Ok, usually I do this one handed, although the eight-year-olds can do it no-handed...


Oh, hello again! I just thought I might impart a few lessons that I have learned here in the lovely, trucker-paradisaical city I am in in Zambezia. Ok, here we go!

One) If they say it is coconut cake, that doesn't mean it is.
One day I stumbled on a delicious little sweet bread that was coconut and since then I have asked every vendor of breadish things if they are coconut, and most times (since many people selling bread-like things sit together) the person I ask will say no, and then I start to leave and another person will say yes and I will buy it, only to find out later that it is not coconut. It is just flour cake. That's what people call cake that literally has no kind of flavoring. I think they feel me out, whether I want it to be coconut or not, and then change their answer depending on how I react. I have lost most of my faith in responses, which doesn't seem to stop me from buying more sweet breads and trying to find that illusive coconut cake.

Two) Never ask an entire group of kids their names.
This is because when you ask an entire group, their names are likely to be hard to remember because they are not names you are used to, and then they know your name and when you see the kids next, you will not (that is a near guarantee) remember theirs, and then you feel like a jerk. Just a big, foreign, confused and confusing jerk woman. Lesson to be learned? Ask one kid one at a time, or don't ask at all.

Three) Always add twenty-four hours to the estimate.
So far, Mozambican-time has taken on a new meaning. My few experiences with approximated deadlines or meeting-times or construction-times have all left me with the belief that in Mozambique, everyone just adds a day onto things. So if that work meeting is scheduled for 7:30 am, make it 8:30 am the next day. The government electrician? I would add a solid 26 hours on to the appointed time. An informal work contract? Don't even attempt, because that would be silly and fruitless.

Four) One can never escape Michigan.
In two weeks, in my city alone, I have seen two Michigan ( Go Blue and Maize!) shirts. One was being sported by a man that certainly seemed to know he was lookin' good. That, along with the presence of Kellogg brand cereal and cereal-crumbs (Corn Flake crumbs make that chicken you just killed extra delicious) has made it apparent that either Michiganian tastes are oddly similar to Mozambican tastes, or Michigan is making its way in the world. Or, possible, Michiganders donate a lot of clothing.

Five) Never try to use anything to its fullest extent.
This is, for now, reserved for electrical appliances. I add this, because my power was out for at least two days due to the fact that I attempted to use both hotplates on my electric stove-top. I know, I know. A rooky mistake and certainly one I will not be making again. But at least I learned that I can start a charcoal fire, and that I cannot use my stove as it was made to be used, otherwise mysterious things will happen and all the electricity will flee.

Six) Vigilance.
This one is simple. I was walking in the market area one day, minding my own business and thinking about a straw mat that I wanted to buy. Walking in a fairly wide street and with a look of determined bargaining on my face seemed to beg for someone to sexually harass me. Which they did. Swatted the ol' bum, they did. Which just goes to show that a person can never be too vigilant about their personal bubble. I need to fashion mine out of titanium, I think. And until then, I will now never let my guard down, or my purse to stray from covering up my butt.

Seven) When life hands you two bathrooms, politely decline.
That is what I have. Two bathrooms. And it sounds nice, but really it is just a silly waste of space. If I used them both as bathrooms, I would be using twice the amount of water to flush, and I just don't like carrying water THAT much. And as far as using one as storage or a pantry goes, the toilet and inconveniently placed sink-hole, along with the inability to take the door off its hinges put that plan to its death. So, I am sure someone can make lemonade out of this packet of Crystal Light, but I am not that person.

Eight) If you steal something, just keep walking.
Really. I saw a boy steal a man's hat from the road. The man was on a motorcycle and he was stopped and was fixing it or tinkering with it before he went back for the hat, and in that time a boy stole it. The man yelled at him and even pursued him, but the boy just kept walking and that was that. The man physically touched him, but since the boy didn't just give it back, the man gave up. Just like that. So the next time I want that nice, solid bookcase I may just test the theory. If I keep walking, will they do anything?


I think that about wraps it up for now. Until next time, remember: you can't start a charcoal fire by putting charcoal on a plastic bag and then setting the bag on fire. Sadly...

Estou a pedir sua casa. (I am asking for your house)

A View from the Top... actually a view between the metal bars on my veranda.

It has been so long since I filled you in on what is happening that I don't really know where to start. So, I am going to write down my impressions of my community at random and hopefully it will make sense or occur to me in some kind of order. Ready? Ok! (By the way, have I told you that ok is used here and translates to ok, but is usually accompanied by some kind of grunt?)

1)I had communicated my concerns about living with a manual-flush toilet in the house before, and I am happy to report that I had every right to be concerned. I have not one, but two manual-flush toilets which not only use a LOT of water to properly flush, but smell very bad very quickly when you do not properly flush them. A common thought in the mornings for me these days is “Where is my latrine?” If only I could build one... wait a minute...
2)I have seen a woman walking around town in a sexy witch costume that I am pretty sure I saw either at a Meijer, or in the Oriental Trading Catalogue. Either way, she was sportin it with a pretty good attitude. About thirty minutes later, I saw a man wearing what I can only assume was originally the accompanying hat. On a man. And it was sunny, so I can't imagine why he wouldn't wear it. And now we all know what happens when someone donates a Halloween costume to a clothing drive that benefits Africa. It gets sold to unsuspecting Mozambican citizens who then wear what cannot be very comfortable costuming as daily-wear.
3)My village may or may not be a glorified truckstop. Come sundown, which is at about six pm over here, and only getting earlier as the summer starts to wane, trucks pull over for the night. This means that the market has a few more choices, and the area is a little more built up, but also it means that I should be inside my house by sundown. Truckers attract a lot of, shall we say, unsavory, informal business ventures that usually involve women.
4)I have seen goats in places that one would never expect to see a goat. Tied up to the back of a bicycle. On top of a semi-truck fully loaded with lumber. And skinned, about five feet away from me in the middle of a neighborhood on the side of the path.
5)Twenty liters of water is not as heavy as it would seem to be. That is the amount the container holds that I haul my water in, and I heave that thing right on up to my head. It is all an illusion, I think, since the actual action is pretty easy, but it looks so tough. However, doing it has earned me a little street-cred with the local ladies around the pump. They laughed the first few times, and I think by now I am being accepted as just one of the gang.
6)I do not pay for the electricity used by my bathroom lights. This is a recent revelation, and an exciting one. One night I was preparing to cook some tortillas, to accompany the beans I had made that afternoon, for dinner and was foolish enough to think I could have BOTH burners of my little stove on at the same time. Silly me. Something happened and the stove made a pop and then the electricity in my house went out. The box that controls is is turned off and nothing works... excepting the bathroom lights! And since the box is how I buy my electricity (it is prepaid, like most things here, and I just buy credit and type in a code on the box and it credits my house), then the fact that the bathroom lights work means that I don't pay for it! Hello, twenty-four hour toilet illumination!
7)Fist-sized spiders DO exist! And, thanks to the genius that put in a drop ceiling in this crazy duplex in Mozambique (now we know why drop-ceilings weren't part of the traditional housing here), I have what I can only assume is a good-sized nest or infestation of them above my bed, kitchen, clothing, everything. I am almost positive they live up there, since about every other night one seems to drop down from the ceiling onto the ground, and skitter haphazardly around the room until I kill it. I think they get a bit groggy from the drop, which is why they almost drunkenly wander around from thing to thing, never climbing the walls, and it is also why I can kill them. The entire situation is pretty gross.
I take my leave with this little ruby of wisdom I saw on the t-shirt a boy was wearing:
Bangs Are Sexy

Greetings from beautiful Zambezia. I am, right now, accessing the internet at a hotel that has free wireless, and I want to thank you (if you are American) for the chance, since it is YOUR tax dollars at work that fund the organization that has been given a PCV that is my friend and offered me the access. So thank you.

Yestday I saw my house! Sadly, it was from the road. We traveled through my new hometown and saw the house but couldn't stop. It is great, bar-front property with a lovely, treeless yard. A duplex, which is almost like having a free, human security system because generally Mozambicans know what is going on in their neighbors houses. It doesn't look like it has a latrine, which is a major disappointment for me. I can live without the mango trees, papaya trees, fence, and porch. However, I was really wanting a latrine. I know what you're thinking: but Melissa, not having a latrine means having an inside toilet! Yes. Exactly. So imagine that you have a toilet, and it is inside, and it is not an automatic flush. This is a little hard for a lot of people, so I will be explicit. A manual flush toilet never really fully flushes, since you have to force the waste into the piping system using only the natural force of gravity and water. I, as it turns out, am not quite tall enough to be able to get the necessary acceleration when I pour water out of a bucket to actually clear the toilet. So now I have a cement house with a tin roof (read: the hottest house you can have. Like a toasty little people oven!) and a toilet that is housing some remnants of my waste. Oh latrine, how I want you. But at least this way I won't have to buy an extra bucket for my xi-xi bucket, which saves me about two dollars.

Yesterday we did stop in the ol' town to have a quick lunch on the road. A boy asked me for money (estou pedir= i am asking, which quickly turns into a loathsome phrase), so I told him that I am going to be living and working in his town by Wednesday. He gave me an up-and-down look, and walked away. Clearly I wasn't worth asking twice.

I must be going now. I have to prepare for a party we are going to with our new supervisors. It is important, I think, to form good relationships right off the bat, and create opportunities for direct, open communication. And with a beer in you, it is easier to let go of language inhibitions.

Tchao.

So this is how public transportation from city to city works. You get on a chapa, which is a lovely, often bug-infested, plastic-coated seat van that seats between 24-30 people, depending on the size of the people. And no, this is not like a cargo van. It is about the size of an average minivan. Then, as the chapa gets going out of the city, you stop for gas. At every stop, people crowd the windows to try to sell you homomake freezepops (in sandwich bags, made with what i am sure is clean water), roasted cashews, or chicken stock. Once on the road again, someone inevitably closes all the windows, trapping in the luxurious amount of body heat and odors. Then, your chapa will either get a flat tire, or like yesterday the radiator will overhead three different times. This allows for a breezy break at the side of the road, since the engine is underneath the passenger seats, not in the front of the van. Stretch your legs, but please try not to get hit by the speeding, sometimes careening traffic, as my host-sister did two years ago (inflicting permanent back damage). Load back in, perhaps get peed on by a chicken or a small child, and hold your tonge if you see that child (hopefully at least 6 months old) being fed Fanta from a bottle. Eh. It is better than a lot of other things anyway. Once you near the end, pay the conductor in exact change as most people do not like to give change. Ever.
Safely arrive at your destination, disembark, pull the sweat-soaked shirt away from your back, and enjoy wherever you end up.

Hi. I had a lovely entry prepared, but then the computer crashed at the internet cafe, and the computer at the Peace Corps office isn't allowing me to copy or cut and paste. So, instead, you get this.

My host-mama had her beautiful baby boy. He is great, but may or may not be named Weidy or Melvin. I was pushing for Kennedy, but we'll see. Mama is ok, but had a C-Section, so she's still recovering. Surgeries can have a lot of complications here, so she's staying in Maputo.

I did and saw a few things:
1) I woke up to an over six inch long cockroach. I killed him. Is it weird that it was a little nice to wake up to another creature in my room in the morning?
2) I saw my little sister Mae pee on the sidewalk around our house. Now I know why my family insisted on me wearing sandals whenever I wasn't.
3)I heard my first war myth. It's that one of the fighting parties would tear unborn babes from the mother and pilar them (essentially, crushing something with a very large wooden mortar and pestle, usually used for peanut-flour production). Yuck.
4) I took a very solumn oath and am now in the position to defend you all (if you're American) from foreign or domestic enemies, and to defend the consistitution, come hell or high water!

okbye!

This is the moment you have all been waiting for these past eight weeks. SITE PLACEMENT!!!! Yeah! Alright! And then, at the peak of our excitement, right before real Thanksgiving and shortly before the feast of our Peace Corps Thanksgiving, they throw that last little Peace Corps catch. Everyone's placement was in an envelope, and everyone had to wait until the last envelope (there are about 70 of us) was handed out and the letter accompanying it was fully read. Yes. All seventy adults sat with our placements in hand, and couldn't open it until we could all open them. Why? A question the world will never be able to answer. But to get to the good stuff, I can and will tell you what province I will be moving to: Zambezia! A lovely little province, technically in the central region but really more northern. This is accompanied by summer days that can be up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, and winter rains that result in a long lasting and all-encompassing red mud. This charming variety in weather is accompanied by two more human charms: the mentally unstable woman that is not only disposed to hit PCV's in the market but is also rather strong, and the “very fast legless man” (quoted from a site detail sheet left by a former volunteer) who will ask for money with applause-worthy persistence.

But let's move on since a lot has happened in the past week and I'm already prone to lengthy posts. Tuesday our health group visited two orphanages. I was determined to visit the girls' orphanage, which I did, while the other half visited a boys' orphanage. Both are privately run and funded, so along with that goes the assumption that they are better equipped than a government-run orphanage. While I haven't seen a government-funded orphanage, I did ask and was told that the orphanage I saw was far superior in funding and facilities than a government orphanage. We were greeted by all eighty-nine girls singing several songs to us in nothing short of angelic voices. It was heartwarming. The facilities were very nice, with clean, sound buildings and bright cheerful colors. Almost every bed had a mosquito net, and they just finished building a school on premises. This, of course, was constructed because the girls had been walking off site to another school, but it was discovered that some of them were being stolen and killed. Well, the woman who described it was a little vague, but the exact verbs used were robar para matar, which in a direct translation means to steal for to kill. The girls seemed very happy, healthy, and eager to wrap their arms around us. We were given morning snacks, and they even wanted to feed us, which was amazing but we were able to turn down. It was extremely uplifting. As far as the boys' orphanage goes, the main point that struck me was that the orphanage has its own school, and families in the surrounding communities actually opt to pay for their sons to attend school at the orphanage. So, while these are uncommon, it is still just awesome that they exist.

Wednesday was our Thanksgiving day, and I have to hand it to us trainees and to administration, because it was wonderful. There was so much food, and it was so traditional American, and the tables were pretty and there were little (meaty) appetizers. The effort blew my mind, and then the food blew my stomach. I don't think anyone was able to do more than waddle out of that lunch. I personally ate an entire plate of dessert. But that was only to fulfill my duty as a PCV, part of which is to bring American culture to Mozambique, and what better way to show American gluttony than me eating sugar to excess? Exactly.

And there was been a nice surprise for me this week. Another mystery has been solved within my host-house: my aunt's husband is not dead. Surprise! No, instead of death the man just lives and works in another province. Gaza, to be exact, and as a truck driver. And no, I'm not just incompetent: the Portuguese words for “to reside” and “to die” are extremely similar, and I was given this information the first night with my family. Also, the man (I now know his name is Beto) that lives with us doesn't just intentionally ignore my evening greetings. He is, in fact, partially deaf. Case closed.

I'm sure everyone has been on pins and needles wondering how my nose-blowing session with eight year-olds went. Don't worry, it was a hit. The five boys and one girl learned how to wash their hands properly. Sadly, for this exercise (upon reflection and a recent laundry day) I am pretty sure I had them wash with laundry soap. But soap is soap... right? They they ate cookies, learned a little about their boogers, made some hankies and called it a day. I learned that little kids are great at blatantly lying to me. They all said that not a single one had boogers. Ever. So I taught them the theory, if there every came a day that they did develop that which all other people seem to have. And a few days after, my brother and his friend asked me if I was having class the next day. For them. They wanted to have me teach another lesson, which was sweet. I told them that when I move to Zambezia, they are more than welcome to visit and I'll give them all the lessons they can handle.

So now all we have to do is sit back and wait. My knives have been bought from the Chinese “Walmart”, as well as a knife sharpener (since I decided against the more local manner of knife-sharpening which is against any concrete surface), and the basics in spices. Ready to move in!

Until next time, I will give you this bit of employment advise:

If you show up drunk to a work function, even if it is another nation's day of giving thanks, you will probably be fired.

Question: was that creek there before?

Answer: Um, no. Welcome to the rainy season!

So hi and Happy Thanksgiving Week!

Thanks in large part to Peace Corps, this Wednesday we PCT's are having a lovely, American Thanksgiving Celebration. American means we will all be together, probably speak little to no Portuguese, get information we desperately want (our site placement, here already?), gorg ourselves on food we want and don't need, and then play a rousing, already competitive game of American football. I say that the game is already competitive because teams are Health trainees against Education trainees (about 26 to 45, respectively) and the Education team has had a practice. Yes. They held a practice for what will be flag football. We clearly are aching for a personal win.

What food, you might ask, could a few dozen Americans and the USG backed Peace Corps whip up for America's most orginal holiday? Turkey, roasted veggies, sweet potatoes that are purple, pies,including pumpkin, cookies, including my own chocolate chip cookies, minus the chocolate chips because I haven't found them here and chocolate is like brown gold, deviled eggs (or so the gossip claims and I am eager to believe it), Mexican flan (glad to see the majority population of California stepping up), stuffing with walnuts, and a macaroni and cheese was suggested but I think might have fallen flat. Cheese is expensive, to say the least. So it will probably be a wonderful feast followed by a less than stellar, slightly sickened game of American football on the major pitch in town where all the Mozambicans can see us run a little until we get tired because we just ate seven and a half pounds of food per person. The perfect Thanksgiving.

Here in Mozambique, though, I like to think that we give thanks every day for little things. Here are some of the things that I give thanks for lately.

1) Lack of shame. The other day I was taking my morning constitutional, or run, and ahead of me a woman was walking. Nothing new. Even though I run relatively early in the morning (around 5am usually), it isn't that early in Moz. This woman, though, veered off a little to the side of the walkway, lifted her capelana skirt to about mid-thigh, firmly planted her feet a little over shoulder-width apart, and proceeded to urinate. As a health worker, knowing that last year cholera was all the rage, I was a little wary. But, urine is sterile, very few things can be passed through it. Blood, yes, but that's rare. Schistosomosis parasite? Well, yes technically. But unless she peed in a puddle and that puddle had a specific type of snail and then a person bathed in that puddle, it is ok. And the runner in me said, Heck yeah. Do it. You have to pee, pee. In Moz, there aren't public toilets. I take that back. I know of one, and that is in the Maputo shopping mall. I would argue that she probably couldn't hold it all the way to Maputo, nor should she. I especially liked that she didn't look around, didn't make sure nobody was coming. I know that, because if she had, I wouldn't have seen her. I was coming. So I applaud her style and am thankful for her lack of shame. Because when it comes down to it, what's a little public urination?
2) The English Language. This is because the other day I was spending a little quality time with my family, and we were all enjoying the riveting (and these days I'm not joking anymore) Brazilian telenovela, Parar Paralelo (yes, I know the title now). It has been unseasonable cold and seasonably rainy lately, so in order to warm up a little, and because she's so darn cute, I got little Mae to sit on my lap. All was right in the world for those warmer, adorable moments until. Until Mae looked at me with her devilish smile, stuck her chubby little middle finger up, and, after clearly rehearsing in her head, said the words that usually go along with just such a hand gesture. I was shocked! She's three! And it was perfect, clear English! So I told her those were bad words and it was bad to do that. She looked a little self-conscious, and I briefly congratulated myself on undoing what some naughty kid or teen did to her sweet brain. Until she did it again. My sense of morality made me feel like she should be punished a little. So I made her get off my lap. Which actually punished me more than her, since she just went to bed where it was warm under several blankets, and I was left to try to explain why I just banished the three year old from my lap. So thank you to English, for being so popular in Moz that one of the few phrases a school kid learns is so offensive, and for being easy enough for a three year old to perfectly enunciate such shocking words.
3) Knowledge. So this is a broad thing to be thankful of, so I will narrow it down for you. I believe it is (or should be) well known that when a person has a latrine outside, it is not recommended or fun to use the latrine at night. That is why someone very nice and wise and thinking ahead thought to invent the xi-xi (pronounced she-she) bucket, which is a bucket slightly filled with clean water in one's bedroom that you pee in at night. And sometimes in the morning when technically it's light and easy to use the latrine, but maybe you want to just lay in bed a little because it's Sunday and just read and you don't feel like walking the approximately fifteen feet from your room to the latrine. So xi-xi buckets are wonderful, and sometimes the hottest topic PCT's have to talk about. That being said, it had come to the attention of a few PCT's that their family, with a less buckets available than desirable, use the same bucket for several functions. Like for xi-xi, and then also for mopping the floor. Or, for those unfortunate PCT's, for xi-xi, and then bathing. I counted myself as lucky that my family only multi-tasked the xi-xi specific bucket for mopping. Until a little knowledge stepped in. Since Little Mae is only three, it is hard for her to use a tall bucket at night. Which is why their xi-xi bucket consists of one tall one within a wide, squat one. And I just noticed this the other day. That pee actually goes in the wide one. This makes sense, but I never thought of it probably because I never wanted to think of it. Because that wide bucket is what we use to bathe. Which is probably why my family insists on rinsing buckets out all the time before use. Sadly, we have no cleaner to clean the actual bucket in between functions. So I am now thankful that I know this, because from then on I have been extra careful to keep my eyes and mouth shut when I bathe.

A quick shoutout to my Mamá, who started singing in a group and won the local talent contest last night. Grand prize? A rather chique capelana. Parabéns (congratulations)!

So this is all for now. This week is a full week. I am leading my practicum session, which is going to teach kids about nose-blowing and hand-washing. Then a trip to an orphanage, followed the next day by site placement and Thanksgiving, followed by real Thanksgiving. I am sure I'll be writing again soon, with so much excitement on the horizon. Until then, I'll give you this tip.

If you're a Portuguese speaking man and want my attention, it is not to your advantage to yell across two lanes of traffic “Whitey! Whitey! Whitey! Whitey!”.

And no, in this case persistence does not pay off.