excited at being able to spot various animals. For me, the greatest thrill was suddenly realizing that what I thought was a tree by the side of the road was actually a giraffe. Being that close was absolutely breathtaking. Again, it was extremely hot, and the terrain was dirt and scrubby brush with glaring sun, so it wasn’t possible to spend too much time driving slowly and peering closely during the heat of the day.
We had signed up for a “night drive” which left about 6 PM. We were seated on a bench seat in a specially adapted Land Rover with a well-armed driver. Those of us in the extreme corners were given halogen lights to hold to scan for eyes, the only way to spot animals in the bush at night. What we also discovered, however, was that when you hold a bright light, you attract all the insects within a 10 mile radius. I found myself plucking huge moths out of my blouse where they had dive-bombed me. This simply added to the romance of the moment! It was a quiet night, though, and we didn’t see the more exotic animals (such as leopards, etc.) We did see many white rhinos, though, including one which somewhat embarrassed John, but which is now good for a laugh.
John had taken over the “lighting” duty from me after a while, and was aiming at a rhino in order to allow us to take pictures. Right after he did so, the rhino went crashing headfirst into a tree to his right – it was very impressive, and we figured he was just annoyed at us. At that point the driver called out to John – “Please don’t shine the light directly into their eyes. You blind them.” Whoops – here we were impressed with the rhino’s power, and in fact, he just couldn’t see where he was going…
We were on our ride for about 3 hours or so, then returned for a late (very late) dinner and bed. The next day we again spent a few hours on our own Safari, and this time were able to view a pride of lions stretched out in the shade by the road. Here we were in the heat of the day, sitting in the sunshine, while there were lions happily ensconced in the shade of a large tree. One couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of the situation.
We headed back, ate some lunch, and returned to Maputo that afternoon. Rather than driving into the city proper, however, we drove to the airport to return the rental car. This time the navigation was simple and direct, and the experience was without stress! At last! The rental agency was kind enough to offer us a ride to our hotel in a cushy new car with an interesting fellow driving, so the vehicle experience really did end on a high note.
11/10 Bo---
Early on Monday, Maputo Day, we took a bus-type chapa to Bo---, the home of John’s old host family, and the location for volunteer training. We were able to pick up the chapa at its starting point in Maputo, so there was plenty of seating available. This chapa was a bus (well, a minibus anyway) and was a very pleasant ride.
John had arranged to have his host father available to meet us at their home at about 10:00 AM. We arrived on time only to find that he was at work – until about 2:00 that afternoon. The town was very rural, dry and dusty – and of course extremely hot – and hadn’t received any rain in a year. John’s host family’s home was not situated in such a way as to take advantage of any possible breezes, so the inside was even warmer than the outside!
John had a very long, frustrating conversation with his host mother, explaining that we really couldn’t stay around for 4 hours awaiting Sr. Bernardo. She was insisting, however, that we could not leave, it would be extremely rude, he would be angry, and that we also had to have lunch with them. We also would have to see the children, who would be home from school shortly.
To make a long story short, telling us that Sr. Bernardo and the children would be home soon went on for hours. We really couldn’t leave, and John and I sat on the front porch (just a cement slab, actually) for several hours. I had finally collapsed onto the floor and was just praying for something cold to drink. We did spend some time with the kids. It was my idea to play catch with the oldest son (about 15) with a baby mango that had fallen to the ground. That was fun – until it disintegrated. Meanwhile, the Senhora and her neighbor were preparing lunch. She had purchased a fresh sardine (a large, local fish, about the size of a trout) and they were making a stew to be served over rice. This was all taking place in the kitchen, a separate reed enclosure (no roof) with a charcoal-fueled hotplate.
One of the boys was sent to get 2 bottles of soda that were cooling at a neighbor’s. The oldest boy came to us on the porch with a pitcher of water, a basin and a fresh towel. He poured the water over our hands so that we might wash before lunch.
I was then served the rice – topped by the sardine head. Hmmm – I still don’t know exactly how I was supposed to eat this, but I did my best. The stew was very tasty, but it was pure salt (because of the sardine, no doubt). I really did do my best, but Senhora (who did not eat with us) was disappointed that I hadn’t eaten more. I did, however, savor every drop of the cold (mini-bottle of) soda!
Why didn’t I have any water? I’d run out of my own purchased bottled water. John had a water bottle with him filled from home, but it tasted very strongly of bleach (what they use to filter their water) and I simply couldn’t drink it. When we were eating lunch, however, they had some concentrated orange drink on the table, something they mix with water before drinking. Adding some of that to his water bottle definitely made it palatable. Since I was there for about 5 hours and never felt the need to relieve myself, I can only assume that I was as dehydrated as one could be by the time I left!
When Sr. Bernardo appeared we sat and talked for a while, and then presented them with their gifts – a Yankees baseball cap for Sr., hard candies for the kids, and earrings for Senhora. They all clapped and were thrilled with their presents.
Sr. walked us to the chapa stop, making a quick stop at an open stall/shop that had refrigeration where we could buy bottled water. We then quickly caught a packed chapa for the return voyage. (Because we had been held captive for so long, we didn’t have the chance to visit the training site close by so I never got to meet the new PC trainees. That was my only regret.)
When I say the chapa was packed, I mean PACKED. When we entered, I had to immediately remove my hat, because there simply wasn’t enough room for both me and my hat. After we’d ridden standing for a while, I was able to snag a seat, and found myself sitting next to a little old lady. The only way to arrange myself was to have my arm around her. She sort of cuddled in and had a little embarrassed grin on her face – she wouldn’t look directly at me, of course. A young woman with a baby was standing directly over me, with the baby resting on my arm, and I was holding whatever packages I could for John and me. John really didn’t need to hold on, because he was being supported by every other body in the chapa. It was a very friendly ride back to town!
11/10 – 11/11 Maputo
When we arrived back in Maputo, we had a walking tour with native Ebi (who hopes to attend Harvard to become an architect), a friend of John’s whom he has been tutoring in English. We walked along the bay where all the ambassadors’ residences – and embassies – are. These are incredible edifices, only a block or two away from equally incredible poverty. These are also armed fortresses, not surprisingly. I wonder how one lives with the ever-present guilt? There is also, at this end of town, a major – 5 star? – hotel, a hotel that just also happens to house the Japanese embassy on its grounds. We took a little tour and were suitably impressed with this old colonial structure. What made it more interesting was knowing that Ebi wouldn’t have found himself welcomed had he not been with us. Some things simply don’t change.
At the end of our walking tour, my feet were ready to give out, it was early evening, and we decided to spare me and take a chapa back to the Pensao – a real, mini-van type of chapa! This was also Maputo Day which, as it turned out, was just another excuse for a day to drink and party. Ebi flagged down a chapa. It stopped and the door slid open. I was immediately enveloped by a wall of music – Fiesta! Fiesta! – loud enough to make the chapa vibrate, echoed by a large number of people crammed into a small area! I saw no way to climb aboard, but was urged to do so. I claimed half a seat and then wound my legs in amongst my fellow passengers. John lay down across a number of laps, dancing as he did so, and Ebi – well over 6’ tall – managed to squeeze in, laughing all the way. What a trip! It was only 5 minutes, but we were singing and laughing all the way. Everyone – except us – was very drunk and it was memorable! We were given a cheer as we left, and I really think they missed us!
Miscellaneous impressions and memories
Although I’ve mentioned some of these things while describing our actual adventures, I want to write about them specifically because they remain as such clear and defining visions.
At one point on our first day driving, I remember being on the mostly deserted highway, under an impossibly huge sky, in a tiny car, with flat brushland as far as I could see, listening to the Indigo girls on tape, and yelling – “I’m in Africa!”
I found the roads to be a defining memory of Africa, or at least Mozambique, and not only because I was driving and felt such a responsibility to not be swallowed up by holes. The collapse of this vital infrastructure was mirrored in what seemed to be the development of a world aid culture focused on changes deemed helpful by whatever country was offering the aid. For example, on the stretch of highway between Maputo and the South African border, the road was sheer perfection. This was a result of South African aid in road construction, with the purpose no doubt being more tourism to Kruger Park in South Africa. Of all the roads we took, it was only that stretch that was perfect. Other roads, whose improvement would benefit only Mozambique, were in very sad shape.
And certainly the roads and buildings in Maputo, the capital, seemed to be held together by sheer determination in the face of decay and garbage and petty crime and poverty and skyrocketing unemployment. So many of the beautiful colonial structures were either vacant and crumbling, or inhabited but simply slowly falling apart after 30 years of neglect.
I guess until Mozambique becomes a notable trading partner or tourist destination once more, reconstruction will not be a top priority issue for investment by other countries. More importantly, it is not yet a symbol of Mozambique’s belief in itself and its self-worth – or perhaps it is, and that’s even more upsetting. As Ebi, a native Mozambican said, Mozambicans look at the West and feel defeated before they even begin, as though they must be as successful or they will not be considered successful at all. The steps necessary to evolve into a successful economy are never begun because the goal seems totally unreachable, and what’s forgotten is that that goal should be African – NOT American, or that of any other country BUT Mozambique. Please don’t let Mozambicans strive to become America!
A little P.S. on the roads – the Mozambican drivers on the highways, including the chapa drivers, are remarkably courteous, making the fact that there is often no speed limit, a comfort to such as I!
The economy in terms of cost of goods was startlingly inexpensive for an American, but certainly indicative of a struggling country. A good, large dinner, complete with beverage, was anywhere from about $5, to a max of $10 in the capital at a more upscale eatery. Crafts – at the Saturday Maputo craft market – were extremely reasonable. For example, a heavy and beautifully detailed wood carving of a native drummer was about $10, a piece that would easily command 5 or 6 times that figure elsewhere. Another popular craft, batiks, were priced much less than that, and obviously were the result of talented artists’ efforts. And the ever-present capulana, the material that is used as a wrap skirt, a baby-sling, a curtain, a floor mat, sewn up as shirts and pants, etc., etc., can cost anywhere from $2 to perhaps $7 or $8. Figuring that an average worker’s salary in a town is approximately $1.50 a day, one can see that a capulana is kept and repaired for as long as possible.
Speaking of repairing clothing, a popular way to resole shoes is to use the tread from discarded automobile tires. Clothing itself is either repaired at home, or one uses the services of a tailor. And except for the capulanas, other clothes are usually bought in one of the used clothing stalls. This clothing might be recycled polyester clothing made originally in China – or more likely, it’s clothing donated by countries around the world, most notably from America. This accounts for the startling appearance of designer clothes on some of the poorest people in the world. Picture a Bill Blass blouse and Calvin Klein jeans on a person living in a mud hut. Or a T-Shirt from Disney World or Sesame Street on a tiny tot who hasn’t a clue who Mickey Mouse or Big Bird ARE. At least for an American, this incongruity is simply embarrassing. (As a humorous side note, however, because John’s area of Mozambique receives regular clothing shipments from the eastern Great Lakes region, John has been able to get more T-Shirts from Cleveland – his college town – than he ever got when he lived there! And he was able to get a Whalers uniform shirt in Africa, when he could no longer get one here --- note: the Hartford Whalers were sold a few years ago.)
The National Geographic picture in all our heads of African women carrying impossibly large burdens on their heads is, in fact, a reality. One might see a bundle of clothes, a large bag of groceries, or a huge, wrapped bundle of sticks up to 6’ in length being carried by a deceptively delicate woman. And usually balancing her burden will be a baby carried on her back in a capulana-sling. Watching a woman prepare the baby for travel made me want to immediately reach out and help, but they’re amazing! The woman will lean forward and place the baby on its stomach on her back, supporting its bottom with one hand, while the other flings the capulana across her back. She then somehow manages to capture the baby in the capulana and pulls tight around her, the two ends of the material, and she’s ready to be on her way. Rarely, if ever, did I see an unhappy baby. This is apparently the way to contentment!
I’ve mentioned the filthy and decrepit conditions in the capital, but I have not duly emphasized the cleanliness in the countryside, by far the dominant portion of Mozambique. Although a village may consist solely of mud huts, the surrounding dirt is swept each morning, garbage is either disposed of or fed to the animals, and people take bucket baths at least twice a day. It’s terribly hot and everyone sweats, but when you’re basically clean, body odor isn’t usually a problem – beyond everyone simply smelling sweaty (a not unpleasant, and certainly natural, condition). And before one eats, whether in a hut or a cement block home, one always washes before eating.
As an American who tries not to be a typical tourist, I’ve resisted the impression that these mud hut villages are very picturesque – but, they ARE! And contributing to this impression is the fact that they are clean and neat. What one doesn’t immediately realize, but does through subsequent reflection, is that garbage and mess is a function of excess, something that just doesn’t exist in the rural areas. What little there is must be used to the last grain, thus there is little true garbage, and what there is is usually organic (which becomes food for various farm animals, particularly goats).
Yes, I’ve talked about John’s house and how in need of a facelift it is. What I didn’t say was how comfortable I was in my mattress on the floor, wrapped in a mosquito net, sleeping soundly until about 5 or 5:30 when the sun seemed to suddenly signal midmorning. The African sun is just suddenly there, in all its glory! I particularly loved the night when I’d tucked myself in, all major lights were out, but I had my special book light and a good book, and felt like I was once more a young girl hiding under the covers in order to read a book I just couldn’t put down. So what if I had a harder and harder job getting up off the floor in the mornings – at night, I was 13 again.
Whenever we met Mozambicans, the standard greeting between women was a two cheek kiss. For men meeting women, that plus a handshake, or simply a handshake would be proper – and the handshake was often the more respectful Mozambican one, where one supports one’s right elbow with the left hand, so as to designate the offering of one’s body, not just one’s hand, in greeting. There was also a variation on the handshake favored by young men, but I never did get that one right! My mistakes were good for a laugh, however, and that’s always a good ice-breaker.
I became used to always being ready to offer and respond to “bom tarde”, “bom dia”, “bom noit” with “como esta” and “esta bien”. The pronunciation of these, though, is what sticks with me, since it’s definitely not your high school Spanish!
Portuguese pronounced as
Bom tarde bow tard
Bom dia bow dia
Bom nuit bow noyt
Como esta comooshta
Esta bien shtabain
And thank you is “obrigada” (if you’re a female speaking, obrigado if you’re a male). If you’d like to say it in Changana, it’s Kalemambo (great word!) Goodbye can be several things, but what always works is Ciao!
The weather, at least in early November, is hot and dry, but with the possibility of sudden drenching downpours (the remainder of the rainy season). Never, but never, have I experienced such baking heat, not because of the temperature, but because of the sun so close – and unshaded - that you can almost touch it.
Everywhere in the countryside – or bush – are women pounding their piladors. These are tall (perhaps 3-4’ tall), skinny wooden mortar-and-pestles. Women may be pounding alone, or alternating with another woman, in preparing grains, or mashing garlic and other spices. The thumping sound is rhythmic and becomes an almost unnoticed background to the day’s routine. So not only are women’s necks incredibly strong from carrying all their burdens on their heads, but their arm muscles are like iron.
Whenever we received permission to take pictures, the reaction to seeing the images digitally was always great surprise and laughter, from adults and children alike. What would begin as hesitation and suspicion would quickly become eagerness to star in many more photographs! Human nature is truly the same the world over.
In restaurants outside the capital, I remember the rarity of napkins and the paucity of light – and sometimes electricity at all. When cooking is done over gas or charcoal, of course, electricity is not a necessity. And tipping was always a concern, mainly because it is not a customary practice. That’s not to say that it isn’t done, just that it is unusual, and one must closely consider what is reasonable. Americans are used to tipping 10-20% of the bill, but this can often be considered excessive in Mozambique and one must be careful to neither insult by giving too little - or too much.
And lastly there is the memory of need – so much need and a feeling of helplessness as to how one person can best contribute their efforts. This is, of course, John’s – and other volunteers’ – dilemma. Is education the most important route? Is it repairing the infrastructure? Is it providing health care? Is it creating jobs? Or is it a combination of all these efforts with the overriding necessity of government and citizen participation and accountability? Do we really want to maintain a “world aid” economy and if not, how do we begin to wean this country?
I was given quite an overview of his agency’s mission by the head of the senior center (Vukoxia) in C---. There was so much he said, including talking about their work in educating senior citizens for their new roles as caregivers for their sons, daughters and grandchildren as AIDS decimated the population. He also talked about the basic need for clothing for these seniors, and I remember promising to investigate donations to this cause. I think I would have promised anything at that point, faced with the enormity of the task facing this senior center, all seniors, and the country as a whole.
I remain overwhelmed and depressed at the tasks facing Mozambique and all those aid workers determined to make a difference – yet buoyed by the unbelievably friendly and sweet nature of the people of Mozambique. In the face of such incredible odds, I guess all that really matters is food, shelter, and time spent with one’s family and friends. Of course, that’s really all that matters in this and any other country, but I have been so far removed from that realization that I had to travel to the other side of the world to be reminded of it.
