How Many Volts is a Culture Shock?

What does it feel like to have culture shock? Is it an electrical zap? Is it a chronic dull ringing? Is it like a gong banging around in your head? Does culture shock wear off gradually, or are you just left sizzled?

Culture shock is like that friend who creeps up on you from behind and taps you on one shoulder and you turn in the wrong direction, and then it does it again and you turn in the other direction, and the third time it happens you’re ready because you’ve learned their pattern, but the next time they change the pattern and trick you yet again. It makes me question things just when I thought I had it all figured out. I’m constantly comparing, noticing minute differences and asking why why why? And noticing the similarities as well, because sometimes those are just as surprising as the differences.

I don’t feel shocked. I feel like I’m in a constant state of inconsistency. Sometimes I am hopelessly confused, sometimes I can tackle anything, sometimes I think that I think I have found the meaning of life, sometimes I see myself as one grain of sand on a beach that never ends (that’s when I’m being dramatic), sometimes I am convinced I have discovered the secret to happiness (oh but I have!), sometimes I wish I had a punching bag. I miss home more than I have in the rest of my life put together.

Or maybe none of this is culture shock, and my mood just fluctuates because of the malaria pills I ingest every Friday at 1330 hours – which also give me crazy/eerily realistic dreams, among other side effects. This is the excuse I use for myself when I find myself in my house needing to force myself to go outside, and trying to remember why I shipped myself half a globe away from my comfort zone instead of just opening an ice cream shop like I had originally planned.

Getting asked a question in the local language and then, when I don’t understand, receiving laughter but no translation? 9 volts.

Walking through a market and hearing a chorus of “whitey! whitey!” from all around? 14 volts.

Having a quick trip to the market for onions turn into a 4-hour rendezvous because I stopped to say hi to my neighbors on the way and ended up sitting in a plastic chair in their yards chatting and eating cookies and holding baby bunnies that they are raising? Priceless.

The Craziest Year of My Life (so far): Memorable Moments

- Carrying a baby on my back in a capulana (a colorful multi-purpose cloth, more on this later)

- Reading a book out loud with my little sister

- The reappearance of my frisbee after I thought it was lost for good

- Cracking an egg into a pan and seeing a large fetus with bulging eyes pop out

- Defending, in Portuguese, the armpit as the most important body part (why? It maintains homeostasis and releases pheromones, of course)

- Cooking a delicious lemon zest cake with an improvised recipe and a dutch oven (a pot inside a pot with sand inside and heated over a charcoal stove)

- Climbing a mango tree and not having an allergic reaction to the bark

- Discovering that the house across the street from me bakes fresh bread every morning (now I just need to buy peanut butter) (explanation of blog title: pão = bread)

- Roasting freshly picked cashews (do you know what a cashew looks like as it is growing? I didn’t. Google it.)

- Having my first philosophical conversation in Portuguese

December 30, 2011: and they said, let there be light!

(...but only for 3 hours)

I write to you tonight not by candlelight, sunlight, wind-up flashlight, solar/battery powered lantern, or cell phone light, but computer light. This is one of three noteworthy events that took place today.

Let me tell you the story.

It began at 3:00 this morning when my cell phone alarm went off. I did not intend to wake up at this ungodly hour. I meant to wake up at 5:00, obviously a much more reasonable time to wake up in the middle of vacation, but I had forgotten to fix the clock on my phone and it got a little ahead of itself. I tucked the mosquito net back in and promptly fell back asleep and I think I dreamed that my friend sent me a text, because I no longer have the text and don’t remember deleting it. But I was so sure it happened. This is an interesting side effect of the malaria pills. More about that in a future post.

I was re-aroused from my slumber at the real 5:00 (although at 3:00, I guess it was 5:00 somewhere?), and was escorted to the bus station by my friend Leah, who(m) I was visiting, and her dog Chamossa, who usually likes to chase goats but this time was chased by the goats. Most of today was occupied by me transporting myself from Leah’s site to my site, which is quite a process, involving 4 different bus rides (2 hours, 4 hours, 1 hour, 0.5 hours) and a lot of bravery, since it was my first time traveling by myself in Africa. I would have liked to have conversed with the people who were sitting around me/on top of me/underneath me (apparently, being so squished together that you are interlocking legs with a stranger and your knee is jamming into their crotch for 2 hours does not automatically lead to friendship), but I was using up all my energy pretending to be brave that I didn’t have any left to start any philosophical conversations. That will be a goal for my next solo trip. Today my goal was just to arrive home.

The second monumental event of the day actually began last night when I witnessed someone light charcoal in less than two minutes without burning a plastic bag, which is the traditional method here. Perhaps I have not told you how much trouble I have had lighting charcoal. To give you some idea, I would estimate that the first two weeks at site, I spent about 16.4% of each day fighting to get it lit and then stay lit. This acquired skill is crucial to survival, because every meal that cannot be eaten raw (I should try making sushi) must be prepared on the charcoal stove. But after witnessing this miracle yesterday, I went home today and tried this new method for myself, and within 14 minutes, my entire 8 by 8 inch charcoal stove was ablaze! And no one was around to see it. I celebrated by making rice pudding for dinner. Actually, that was just the only food I had in the house.

Then, at around 18:24 hours, in the heat of the charcoal-lighting moment, something else was suddenly ablaze behind me. It was the electricity in my house! For years, it has been all wired up and ready to light people’s lives, but the town never turns on the electricity for some reason, and I just assumed the generator was broken. But alas, my bedroom light is shining for the first time since I first laid eyes on the darkness around it, and I am typing on my computer as it is being charged.

Dear reader, I have never appreciated electricity as much as I do now.

Let me tell you a secret: any of you can do what I’m doing. Living without electricity and running water is just something you get used to. However, I no longer want to be Laura Ingalls Wilder. Candles light up a room much more than I realized, but there’s nothing as bright as a ceiling light that turns on with a switch. Bucket baths save water and get you clean, but there’s nothing like a waterfall-like stream of water pounding on your skull. I resolve to not take these things for granted anymore.

For a day full of such ordinary things, it has been an extraordinary day.

The first two weeks of official peace corps service came with many small frustrations and then a large reminder that I shouldn't allow these mishaps to control my mood. One week ago we lost two members of our group to a car accident - please send positive and supportive thought vibes to their families, and then take a minute to appreciate and acknowledge the people you love.

Random News

I attended a Mozambican wedding
reception! I know it’s sudden and I didn’t invite any of you, but I assure you
I am making good choices, and you will all love my new spouse. The most
eventful event of that event was that I wore a skirt for the first time here,
and everyone was shocked (not speechless – they verbally made it clear that
they were shocked), and complimented me on finally not wearing the clothes of
men.

After the party, I changed back into my
jeans.

Mana Stephan's new family

My host family is so big, I don’t even know the names of all
my brothers and sisters. For the first month or so I didn’t even know who
actually lived in the house and who was married to whom, and who birthed which
children. Actually, I still don’t know all these things. And I have been here
for more than 2 months. I can’t keep track of my own family, how am I going to
learn the names of all my students?!? Anyone got any name tips?

Crazy little host neices and nephews

Mamá and Papá make a living working in their machamba (field)
and attending church. Can you see the family resemblance?

Jairra (above middle) likes to make funny faces

something about his face doesn't seem exactly right...

Brothers: Tony, not really sure what he does, Jeckson and
Joaquim work and go to school. Sisters: Brigida and Marta (married to Tony and
Jeckson), who take care of the house and food, and Gilda (above), who goes to
work I would estimate about 60 hours a week, and is in high school (but is
around my age).

sister's daughter Elisa

Bonding moments with family: introducing them to poprocks
and nose glasses, practicing capoeira (like a mix of dancing and fighting, shown
above), making chilled greeze and cinnamon rolls (Aunt Jo would be proud!), getting
the frisbee stuck on the roof, teaching how to play Egyptian Ratscrew, going
for passears (walks) and runs with my brothers, shelling peanuts with my dad.

explanation of title: my siblings call me "Mana Stephan," which is Portuguese for "Sister Stephanie." I think I will change my name to Stefania, which is easier for the Portuguese tongue.

family update: my host sister gave birth to a baby girl the day after I moved out of the house and across the country. Someday I will meet her!

You are part of my rear end

You are part of my rear end

We spent one morning at an orphanage/center for children who have unsafe situations at home. A volunteer who is just finishing his service works with the center, and part of his project was to organize the construction of an additional building where kids can sleep. I was in a bad mood when I arrived because of frustrations left over from the day before, but after playing with the kids for an hour my grumpiness was whisked away! We mostly just sang songs and played games with them, including Pato Pato Galinha (duck duck chicken, a Mozambiquified version of Duck Duck Goose) and a song about washing your hands, written by us:

Before you eat, wash your hands

After you go pee, wash your hands

Wash your hands, wash your hands

To be healthy, wash your hands.

It sounds better in Portuguese, and when you do the motions along with it. You’ll have to take my word for it. When we were teaching our games, the kids listened attentively and somewhat followed my explanations even though with my Portuguese it probably sounded something like “when me says ‘Simon said,’ to do the action that I does is doing it, and but more if me don’t not no says what said simon he did say, you has to can’t dos what the thing I did and does. It’s good understand?” I have to give a lot of credit to anyone who attempts to have a real conversation with someone learning a new language. It’s hard for both the learner and the attempting-to-listener. Initially, whenever I didn’t say Simon Says, they still all did the action, and I thought I had explained the directions badly. So it was a small gigantic accomplishment/surprise when one of the kids got up to be Simon, and when he didn’t say Simon Says some of them were not tricked into touching their belly.

Little by little, as my fellow trainee Mike always says.

The kids also taught us a few games. In one particularly memorable one, one person starts off as the snake who lost its tail (or rear end, depending on how you want to translate), and she points to someone and sings “you there, you are part of my rear,” and the chosen one crawls under the singer’s legs and becomes part of the rear. This continues on until everyone has crawled under all the legs and joined the end of the tail.

“Destiny, Destiny, No Escaping That’s For Me!” ~Dr. Fronkenshteen

Mozambique Fun Facts - Tidbits for the non-history-buffs like me:

- Recently independent from Portugal (26 years)

- Recovering from a civil war

- One of the poorest countries in the world

- Currency = metical (27 meticais to 1 US dollar)

- High illiteracy (but improving); general lack of teachers

- High malaria and HIV/AIDs rates

- Tourism is increasing (beautiful beaches! Good thing sunbathing is my most favorite activity in the entire world)

- Main religions = Christianity and Islam

- Transitioning from socialism to capitalism

- Very welcoming and friendly!

On Wednesday we experienced a whirlwind of emotions as our destinies were disclosed to us, e.g. we found out the sites where we will be living for the next two years. Here is everything I currently know about my new future home (Nauela, in the Zambezia province):

- Small community

- No electricity in the house

- No running water

- Teaching physics (#&%!?!) in a high school

- New site; I’ll be only Peace Corps Volunteer working there for now

- In the mountains = not too hot!

- High teen pregnancy rate

- Living in my own house, but on the family compound of a woman who works at the school and her husband

When I learn more I will correct any misinformation I may have given you. Who knows, maybe upon arrival I’ll discover an outdoor Jacuzzi with jets, a walk-in freezer to store my ice cream, and a toaster oven. But until then, I will be mentally prepared for more bucket baths, charcoal, and candlelight dinners. And I will take Balancing and Carrying Jugs of Water on the Head 101 from my sisters.

“What continent are you on?” ~Anonymous

(quotation borrowed from an email that I received a few weeks ago after going to the internet cafe for the first time in a few decades)

I believe I owe a bit of an explanation. Here I am, having been here for several weeks, already an expert bucket-bath taker, and there you are, left cliff-hung at the end of the previous chapter when I boarded the plane knowing only enough Portuguese to get around Hogwarts and to ask where the latrine is.

So, I have joined the Corps of Peace, the 17^th group to be in Mozambique (it’s in Africa), to teach biology. That really is about all I knew when I left, because plans around here have a habit of changing at the last minute, not existing in the first place, or existing but kept locked in a top secret high security vault and not made known to anyone until they are being carried out. So I am perfecting my ability to ‘go with the flow,’ whether the flow is a short walk with my host brother to watch a soccer game which actually turns into a 4-hour long hike, or whether it’s a flow of rain and mud down the path that I use as a shortcut and takes me sliding down with it.

But the basic structure is becoming clear to me now that I’m in the midst of it. We are education volunteers, currently being educated on how to educate. Training takes place in Namaacha, a town composed of rust-red dirt that sticks to everything and trees with purple flowers, near the border of Swaziland and South Africa. There are 51 of us (we are very conspicuous) each living with a host family for 10 weeks, while we attempt to cram an entire language into our heads and new foods into our bodies without our digestive systems launching a rebellion. At the end of training (if you make it through…dun dun dun) we will be sworn in as real live Volunteers, and sent to our individual sites around the country – which we find out next week! Once settled in there, where we will be alone or with 1 other volunteer, we start teaching around January. And thus begins what I am sensing will be the craziest 2 years of my life.

the road to Mike, Adam, and my houses, lovingly dubbed "Purple Tree Way" in honor of the landmark we use to locate the turn

where in the world is Mozambique?

My First Mozambican Friend

Meet Dercia. She has four years of life. She is technically my host-niece, but since I am still unclear about the intricacies of our gigantic family tree, I just think of her and the other 28 or so people I see around the house as my host-siblings. Every morning, she hangs out with me and sits on my lap or observes me while I break my fast. She loves to give high fives, brincar (play) in the dirt with her cousins, and make funny faces during dinner. She converses with me more than the rest of my host family put together. I can’t understand anything she says, except occasionally when she tells me that I have a big nose, and that my hair is growing (I don’t have a mirror, so these are good things to know). We are very good friends, and I hope she remembers me after I leave, because I will certainly remember her, for her openness and her honesty, and for always being genuinely excited to see me.