Confectionary Torture, or, "Any Peace Corps Volunteer Who Has No Tale of a Salivating Food Dream Is a Big Fat Liar."

Once upon a time, there was a girl who always took Dairy Queen for granted. Now, she lives in Africa and would do just about anything for something involving chocolate, fudge or a brownie. The end.

I Don't Need No Sixth Sense When These Five Are Treatin Me Just Fine

I watched the moonrise tonight. It was well before any of you in the Northern Hemisphere will have seen her. I know when to step out onto my veranda to watch-and it begins when the sun has descended beyond the hut-peppered horizon, leaving in its wake a pure, diluted orange that bleeds almost immediately into a watery sky blue. Tonight in our first encounter she took me by surprise, what with her sheer brillance and audacity, ascending the opposite horizon and overtaking any tree who served to obstruct her view. On my porch in the dark, before I'd turned on any lights, I wanted to be alone with the moon and her greeting of the night. I focused and I focused. I focused so hard that it was as if I was willing her to speak. Don't focus on the Tanzanian pop blasting a few doors down, I said to myself. Don't think about the fact that your butt aches on this chair. Don't listen to that ear-splitting child's scream next door. Don't worry about what you'll make for dinner tonight, I thought. This was the only quiet part of my day, and in a land in which I am a local celebrity by virtue of my skin color, the only spotlight I wanted was what the moon had been providing. I focused so hard that it was if the rest of the world had been reduced to sepia tones, flickering as a whole in and out of my peripheral vision and hers was the only color I saw. A light yellow, so vague that it was just a notch below white on the dial you'd use to alter hues on MS Paint. It was the identical twin of the non-threatening yellow of a baby chicken trailing behind its mother, if in fact this chick was...glowing. Indeed I wanted to make this conversation with my celestial friend last all evening, but as the pain in my behind continued in spite of re-positioning and the hollows of my stomach caused it to rumble and moan, I chose to say farewell, knowing that fortunately such circumstances of simple beauty happen at an increasing rate here. Everything just seems so much more vivid in Africa. I don't know if it's the sun seemingly being closer to Earth here or the heat that amplifies, but every one of my senses has gone into overdrive. It's as though my maker has opened the file Saraslife.jpg into photoshop and turned up the saturation to 90. Fine by me! The ocean is blinding in an incandescent field of diamonds as I pass by on the bus. On Sundays when I stand in it out by the jagged rocks housing white egrets, the sea-glass enriched sand below seems encased in a gelatinous mold tinted in very obvious turquoise up to the very top. The rooster that wakes me each dawn has feathers so reflective of indigo, rusted orange and deep forest green that it makes me almost not want to despise it. When I trek from neighborhood to neighborhood, the pungent scent of lives lived stacked on top of one another pervades my nose and it's only after I bypass the grease-burned streetfood and mushy bananas for the unsanitary smells of poverty and squalor that I wish the dial could be turned down a tad. But the hyper-saturation is incessant and mercilessly doesn't stop with my nose or eyes. The throbbing in my legs and the fuzziness in my mouth after a non-stop day of doing home visits is only overshadowed by the burning, raw and tight sensation felt on my reddened face and arms. All is washed away however, once taking a shower in what I deem each time as The Best Shower of My Life. Each day I walk home in a box of 200 fully-sharpened Crayola crayons where Cerulean glistens to my left and my feet are covered in Burnt Sienna. But it's all ok because tonight I'll have a chat with the moon.

Little Big World

It's not something I love to talk about with people, though I'm sure it could have easily been deciphered by the naked ear back then. I was unhappy (to say the least), positively homesick to the point of hopelessness and in an entirely distraught frame of mind during training. That's not to say that Pre-service Training life was awful, simply that I was too buried in a proverbial pile of poo to grasp the beauty of what was blossoming around me. In turn, because of how difficult the conception of my Mozambican life was, I found it too jarring to cope with my last visit to Maputo. I had partaken in a stakeholder's workshop last month and as was waiting for my return flight, standing over the tarmac watching the sun fall behind the horizon and my plane to arrive, I lost it. It was at that spot ten months ago that my haggard self initially stepped onto African soil and the memory of how terrified and unsure I truly was all came flooding back to me. That was last month. This month, I was back in Maputo again for PSN (Peer Support Network) training and, well, life has this uncanny ability to surprise me sometimes. Several days ago, I found myself walking from the hotel/conference center to the Peace Corps office, never having done it before. I was getting hit by the wind from the bay and a little sweaty from the walk up the hill. A cluster of high-rises clung to the cliffs up ahead and I could see them as I walked past the UNHCR complex and the German Embassy. I stopped, mid-stride, and probably confused bystanders. "Holy crap, I've come a long way." I was a tiny girl engulfed in a cement jungle, but for that brief treck ascending the ramp to Av. Julius Nyere from Avenida Marginal, I was a grown-up. I owned that quadrant of the capital if not for eternity than for at least the 20 minutes it took to arrive at Point B. But what I own for much longer is redemption for the anguish I had so heartily felt months and months ago. Whew, now that that's outta the way, let's chat a bit about recent happenings, shall we? As I mentioned earlier, I was chosen to be a PSN member, meaning I'm a go-to gal for fellow volunteers needing a shoulder to cry on or important life advice such as how to cook rice or what the protocol is for not giving away phone numbers to strangers. There's a great group of people doing it this year, now if only that damn fiber optic cable under the ocean would fix itself, calling will be a cinch. Speaking of the ocean, I live right by one, remember? Well, with that comes much unpredictability. Like whales. And sometimes they beach themselves next to resort hotels. Yes, last week Pemba had its very own behemoth wash up on shore, only to be greeted by what was described to me as a swarm of locals wanting a piece of it. I was not here to see it, but I believe it was already DOA. I was also told that not a single piece of bone remained while the blubber and meat were still being divided and parceled out. Whale bones have many magical and curative properties, so my guess is that the traditional medicine men snatched them up quickly. How crazy! A beached whale down the road from me! In other news, we in country are all so very excited for the new batch of trainees to come in October, as well as mark our one year anniversary of arrival here in the 'Bique. Also crazy, to think of having been here one whole year, huh?

If I Knew Then What I Know Now

I have no concept of time here. It seems like just yesterday that I arrived in Pemba, yet I’ve been here SEVEN months. Crazy, no é? I suppose that in those months since I’ve arrived I have gained one or two precious nuggets of wisdom, of which I hope to impart upon the next batch of trainees who are just receiving their invitation packets.
It was an early August day in 2009 when I came home from a long day of work and went to get the mail. Upon opening the front door, I saw a hefty blue package awaiting my arrival. I thought, “Could this be it?” Indeed, I tore it open and the first thing I laid eyes on was the word MOZAMBIQUE in bold. Ecstatic, I jumped up and down and proceeded to sing from the rooftops. Suddenly the lights went down, a top hat appeared on my head and a spotlight shone over my body. Friends, family, neighbors, passersby, Peace Corps staff members and neighborhood dogs paraded onto the stage as we harmoniously sang the opening tune “Africa, Here I Come (& I’m Perfectly Fine With It).”
Wait, my life isn’t a musical? Ah, yes, that’s right-I WAS A NERVOUS WRECK. I cried. I sobbed. I panicked. I overate. I underslept. And to top it off, perhaps my least favorite task in the world (aside from getting my oil changed) is PACKING. Getting stuff together simply for a weekend at home during college was hard enough, how would I even conceivably pack for two whole years in under 80lbs? Well, thankfully much of my packing list was composed from reading other blogs from PCVs that were already in country. I was able to maintain (for the most part) my sanity and, with the help of my mom, was able to zip up my suitcase.
And so, Moz 15 Trainees, congratulations! Parabens! Bemvindo a Moçambique! I am here to help you in your packing endeavors (among other things) and without further ado, I would like to present to you the “If I Knew Then What I Know Now” Packing List:
• Sewing kit. I picked up a $3 kit from a craft store and I have pulled it out more times than I can count, not only in training, but at site as well. You’ll never know what needs fixing, and think of all the lifelong friendships you’ll make just by being the girl/boy who fixes other trainee’s clothes! Also, definitely bring nylon thread, or quilting thread, as it is much more durable and you may need it to fix tents/mosquito nets.
• Dramamine. It’s just a nice thing to have for the plane ride over here or the innumerable chapa rides you’ll be taking over the next two years.
• Comfy (not necessarily fashionable) footwear. Let’s be honest, the shoes I wear here I would never wear at home, but my Chacos and my Tevas are lifesavers on impossibly rocky terrain. Bring shoes to work out in, go out in and chill out in.
• Pictures, pictures, pictures! Of your loved ones. You’ll want to tack them all over your walls and see people who love you everyday.
• Sticky tack or tape. To hang up the aforementioned photos.
• Journals. You may not be a journal-keeper at home, but here there are things that you’ll never know how to articulate and writing it down can be the best thing for you.
• Underwear (and bras). Bring a TON. Good quality ones that you like. Underwear is easy to find here…if you’re a size 2 or like granny panties. And if you are, well, more power to you.
• Tons of pens. I love blue clicky ones. You’re going to be taking a lot of notes during training, and in a place where a printer is hardly ever around, you’re going to be writing things out a lot. The pens here are awful, bring good ones and don’t let anyone borrow them because you’ll never see them again.
• Spiral notebooks. For anything and everything.
• World maps. For decorating your house, for showing your host siblings that you cannot drive to America, and for showing your colleagues that Europe is not on the California coastline.
• Deodorant and razors. Deodorant is spray-on or roll-on here. Razors are disposable. You decide.
• Books, books, books! You’re going to have a lot of downtime here, so whether you’re waiting for a meeting to start (3 hours late) or taking a 7-hour bus ride, books are lovely things. I wish I would have filled up my two year bag* with much, much more than I did, but I came with 3 books and was able to swap them with other trainees. And, another suggestion, bring books on subjects that you’re even slightly interested in, because like I said, there’s a lot of downtime here. Why not becoming well-versed in quantum physics or the lifecycle of a bumblebee?
• Addresses of everyone you know, along with envelopes.
• Electric thermometer. It’s just easier to take your temp than the normal mercury one given to us by PCMO. That way, when you have a fever, you’ll be one step closer to knowing if you have malaria.
• Clothes, clothes and more clothes. My favorite quote from another PCV’s blog last year was “Africa is where clothes come to die.” It’s unfortunately very, very true. There are no washing machines here. Your clothes will get holes from hand-washing as well as stretch out. And please, just forget about white. It’s not meant to be. Bring darker to medium dark clothes because unless you have exquisite clothes washing abilities (which Mozambicans acquire at birth) you’re not going to be able to get that mud stain out so it’s best just to hide it.
• Ziplock bags of all sizes. These you will use, trust me.
• Twine, rope. It can come in handy for clotheslines, jump rope, etc.
• Clothes hangars. You probably won’t have dresser drawers….or a dresser.
• iPod speakers. Sometimes listening to a Beyonce song 13 times in a row gets old, and you’ll want to drown out your neighbors with your own music.
• EARPLUGS. A must-have. The only days you’ll have to sleep in during training are Sundays, and how wonderful it would be if the chickens, goats, sound systems and neighbors didn’t start their days at sunrise.
• Diversions. Depending on who you are, this could include anything from knitting needles and yarn, beads and hemp, travel-size games to pass the time at training, movies, TV on DVD, podcasts, audiobooks, magazines, etc.
• Host family presents. Yikes. This is quite ambiguous. You don’t know if you’re going to have a house full of kids, one host mom, 5 teenage brothers, or anything yet. Use your imagination and be creative in what you can buy that you could share with all ages and many people. I brought American candy, a snow-globe of Cleveland (they LOVED this, oh and PS don’t put this in your carry-on bag…). Later on during training I bought some things from when I went on site-visit to give my family. The trick is to bring them something that is not from where they are.
• Hygiene/Makeup needs that you can’t live without. That deep pore-cleansing face wash, pomegranate/apple bodywash with soothing micro-beads, mocha brown eyeshadow, sensitive skin after shave lotion, yadda yadda yadda. You can either bring enough for two years or use bar soap and work on your integration by smelling like everyone else! ☺
• Bobby pins, bandanas, hair ties, headbands. Your hair is going to be crazy wild and frizzy. Bring whatever you can to tame it. Oh yeah, mousse or gel, too.
• Luggage locks. Go to Target and get the ones that are TSA approved and get like 5 or 6 of them. They can be used during the flight over here as well as trips into big cities (where pick pocketers are everywhere) and when combined with luggage, can serve as a sort of makeshift safe for valuables at site.
• Sunglasses. Duh. Oh, but don’t sit on them. You should probably bring more than one pair.
• Nail clippers and tweezers.
• Planner/Agenda. This is a nice way to show your colleagues that you are nice and organized when you arrive to their organization and have come to do organizational development.
• Backpack(s), Purses, Duffle bags. It’s nice to have a backpack for using during training, and a decent sized one to use for going on weekend trips. I’d say bring 2 or 3-it’s just nice to have some variety and options for whatever your plans are.
• Portuguese-English Dictionary. They gave us one in training, but still, it’s nice to have more than one. Also, bring a regular English dictionary. You just never know.
• Bughut! This is a tiny one-person tent type of thing that you can get from REI (online) that functions as a portable mosquito net. I lend mine to all the PCVs that come visit me so I don’t have to hang up a net for them.
• Lonely Planet Mozambique. This will be really helpful to you if you want to plan a weekend (or longer) getaway and want to know the best (and cheapest) places to go in Moz.
-Flash drives. With big capacity. I have 3, and I would have brought more.

*You may not know it yet, but the Peace Corps will ask you to pack two bags. One is the bag that you’ll use during training and the other will be placed in storage for those ten weeks and given to you when you get to site. Pack accordingly!

Ok, Moz 15ers, best of luck to you! That’s all I could come up with for now. If you need any more help or advice on packing, preparing, etc please email me. I am a health volunteer, so if you have any questions about that, feel free to ask as well. My email address is valeksara@gmail.com or you can find me on Facebook. Breath, hug your mom, savor your last local pizza and I’ll see you soon!

Oh, hey there. It's been awhile.

There's a nice little spot in the corner of my porch that I like sitting on and watch the world go by. Last night at dusk I saw a figure rounding the corner with water jugs in hand. Lagging shortly behind was a much smaller, tinier being, also with the jugs. "Sara, you're all alone here on your veranda, what are you doing?" said my neighbor's husband with little Mariama standing beside him. Oh, just thinking, I replied. When asked about what I simply said, "life." In reality I was actually thinking about what to write about for my next blog entry, though I could never satisfactorily explain what a "blog" is, let alone the internet itself. I've been teaching a lot of people here to use a computer, and it's much like teaching an elderly person how to double-click, or highlight a word-they've simply never been exposed to this sort of technology before. But they're learning and learning quickly. Anyways, aside from unintended ageism (I love you, Nona!), I guess what has been guiding my thoughts lately is a certain class I took my sophomore year of college about various Eastern philosophies and religions. The professor was perhaps one of the most pretentious people I'd ever met, and almost rightfully so-he could sit atop the desk for the 2 hour class and recite ancient texts verbatim as well as recall dates and names that would take me at least a quarter to learn how to pronounce. Buddhism, Sikhism, Taoism, the Upanishads, it was all there for absorbing. And absorb I did. But what most intrigued me was the manner in which this professor could take the basic raw ideas of these non-western concepts-karma, moksha, samsara- and dissect them, piecing them back together by forcing us to apply them to context of our own lives. "Raise your hand if you would rather be somewhere else right now, honestly," he said. We all did, save for the one or two students who are either truly enlightened or truly brown-nosing. One guy said he'd rather be back in Hong Kong. Another said drinking a beer with his buddies. One girl said with her boyfriend. I couldn't really come up with an answer that made me sound interesting (my real response was probably to be back in my dorm room knitting or something) so I was glad when he didn't ask. His point was, why can't we be happy where we are at this very moment in time? And I've been thinking a lot about that recently because here I am in this beautiful, stunning, interesting and foreign place and all I can do is think of what's happening in the States. The shrimp are giant and juicy here, but all I want is a sandwich from Melt. The neighbors are hospitable and jubilant, but all I want are the Dowlings/Mansells. The World Cup games are riot-worthy and frenetic, but all I want are the Browns. The hardest financial decision I must make is whether to spend my savings on a TV, a refrigerator or a trip to Dar es Salaam. I wonder if wanting to be elsewhere constantly is a part of human nature, or an aspect of American culture and always wanting more. What I do know, however, is that me wanting to be home is because it's HOME. And I just really, really miss you guys. <3

Pages

Irene is singing the World Cup song. "Ooo-oo-ooo-oh-oh! Ooo-whoa-oh-oh!" Mariama is giggling with sheer delight, probably at something she shouldn't be doing. This will only serve to provoke her mother, who is busy making breakfast and nursing the baby. The smell of burning charcoal fills my room and no matter how many hundreds of times I encounter it the scent always reminds me of camping. It's 7:17 AM on a Saturday and I just can't seem to sleep anymore. Three fellow volunteers are sprawled out on straw mats in the living room and I can't wait to finish this entry to go put on a pot of tea, not only to add some lemongrass to it (of which I just discovered it growing in my garden) but to help settle my stomach. I don't believe my GI system is too pleased with me right about now, no, not after two meals of restaurant food consisting of something other than rice and cucumber. Before this all began, I was laying in bed reading a borrowed book from my literary kindred spirit Margaret, down in Angoche. It's an astute social commentary on immigrant life in New York City, Nepali nationalism in northern India and the remnants of colonialist constructs. And I love it. Which brings me to what I would like to talk about: Books are my best friends here. There. I said it. Call me a nerd if you will, but in my world, where nothing seems to make sense and people always seem to want something from me, it's awesome to come home to characters and a storyline separate from my own. That being said, as much as I love to read here, I do take for granted my fully-stocked book shelf consisting of HIV/AIDS materials, Mozambique country statistics, popular fiction, Portuguese manuals and Africanists' perspectives on development. I say this because the majority of Mozambican households do not contain a single book. Maybe a newspaper (from the one news source, run by the government), or maybe a dirty water-logged children's book from the market (that may or may not be in Portuguese, purchased by a parent that may or may not know how to read). In a country where the average person lives off of $1 or less a day and the average book costs $6 or more, it's no wonder that the written word is an ever-elusive presence here. However, I'm writing to tell you that you can help bring knowledge and resources to children and students somewhere far away. With all of the jadedness I've expressed about just throwing First World money at a Third World problem, it may seem strange to you that I'm throwing out a website address. But it's directly connected to us, those of us in communities who both know and love the people. It's www.peacecorps.gov/donate, and while I do not have any project up and running yet, I encourage you to find one that you feel passionate about and help support a volunteer's efforts (preferably in Mozambique!). Thanks! :) ...and please let me know if you do donate.

Sea Foam Hysteria

Everyday the sea is different. Indeed it seems to have its own personality full of torment and joy much like myself. And I've never grown up next to an ocean before-I don't know why they do the things they do. Why is it that some afternoons the shore seems to stretch all the way out to the horizon when other days the waves crash all the way up to the beach restaurants? And what makes it the color of a navy cadet's uniform one day but the next it's as blue as the sky? Why do piles of pink jellyfish scatter the shore in December but not May? I find myself both confused and in awe of this massive being three minutes beyond my front door. My fascination, and later my regretful misunderstanding, reached a new height today as I could barely wait to come home from town, race to my favorite secluded spot and dive in. I like being in the water. It's quiet-there's no awful club music or 80s adult contemporary blasting in my ear. It's solitary-there's no one to make me a sales pitch on "authentic" whale bone bracelets and no one to ask me for my number. And if I get really far out, I can see almost the entire eastern side of the peninsula being illuminated by the late afternoon sun. But you see, this is where my intrigue and my ignorance clash in an awful array of private and hysterical mayhem. Do you know how quickly the tide comes in? Were you aware of the swiftness and force of which it can wash items away? Yeah, I didn't either, until, 100 yards from the coast, I watched in horror as my belongings said hello to a salty retirement in the Mozambique Channel. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE let my keys still be there!!!" I pleaded to the energies that govern that maybe in some glorious stroke of luck that my keys, my only set, would somehow be there when I eventually made it back to land. Promptly I began cursing my sedentary lifestyle and my non-Phelpsian ability to get myself to the scene of the crime to at least hunt my keys out of the pelting waves like a lunatic. Instead, I was forced into a real life scenario in which one cannot run in a dream, no matter how hard one may try. No keys. No second flip flop. And no capulana to cover up my swimming attire for the deflated walk home. Upon my return, much like usual in times of need, I headed straight for Fatima. I was quickly given capulana coverage and told that the landlord would return...sometime. I thought of how we would go about breaking down my door and how I would get the funds together to buy new locks. I thought of how out of shape I am. I thought of how I'd really like to change out of my wet swimsuit. I thought of how I might spend the night on the floor. And then I thought of dinner, and how I could not think of a better time to cook that care package specialty-mac and cheese-than today. (Iddi, the landlord did eventually show up with an extra set of keys [surprise!] and I am now resting comfortably on my bed, thinking twice about swimming tomorrow).

No Boys Allowed

She was like the incarnate of Nancy, Fairuza Balk's character in "The Craft." Her eyes were wild and her stare was almost fiendish. This diminutive being flew over to me from across the ceremony as if in a flash and grabbed onto my arm. Words both known and unfamiliar were being flung out her mouth like she was speaking Krio, the English/indigenous mix of Sierra Leone. But we weren't in Freetown and here in Nanhimbe I still didn't understand her. I wasn't sure if she was possessed by a colonial spirit or if she was drunk, but I felt that in the midst of all of this I was a member of a studio audience who'd been unwillingly selected to be embarassed publicly by the host. Don't expect me to be inside your television any primetime soon. I got invited by Fatima to an initiation ceremony for two girls who'd just reached womanhood. Some 200 ladies from all over the community showed up to celebrate their feminity and it was a beautiful event of proud solidarity-except for this spritely creature who'd pulled me out of my protective barrier of neighbor-friends to go dance. With the rythm of the drum circle and the chorus of voices it was impossible to sit still so I thought, "Yes. Let's dance and they'll surely get a kick out of the white girl attempting to shake her hips." I was guided hand in hand outside of the womens-only venue to dance in front of another band of musicians. I danced. And I swayed my hips and I shimmied, all the while reflecting on the phrase "dance like nobody's watching." But they were watching and they all seemed to be boys and men. Then I'd realized that this drunken baffoon of a woman had dragged me into the all-male portion of the ceremony and for all I knew I could be committing traditional sacriledge by being out there. If there's one thing I've learned while being here it's that making a fool of yourself is a given. If there's two things I've learned here its that and that we will never fully understand what's going on, ever. So it's best to be confused whilst in the comfort of the local women who brought you. Back into the Estrogen Tent I fled, hoping to at least make an ass of myself in front of my own gender. The rest of the ceremony went like a combination of a Fourth of July parade and a birthday party, with designated party-goers showering us with coins, matches, pins, cookies, candy and capulanas. The purpose of the ceremony takes place after all of the guests leave, however when the young girls' family elders teach them about what it means to be a woman. And I hope that they grow to realize that it is awe-some.

It Has Been Said, or "Happiness Is Not a Fish You Can Catch"...or is it?

"The meek shall inherit the earth," or so it has been said. "Meek" could have been meant to mean god-fearing, humble, simple or poor. It's anyone's guess, but I doubt that any worlds have been inherited yet by them. This blog entry is not about fresh pineapple at the market, or how blue the ocean was today or a torrential rainstorm. No, this entry is about a 42-year old grandmother named Anifa who sat on her dirt floor today showing me her empty kitchen. This is about Ana, a 56 year old Makuah woman who's spirits were high but her CD4 count was not. This is about 18 month old Juma, who playfully crawled on his grandmother while she lay in bed, unable to open her eyes from the side effects of powerful anti-retroviral treatment. This is about them because they have no other voice with which to tell their stories and it is about them because their stories need to be heard. Everyday I see a dozen NGO Range Rovers fly by, and I wonder what their results are here. Sustainability takes a long time, and that is why it's so much easier to beg for change. "If you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day. If you teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime," or so it has been said. And this rings true and this rings loudly in my mind each day. But it has also been said, "easier said than done." Sayings and anecdotes abound in the Western Workd because many of us do not really *know* the poverty of the rest of the world and it helps us to cope by saying these things. But when are we going to actually get out in the water and teach that man to fish? Are we going to watch him cast out that line into the ocean while his limbs are barely strong enough to do so? And are we going to deny him a lunch to stave off his hunger until he catches his fish because giving him a piece of bread "is not sustainable?" This rhetoric of capacity-building and permaculture and sustainable living is beautiful and well-meaning, but there are more immediate issues to be dealt with, which brings me back to Anifa, Ana and Juma. They're hungry now and they can't wait-so what are we going to do?

I Still Cliff-Note'd It

"How could it be the BEST of times AND the WORST of times...at the SAME time!?" I can recall exclaiming to no one in particular my disdain for Charles Dickens. I would complain to my 9th grade English teacher that "A Tale of Two Cities" was the bane of my existence and that no matter how vivid his description of the "rosy fingers of dawn" were, I could not fathom such an antithesis as his opening sentence. That was many years ago, and I'd like to think that Mrs. Meinke would be pleased to know that at long last I've come to appreciate the aforementioned realization. How I've come to understand the juxtaposition of the pains and joys of my daily life. Sometimes it is impossible to classify a day as "good" or "bad" when, at this emotionally strenuous time in my life, my mood shifts like the bay winds and I can cry at the drop of a hat. It's frustrating when my coworker guilts me into giving him phone credit and when another takes advantage of my typing skills to write up his curriculum vitae and neither of them says thank you. But when I see Tina jumping excitedly in her chair after she'd just learned how to copy and paste or when I see the boys outside laughing and wrestling in the sand, my earlier frustrations do not seem to matter. I've written of the rollercoaster of less than desirable events and unexpected pleasures of my life. However, I'd begun this entry citing an author's simple-yet astute-observation of a people going about their lives as best they can despite extenuating circumstances. That is what life is like here. The poor, huddling masses exist here, and no matter how many social scientists, aid/developent agencies or doctors come here to explain away the problems, the bottomline is that most Mozambicans (and indeed, most Africans) have been given the short end of the deal. I get asked for money, food and drinks on a constant basis. It can drive a girl mad. But I, like Chuck Dickens, have to come to my own realization as well-everyone's just trying to get by. Everyone's just trying to survive the worst of times by downing a few cold ones to have some best of times, and if that means asking a stranger for a few mets, so be it. I went to a lecture once in which a professor from Côte d'Ivoire responded to an audience member's question about the plight of the poor in Africa by saying, "They have a lot of joy." Well, yes, and that's evident in the hearty laughs I hear each morning, noon and night coming from my compound. But these smiles cover the worried minds that think about how to feed families and how to protect homes. Wait, is that not what every person wonders, African or not? I guess, Mr. Dickens, as much I hate to admit it, suffice to say that you stand to be right centuries after your book was written.

Gastronomie, or "How a Hotplate Can Save a Nation"

"I know some of us don't have teeth, but I do, and I want pot roast. My wife's, complete with leathery bay leaves. I want carrots, I want potatoes boiled in their skins. And I want a deep, rich cabernet sauvignon to wash it all down, not apple juice from a tin. But above all, I want corn on the cob." I don't know if you've observed from my waistline over the years, but I love food. To cook it, to serve it, to eat it. Preparing food is a spiritual quest for the perfect balance of flavors, a delicate equilibrium. There's a definate feeling of vigor I get in slaving away over a steaming pot of water or a hot plate of oil. There's a certain zen-like state I find in slicing a mountain of vegetables, meat and herbs as the stainless steel knife becomes another part of my body. There's a particular sense of accomplishment I feel when the stew has reached the right consistency or the chicken is golden brown and I can sit down to eat. This was all fine and dandy when my home was down the road from a store boasting an unfathomable array of spices, a valley of assorted world cheeses and a land mass of non-wilted produce. I'm not going to say that Mozambicans are not a fan of the culinary arts. I'm not going to say that they're uninterested in dabbling in risky cooking endeavors. I'm not going to say that, because there are restaurants here with delicious food and there are women who keep asking me to show them how to make the eggplant parmesan and seaweed salad that they liked of mine so very much. But what I will say is that I can't help but think that a revolution in food experimentation is a sign of a nation developing, a nation rising from the blood of a civil war, the ashes of a collapsed infrastructure. A people that has the resources to invest in a culinary underbelly is a people that no longer simply cooks to survive, but cooks to live. Sure, we can pray for world peace along with the Miss Americas, but what we really need is to eat, drink and be merry.

Friday Night Lights

Ok, Sara. You've let your quasi-mastery of the Portuguese language get the better of you-AGAIN. On Wednesday, when Nancy invited you to a concert by a guy named Nelson Something-er-other (which you presumably thought would be a relaxing evening of listening to Brazilian grooves), she was actually inviting you to a DISCOTECH-and you said yes. Oh, heavens. "What have I gotten myself into?," I kept asking myself as I walked to Nancy's to catch our cab. Give me torrential rain for a week, give me a rat invasion in my room, give me an 3 week ear infection, but a DISCOTECH? Being proposed to everyday on the way home is easily avoidable as I can just walk away. But willingly venturing to a location in which I'll be forced to dance with strange people with no escape route? THAT, my friends, is the true challenge. Although it would be getting in the way of the old lady plans I had to knit Irene a scarf while watching a movie and retiring early, I knew how badly Nancy wanted to go. And so I walked across the way to her house, and it all felt like dejá-vù. Entering her kitchen, I met her mother baking a cake. Further down the hall, I met her father in typical dad-short shorts watching a primetime telenovela. And walking into her room, I saw Nancy still getting dressed and looking for the perfect set of dangly earrings. I couldnt help but think that this all reminded me of something...and then finally, when riding in the back of her dad's car, I realized that I was in middle school all over again ready to go to the Friday night dance. At 13, the prospect of dancing to horrid pop music for 3 hours sounded like a barrell of fun. At 23, riding in the back of her dad's car, the prospect of dancing to horrid pop music for 3 hours sounded worse than working a full day in the hot Pemba sun. And so my anxiety peaked as we drove past the lights of the bay and I calculated how many beers I could drink with still enough money to catch a cab. It is now 13:46 the next day, and if you're wondering how my first African discotech experience went, well, the Peace Corps is about trying everything once, right?

I am the Sound

I'm sweeping my porch, or "veranda" as they call it here. Although, such a term conjures peaceful images of a shady, columned patio overgrown with ivy, not the likes of my screened-in, tiled front entrance way. It's Friday, and the neighborhood is pulsing with the frenetic activity that only a weekend could bring about. Music and telenovelas blare from each and every house-except mine. I have but a measly sound system, comprised of an iPod plugged into a miniscule set of baby speakers. O, Big Lots, you've given me quite the deal at $7.50, but I fear my music is in an uphill battle against the likes of Bryan Adams, Michael Bolton and Poder Paralelo. I'm sweeping my porch, and from out here I can't tell if the woman singing in my kitchen is Joanna Newsom or Lauryn Hill. But it's ok because the dashing, shaggy-haired protagonist just rescued the damsel from the maniacal villian on Poder Paralelo and the crowd is going wild. Cheers, clapping and similar outbursts of victory fill the night air, and I can't help but think it's the closest thing I have to Sunday afternoon football.

Yo, teach!

The Peace Corps is a learning experience. Say, for instance, it teaches me how to gracefully descend from a flatbed truck without falling on my butt in the mud, or that fresh flowers put on my table by the neighborhood children make me so happy, and that listening to the music on my iPod makes me miss home. But I've also learned that if I sit still and quietly enough on the beach, a giant crab will burst out of the sand beside me, and that with enough experimentation and ingenuity, I too can knit a hat for my neighbor's baby. Oh no, the Peace Corps experience doesn't just teach us about liking floral arrangements or the habits of local crustaceans-it teaches us about ourselves. Like, that I've always been on Mozambican time, and that sitting around all day visiting with neighbors is what I've always rather have been doing. But most of all-and please allow me this moment of weakness to be cliché-it teaches me everyday that I'm stronger than I ever thought I was... Oh, and also that scrunched up notebook paper works as an adequate substitute for toilet paper.

Oi, mama!

Mozambican women are just fabulous. There's Julieta, always donned head to toe in kapulana, ready to head to mosque. And Atija, with her freshly-picked afro, harkening back to the days when Angela Davis was a wanted woman. And then there's Fatima, working so diligently in the heat, her breasts flopping out of her sweat-drenched top while she single-handedly runs the operations of her 7-person house. Whether driving monstrous Land Cruisers through town or carrying three crates of Coke bottles on their head, these women command a certain respect unlike anything I've ever seen. Their presence is fierce, magnetic and warm. They're an army you want on your side, and I continue to be inspired by them everyday.

You Don't Know

I tend to write in the abstract-vague sentences attempting to convey aspects of whimsy and emotion. Sunsets and rainstorms are equally as beautiful here, and this you could have already guessed. Every scene, every moment is a memory of which I wish to share but when it comes down to it, many of you do not actually know what I do. So this afternoon (and boy is it a SCORCHING afternoon) I've chosen to forgo the breathy language and opt for a more cohesive explanation of my life. I live in Pemba, Cabo Delgado, a predominantly Muslim area that is also a major tourist destination. Yes, I live a ten minute walk from the Indian Ocean and a barrage of hotels and restaurants, boasting a certain semblance of American food. There are a multitude of ex-pats here, many of which I see driving in their NGO-stamped Land Rovers. But as for me, I walk. A lot. I work in two places: for a tiny, community-based org in the city (a 20 min bus ride) and a LARGE NGO (a 10 min walk). My title is Community Health Promoter, following the objectives of assisting our orgs with capacity-building inciatives as well as organizational development. My daily schedule? Make my way into town around 8 or 9 to meet my collegues for home visits to patients living with HIV/AIDS, fill out paperwork at a local hospital or attend a meeting with all 30 activists in the CBO. I normally make it home around 3 or 4 to cook.

Doodles on Driftwood

We heard the thunder rolling in, and could see the behemoth storm clouds making their way over the water. "Acho que esta a chover em Paquite agora!" I think it's raining in Paquite now! I said of the bairro both across town and across the bay. Living on Lake Erie, I'd always been told growing up that it's not safe to be by the water when the storms come in-they come in quickly and with waterspouts...I can only imagine being on the shore of the Indian Ocean when these cumulonimbus spectres moved in. So I hurried along my steadfast companions Irene, 9 and Mariama, 4 to gather up our bags of bread and mangoes and head home. Six hours later and not a single drop of rain! Having regrets about vacating the beach in vain, I was placated by the splotches of thick marigold-tinted sunlight that shown through my curtains as the rain clouds claimed the sky and brought with them the relief of an evening breeze. And let me tell you, there's nothing as sweet as stepping out on the veranda after a hot, humid Saturday of housework and letting the wind hit your face. ...That's all for now! Apologies for the short posts, but it's no fun typing on a cellphone. ;)

Goat Radar

Have you ever wanted to punch a goat in the face? I love animals, don't get me wrong. A fluffy kitty is nice, a happy go-lucky dog is fantastic. Yeah, geckos and fish and the blue swallows by the sea are neat. But really, truly I could see myself with bloody knuckles on the way to work sometime very soon. Please, dear reader, do not inform PETA of my hypothetical undertakings. You see... this goat, this loud, obnoxious yard-dweller seems to have taken it upon herself to be my very own personal alarm clock. At dawn, her vocal expressions are manifested by a barbaric, nasal ("waa-aa-aaaa") yop, incremental by three seconds or less. At mid-day or evening time, her whines are less frequent, yet are indistinguishable from the chorus of infant/toddler cry. I have not requested you, billy goat, nor would I ever, for you come with no money-back guarantee or snooze button.