Para Que? (Mozambican commercial reference)

Cleanliness is very highly valued in Mozambican society (I’m probably seen as a slob because I only bathe once per day and I don’t iron my clothes). So if you want to make a better impression than me, iron your clothes. How do you iron clothes with no electricity? With an iron, of course!

Here’s your iron:

Just pull back the rooster to unlock it, lift the cover, and put your glowing embers inside. 

Lay out some sheets on a straw mat to serve as your ironing board. Wait a couple minutes for the coals to heat up your iron, and get rid of those wrinkles! Just be careful not to spill ashes on your clothes, or you'll have to start the whole clothes-washing process over again (see post "This is the way we wash our clothes").

"Elsa's Eyes"

You may remember from last year my nine ridiculous boys who I took to the Zambezia English Theater Competition (see post “Mini-Dictionaries and Ugly Jesuses”)

This year instead of just taking a group to the Competition, I organized the whole competition. This involved some fun stuff like going down to the site (Mocuba, one 1.5 hour ride plus one 3 hour ride away) the month before, picking out prizes and ordering 130 egg sandwiches and rice-and-chicken plates. It also involved some not-so-fun stuff, like talking on the phone and sending in a final report afterwards. For my final report I was required to write a “success story.” The first one I wrote was rushed and downright bad (sorry Alden!), so understandably, I was kindly asked to “add more detail.” ie, re-do it.

Here’s the second version:

Elsa's Eyes

Elsa never talked.

Elsa. Photo taken by Nooreen.

Whenever I looked out over the sea of faces in class 9C, my eyes always found hers, because they shone brighter than the rest, staring right back at me. She was always paying attention, trying her best, smiling slightly at the corners of her mouth.

But Elsa was not an exemplary student.

She jumped up without hesitation to write on the board whenever I asked for volunteers, confidently and carefully copying out her answer, gripping the chalk slightly awkwardly – as I did my first few weeks as a teacher. But, she unfailingly got everything wrong.

And she still didn’t speak.

Helping Elsa's pronunciation on the first day of rehearsal.
Photo taken by Nooreen.

When English Theater time came, there was Elsa on the first day, at 7:00 on Saturday morning, at her usual desk towards the back, her gaze unwavering and eager.

And in the second week, there she was again. And the third.

She just kept on coming.

And the chalk in her hand started spilling out correct answers onto the board.

My English theater students wrote a play about a girl who is faced with a decision: get married or continue in school. It was time to assign roles, so I addressed my five boys and five girls, asking who wanted the part of the main character. One hand rose into the air, and two smiling eyes found mine.

Elsa, left, and Antonieta, right, on stage.
Photo taken by Eric.

And with that, Elsa started practicing her lines, three times as many lines as her fellow actors and actresses had. She didn’t just practice them in her head, she spoke them. Her voice was small but clear, young but steady. I had heard it only a few times before, but now I was hearing it more and more often. With each week that passed she pronounced a couple more words correctly, and eventually, almost everything she said could be understood by a native English speaker.

On the day of the competition, I wondered about my kids. Would they get stage fright? Would they forget their lines? Most of them were shy and had never acted before, never mind in English in front of 120 people.

Their turn came and they pranced onto the stage like they were born there. They used ridiculous costumes. They shouted their lines. I couldn’t recognize them from the little mice who had struggled through each word in the script three months ago.

Elsa’s eyes were shining with well-earned pride as they took their final bow.

"The choice is mine, the future is ours!" Elsa third from left.
Photo taken by Eric.

Dear Short Wave Radio,

Ever since I brought you home from the Bangladeshi store in Molocue, you have been a companion and a source of entertainment. You allowed me to bring the Macarena to Nauela, helped my kids study English, and provided tunes on rainy days, as long as it wasn’t too rainy that I couldn’t hear your voice over the hammering on the tin roof. You have been a mostly faithful friend, except those times when you went to stay with other people. But I forgive you, Short Wave Radio, because you always came back, eventually. I apologize for all the times I left you hungry and without batteries. You certainly have a good appetite, but it’s my pleasure to fill you up and turn your dial to on. I was so relieved you bounced back after my neighbor sat on you; it’s a good thing you’re a coward and put the flash drive at the front line of fire, to take all the damage instead of you. As I pass you on to a new owner, I wish you all the best for your future afternoons of static and another voice that sings only when it thinks no one can hear it. Don’t be jealous of itunes or youtube. To my cochlea, you are irreplaceable.

Love and gracenotes,

Steph

Short Wave Radio with flash drive

Short Wave Radio with antenna

Short Wave Radio with SD memory card

When you'd be better off wearing your birthday suit

One night, I had just finished eating dinner at The Girls’ house, and they began preparing a concoction of the most disgusting ingredients they had – water we had used to wash beans off our fingers, water soaking in the cornmeal mush patty pot (complete with cornmeal mush chunks), sand, ash, you get the idea. It wasn’t to drink, but almost as unappetizing, it was to give someone a surprise bath. Not just any random person. Who? Rosita. Why? It was her birthday. It’s tradition.

We walked to Rosita’s house at around 9pm (normally on one’s 21^st birthday the fun would be just starting, but this is Nauela, so Rosita was in her house, already bathed and ready for bed). The Girls carried their buckets of slop to the porch, and lured her outside with claims like, “No! We would never dump dirty water on your head!” She finally stepped outside and her screams and attempts to flee were met with splashing sounds, and the need for another bath.

Personally, I’d much rather be in Mexico on my birthday, and have my face plunged into my own cake.

Peace Corps: Lose Yourself

Dedicated to Sienna, who is where I was two years ago (literally)

You know how they say that during an experience like the Peace Corps, you’ll find yourself?

Bullshit.

On the contrary. You will be lost.

Even if you can physically locate yourself, and the path home is etched in your flip flops, you’ll look around at least once a week and think, “How did I end up here?”

You’ll drop some old habits and pick up new ones; others you’ll introduce to your new friends. You’ll feel out of place, you’ll want to fit in but you never will, you’ll question how to act. You’ll think, “Wait, who am I?” and well, damn, you probably won’t figure it out.

Why do we have to “discover ourselves?” I’m the Me who I am right now and it doesn’t matter if there’s a lot I don’t understand. I’m 100% Me and I love Me and there are lots of Yous that I love too, and I want every You to love You too, even if you’re as lost as I am. Even though you are as lost as I am.

You don’t have to be in the Peace Corps to lose yourself. Getting lost is about opening to new ideas, shutting your mouth and listening, letting go, forgetting, being. When you get lost, you don’t eventually find your old self again, you build a new self that is continuous with your old self. No, I didn’t “find myself” in Mozambique. Whether I’m trying to aim into a tiny latrine hole in the depths of Mozambique, or trying to remember whether I should take the 72 or 72A bus home in a metropolis of Mexico, or doing a Google search for “how to be more out-going” in the suburbs of the US, I’m probably lost and confused. But it’s all part of building that Me.

Conversas Com Celino

Meet Celino (pronounced sell-EE-no). He is 13 years old, and in ninth grade. Last year, he was in the class I was in charge of, and he was our class leader. He is usually quiet, but intelligent, organized, and sometimes even businesslike. His backpack even looks like a briefcase, and he always tucks his uniform, a white button-up shirt, into his floodwater pants.

He used to not talk to me one-on-one much, but one day last year he came up to me and started a conversation, and suddenly a flood of questions was pouring at me. Our conversation went something like this:

“In America, do you carry buckets on your head?”

“No, we carry them with our hands. And we don’t use buckets as often as we do here.”

“And, Miss Teacher, are you married?”

“No. Are you?”

“I’m not married, I’m only 12 years old!”

“How do you get to America? By car or by bike?”

Another day, he and a girl in his class were hanging out on my porch, and when she disappeared for a moment, he whispered to me, “Miss Teacher, that’s my wife!”

He also wanted to give me his money so I could bring him back a toy plane when I went to visit the US. He tried to save up, but apparently it didn’t go so well:

“I got some money together, but then a mouse carried it off.”

He was a big fan of the way I sometimes rewarded students during class:

"Miss teacher, you know those little paper things you gave out during class?"

"Yes Celino."

"I need some."

"You need some stickers?"

"Yes, those. I am needing some stickers."

And, the one that made me have to squeeze my lips together to not burst out laughing:

“What church do you pray at?”

“Catholic church.”

(without pausing at all) “But Miss Teacher…I’ve never seen you eat sugar cane. Do you?”

The Musical Fruit, New and Improved

Fresh beans are scrumptiously, exquisitely delicious. There is no comparing them to dried beans with bugs burrowing in them, the type most readily available. It's not just comparing apples to oranges, it's comparing a fresh, plump, juicy orange ready to be squeezed into a crystal clear glass on a warm spring afternoon, to a brown, mushy apple with a worm poking its head out.

And, fresh beans are easier on the intestines.

Battery Low

Some people in Mozambique live peacefully without the stress and rush of technology; others have caught the bug.

Last week a friend was here visiting for a couple days. As soon as he arrived, he asked if there was a way he could charge his cellphone.

“Why would you travel with your phone on ‘battery low,’ knowing you were about to spend two days in a place with no electricity?” I accused. He has electricity at home. He didn’t think of this beforehand? He’s a chefe (Big Boss) at work and always in high demand, so I was slightly worried that he would miss some important phone calls during the time he spent at my house, unplugged.

“I did charge it! But…you know…it’s just that…facebook!”

I didn’t feel bad anymore, and didn’t make any effort to help him find a house with a working solar panel.

He lasted through the day on the last bar of charge, which held out for a surprisingly long time considering the 87 phone calls that interrupted our heart-to-heart chats. But 10pm that night brought another crisis.

“Steeeeeeph, I can't sleep.”

I had just found a comfortable spot to put my head on my rock-like couch, and he had climbed into bed not 45 seconds before, when his voice, with a whine that made him sound about a third of his age, floated through the door.

Did your head even make an indent in the pillow yet? I said, not out loud. “Why not?”

“I always use internet on my phone before I go to bed!”

I waited for a minute before responding, for the evil cackle inside my head to subside.

“How about a book?”

Silence.

Project Curious George: It's Growing!

After forming mud into rectangles, we had to bake our bricks to make them strong and resistant to rain. The preparation for this step involved some axes flying through the air.

The bricks are stacked into piles that serve as kilns, and wood burns inside...all day and all night.

Students were not overly excited to be at school at 11pm on a Saturday, but they immediately cheered up when the camera came out.

When the bricks have cooled for a few days, they are ready to be organized into walls!

The Faint But Shimmering Disc-Shaped Puff

Last Sunday I was out of site and staying at a friend’s house several hours away, when she called me outside at around 7pm.

“Steph, come look at this strange thing in the sky!”

High above in the night, there was a big blob that looked like a perfectly round cloud, shining slightly and moving across the sky. Its diameter was about 8 times that of the moon. I’d never seen anything like it before, and neither had she, or anyone across Zambezia who was also outside looking up at that moment, calling family members and yelling for neighbors to run outside.

The faint but shimmering disc-shaped puff continued on its way for about 7 minutes, then distorted and faded away. We went back inside and had dinner and wondered what it meant.

As I was craning my neck, seeing what I had always imagined an exploding star would look like, I thought to myself, “If this is the end of the world, and I die right here standing next to Rosa, it's ok. I’m content.”

Dolls of all shades

I spent about an hour holding a ten-day-old person, but she didn’t converse much; on the contrary, she ignored me completely. I was more interested in seeing how her adorable but spoiled four-year-old sister was handling having a higher maintenance member of the family in the house. The older girl paid little attention to the younger girl, carrying on the same attention-getting strategies she usually did, trying to hide her jealousy.

Then, I picked up a piece of cloth off the floor, thinking someone had dropped it, and found a chunk of wood inside - the broken leg of a chair.

"Oh, that's Mikaela's baby," her mom laughed at my single raised eyebrow. "She's been carrying it around ever since Paulina was born." 

Nevertheless, I tried to be attentive to Miki. While their uncle was holding Paulina and oogling over her, I asked Miki if she wanted to sit on my lap. She climbed up and continued drinking the Fanta that she had been holding. I watched it all disappear alarmingly quickly into her tiny belly. 

She smacked her lips in satisfaction, then cradled the empty Fanta bottle and lovingly rocked it back and forth.

Skinny-Kicking

I love having little girls in addition to high schoolers on my soccer team, because nothing embarrasses them. While my teenagers are stretching the backs of their shirts down to cover their rear curves, my fourth graders are sprinting by with gaping holes on each buttcheek of their shorts, and worn-out shirts flapping all over the place.

The other day, one of my youngest players had forgotten her shorts, but no problem, she just got rid of her skirt and jumped into the game without a second thought. One minute later, her hand-me-down shirt – previously tied on – popped off, leaving her dancing around calling for the ball in just her underwear. Clothes-free and carefree.