I'm in the big city (it's about the size of Westwood). The only thing I want is ice cream and I can't remember the goddamn word! It's a form of hell that is ruining my day. I decided to stop in the internet cafe to distract myself.
The other day as I was coming back from basketball a little girl bursts into tears. Usually I avoid approaching and asking what's wrong because the presence of a gigantic, sallow skinned monstrosity can invoke an adrenaline-flight response in children. But this time the cause was obvious, she had lost her goats. There are goats tied to posts everywhere in my town. Sometimes for milk, mostly for eating, their screams sound eerily like the screams of children. These two goats, envigorated by their newfound freedom bounded away from the girl...and towards a group of infants!
I leapt into action, pursued the goats and saved the kids. Though I never got above a jog and in all honesty probably just saved the goats from the merciless cruelty of the stick-wilding children, I still pretended that I was a hero and that was pretty nice for a couple of minutes. I returned the goats to the girl and promptly realized how strange this all was.
And it's stories like these that make my life sound exciting.
My English theatre group is starting, and being in charge of the creativity of a bunch of students is intimidating. I've never done anything like this before, I have no idea what activities would be good or bad, or if I have the confidence to pull it off. I've summoned a professional Photojournalist to my town as well and am responsible for making a training curriculum with him for the students at my school. I feel like I'm masquerading as a responsible adult.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
World Cup South Africa
Game Day.
We have tickets to Portugal vs. North Korea. We couldn’t get tickets to the US game, but we get to see Portugal and we are hoping that North Korea gives them a good game. The walk to the stadium is electrifying, going from one side of Cape Town to the other, a crowd of 70,000 people. The vuvuzela, the noisy trumpet-like device is spewing its celebratory noise pollution into the air. Bands are playing, men on stilts lope by, the scent of South African sausages. Portugal fans are out in force, and their colors are everywhere. But we pass Dutch fans clad in orange, English fans in their colors, and an entire family dressed to the nines in Mexican colors with each member down to the women and children wearing fake bushy black moustaches. I am wearing my jacket, USA emblazoned across the back.
There isn’t a single North Korea fan in sight, and I didn’t see one my entire time in Cape Town.
I’m just hoping for a good game.
At half its 1-0. North Korea is being outplayed, but there’s plenty of time for a turnaround. But into the second half Portugal scores. I’m buying a hot dog at the time and run out onto a balcony. The stadium explodes. The noise from the cheers hits me like a shockwave. I run back to my seat, my skin tingling with excitement.
Two minutes later Portugal scores again. 3-0. Two minutes after that they score again. 4-0. The crowd is going ballistic. “POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL!” cheers are so loud that you can’t even shout over them. You can feel them reverberating in your seat. You can feel them reverberating in your skull. Everyone around me is freaking out, screaming and jumping. We don’t want a good game anymore, we don’t want North Korea to make a spectacular comeback. We want blood. We want slaughter. We want magnificent soccer gods to rain down their athletic dominance on their puny foes like thunderbolts, to annihilate, to demean.
The crowd refuses to sit down now. Blood is in the water and the Portuguese players know it. They are suddenly invincible, penetrating the defense with playful ease. A shot goes off the crossbar, the crowd in union shouts “Oh!” in disappointment. But minutes later they score again. And again. And again. On the final goal Cristiano Ronaldo juggles the ball off of his own back, over his shoulder, and fires into the goal—the ball never toughing the ground. 7-0. Slaughter, annihilation, everything we wanted. A spectacle. The most goals scored so far in the tournament in one game, all of them scored by one team.
“POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL!”
Cape Town was amazing. Every day we would pass groups of orange clad Dutch, heckling English, Japanese fans all in blue. We watched the US beat Algeria in a bar that was packed wall to wall with Americans. Climbed Table Mountain, went to the Cape of Good Hope (saw penguins, baboons), navigated some hangovers, ran myself to ragged. One of the best vacations I have ever had.
We have tickets to Portugal vs. North Korea. We couldn’t get tickets to the US game, but we get to see Portugal and we are hoping that North Korea gives them a good game. The walk to the stadium is electrifying, going from one side of Cape Town to the other, a crowd of 70,000 people. The vuvuzela, the noisy trumpet-like device is spewing its celebratory noise pollution into the air. Bands are playing, men on stilts lope by, the scent of South African sausages. Portugal fans are out in force, and their colors are everywhere. But we pass Dutch fans clad in orange, English fans in their colors, and an entire family dressed to the nines in Mexican colors with each member down to the women and children wearing fake bushy black moustaches. I am wearing my jacket, USA emblazoned across the back.
There isn’t a single North Korea fan in sight, and I didn’t see one my entire time in Cape Town.
I’m just hoping for a good game.
At half its 1-0. North Korea is being outplayed, but there’s plenty of time for a turnaround. But into the second half Portugal scores. I’m buying a hot dog at the time and run out onto a balcony. The stadium explodes. The noise from the cheers hits me like a shockwave. I run back to my seat, my skin tingling with excitement.
Two minutes later Portugal scores again. 3-0. Two minutes after that they score again. 4-0. The crowd is going ballistic. “POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL!” cheers are so loud that you can’t even shout over them. You can feel them reverberating in your seat. You can feel them reverberating in your skull. Everyone around me is freaking out, screaming and jumping. We don’t want a good game anymore, we don’t want North Korea to make a spectacular comeback. We want blood. We want slaughter. We want magnificent soccer gods to rain down their athletic dominance on their puny foes like thunderbolts, to annihilate, to demean.
The crowd refuses to sit down now. Blood is in the water and the Portuguese players know it. They are suddenly invincible, penetrating the defense with playful ease. A shot goes off the crossbar, the crowd in union shouts “Oh!” in disappointment. But minutes later they score again. And again. And again. On the final goal Cristiano Ronaldo juggles the ball off of his own back, over his shoulder, and fires into the goal—the ball never toughing the ground. 7-0. Slaughter, annihilation, everything we wanted. A spectacle. The most goals scored so far in the tournament in one game, all of them scored by one team.
“POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL! POR TU GAL!”
Cape Town was amazing. Every day we would pass groups of orange clad Dutch, heckling English, Japanese fans all in blue. We watched the US beat Algeria in a bar that was packed wall to wall with Americans. Climbed Table Mountain, went to the Cape of Good Hope (saw penguins, baboons), navigated some hangovers, ran myself to ragged. One of the best vacations I have ever had.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Technology Magic, or Microsoft as Cultural Capital, or How I did One Week’s Work in Two Hours
Our school is extremely fortunate to have several working computers that the students can use for a computer class. Needless to say this is very rare in my part of moz. The students learn computer basics, from how to turn it on to word processing and eventually to programs like Excel.
I happened to be in the computer classroom the other day to use the school’s internet connection, when the computer teacher asked me out of the blue to teach a class on Microsoft Publisher.
Why would this teacher randomly ask me to teach this class? Best guess on my end is that she didn’t know how to use Publisher herself. But the problem is that I don’t technically know how to use Publisher either. In fact, before this class I had never used Publisher, never even opened the program.
But Publisher is a Microsoft office product. With this fact as my sidearm I opened up publisher in a student’s computer and glanced through the menus. I knew vaguely that publisher is for designing newsletters, ads and so forth, I figured there would be an option for adding graphics that were ready-made. Other than that it looked and handled more or less like any other Microsoft product. I agreed to teach the class.
And I taught a two hour lesson on how to use this program. Besides some holes in my Portuguese, it went quite well.
One is tempted (or maybe just I’m tempted) to say, “Wow! Colin you are amazing!” But that assertion is dulled by the fact that I just learned the other day that in Microsoft Excel you can create equations to calculate averages and stuff for gigantic lists of numbers, such that Microsoft Excel will calculate and organize the equations for you, forever cementing Microsoft Excel with microwave ovens, wireless internet, and helicopters in the technological category known as “magic.” I figured out excel could do this literally two days ago, obviously no computer whiz.
So then what’s the deal? Two things: the first and most important was that these kids did not have a better option than me. Secondly just being an American these days—especially one familiar with Microsoft products—is a cultural kind of capital, one that I never went out of my way to learn, one that we just have.
* * *
All week long our work hours have been devoted to grading and inputting grades Because the school’s operations are not computerized, grades must be inputted into certain books and grade sheets in very carefully defined ways. First you write them in pencil in your caderneta (your personal grade recording document), then you pencil them into the grade books (these books have all the information on the students’ attendance and grades; can you imagine what would happen if someone spilled coffee on one? Or if a student decided to steal one?), then in BLUE pen you trace the grades, but not the calculated averages because those need to be double checked, then you trace over your caderneta in pen, then the grades are double checked and traced in pen, then all the grades go on a huge grade sheet called a pauta, which in turn is penciled, double checked, and then traced in pen.
No wonder we have the whole damn week to do this work! Of course I procrastinated on this work and waited until the last possible night. But all I did was input all the grades into excel and politely ask the magic calculator elf inside my computer to tell me the averages, adjust the grades if need be, and tell me the percentage of students who are passing, for a max amount of two hours of work.
So when my colleague asks me if I’m sure there are no errors, I say “of course I’m sure!” because I didn’t do the calculations, the magic calculator elf did, and he’s WAY smarter than me. Honestly what I’d like to do is just print out this document and hand it in, perfect as is. But the school’s one printer is not reserved for this kind of use, and what would they do with my one straggler gradesheet? Staple it to the side of the pauta (the gigantic final grade document) with a note explaining that these are just teacher Colin’s grades?
And that’s how I did one week’s work in two hours. I will qualify by saying it isn’t a full week even for the other teachers, in the sense of five 8-hour days. But I saved a ridiculous amount of time with a ridiculously low margin of error. Technology magic.
In one hour I leave for the world cup in South Africa. I have tickets to Portugal vs. South Korea, and who knows maybe South Korea after their Greece win will be feeling lucky enough to give Portugal a run. Don’t worry mom, I’ll take lots and lots of pictures. If you want a postcard send me your address.
I happened to be in the computer classroom the other day to use the school’s internet connection, when the computer teacher asked me out of the blue to teach a class on Microsoft Publisher.
Why would this teacher randomly ask me to teach this class? Best guess on my end is that she didn’t know how to use Publisher herself. But the problem is that I don’t technically know how to use Publisher either. In fact, before this class I had never used Publisher, never even opened the program.
But Publisher is a Microsoft office product. With this fact as my sidearm I opened up publisher in a student’s computer and glanced through the menus. I knew vaguely that publisher is for designing newsletters, ads and so forth, I figured there would be an option for adding graphics that were ready-made. Other than that it looked and handled more or less like any other Microsoft product. I agreed to teach the class.
And I taught a two hour lesson on how to use this program. Besides some holes in my Portuguese, it went quite well.
One is tempted (or maybe just I’m tempted) to say, “Wow! Colin you are amazing!” But that assertion is dulled by the fact that I just learned the other day that in Microsoft Excel you can create equations to calculate averages and stuff for gigantic lists of numbers, such that Microsoft Excel will calculate and organize the equations for you, forever cementing Microsoft Excel with microwave ovens, wireless internet, and helicopters in the technological category known as “magic.” I figured out excel could do this literally two days ago, obviously no computer whiz.
So then what’s the deal? Two things: the first and most important was that these kids did not have a better option than me. Secondly just being an American these days—especially one familiar with Microsoft products—is a cultural kind of capital, one that I never went out of my way to learn, one that we just have.
* * *
All week long our work hours have been devoted to grading and inputting grades Because the school’s operations are not computerized, grades must be inputted into certain books and grade sheets in very carefully defined ways. First you write them in pencil in your caderneta (your personal grade recording document), then you pencil them into the grade books (these books have all the information on the students’ attendance and grades; can you imagine what would happen if someone spilled coffee on one? Or if a student decided to steal one?), then in BLUE pen you trace the grades, but not the calculated averages because those need to be double checked, then you trace over your caderneta in pen, then the grades are double checked and traced in pen, then all the grades go on a huge grade sheet called a pauta, which in turn is penciled, double checked, and then traced in pen.
No wonder we have the whole damn week to do this work! Of course I procrastinated on this work and waited until the last possible night. But all I did was input all the grades into excel and politely ask the magic calculator elf inside my computer to tell me the averages, adjust the grades if need be, and tell me the percentage of students who are passing, for a max amount of two hours of work.
So when my colleague asks me if I’m sure there are no errors, I say “of course I’m sure!” because I didn’t do the calculations, the magic calculator elf did, and he’s WAY smarter than me. Honestly what I’d like to do is just print out this document and hand it in, perfect as is. But the school’s one printer is not reserved for this kind of use, and what would they do with my one straggler gradesheet? Staple it to the side of the pauta (the gigantic final grade document) with a note explaining that these are just teacher Colin’s grades?
And that’s how I did one week’s work in two hours. I will qualify by saying it isn’t a full week even for the other teachers, in the sense of five 8-hour days. But I saved a ridiculous amount of time with a ridiculously low margin of error. Technology magic.
In one hour I leave for the world cup in South Africa. I have tickets to Portugal vs. South Korea, and who knows maybe South Korea after their Greece win will be feeling lucky enough to give Portugal a run. Don’t worry mom, I’ll take lots and lots of pictures. If you want a postcard send me your address.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Tales
As I write this Munch sits in my jacket with his head poking out, watching my fingers dance over the keys. I don't think it's cold yet, but he only weighs 3 pounds, so this is our nightly routine.
I was walking back to school from lunch when I ran into a student of mine. She is one of my best students, one I probably give too much slack because of it. Our conversation was very basic. I asked about her family. Her mother lives in a village a few hours away, she gets to see her on the weekends. “What about your dad?” I asked.
“He lives here.” She said.
“Oh that’s nice, do you live with him?”
“No. My dad never wanted me since my mother was pregnant with me. He never spoke to me as I grew up. Now that I am older he wants me, but now I do not want him,” was her calm reply.
“Oh,” was mine.
Celeste is one of the women at school. She’s is the oldest, and is very much our mother figure. She is the woman who rounded everyone up on my birthday and insisted we celebrate. Celeste attended my English class for my coworkers and was one of the first people to openly welcome me.
She works more hours than anyone else, by a long shot. Almost forty hours of classes, which is a huge number. She says that she likes to work.
Celeste does not live with her husband. Apparently he began to develop some mental issues and one day left home and retreated into the mato (the Mozambican word for the bush, or the wilderness). He left Celeste and her children, and no one—including the family—heard from him for more than fifteen years. Celeste’s children are grown and she has been living alone for some time. She shows pictures of her once intact family willingly.
Last week he returned, again without warning. Celeste was beside herself, elated. She brought him around the school and introduced him to everyone. He’s living with her now.
On my way to school I often see a little boy whose name I do not know, of maybe seven years. He is mischievous, I can tell by the look in his eye, and obviously very poor. He wanders around the village alone and likes to speak Shitswa to me, probably because he is too young to know any Portuguese.
The other day I had my umbrella. It wasn’t raining anymore so it was hanging from my bag. He approached, “Uvukili ke!” (How are you?)
I saw him and drew my umbrella like a sword, “nzi vukile hante wenau!” (I’m well and how are you?)
He turned and ran, “nzi vukileyo” (I am also fine)
Ï chased him down the street, brandishing the umbrella, “eyo!” (also)
He threw his hands in the air and ran evasively, trying to dodge the umbrella’s pokey end, “uya kuehi?” (where are you going?) He asks me this same question every time we meet.
“Nzia kaia” (I’m going home) I responded as I poked him in the ribs with the umbrella.
“Ate manzico,” (until tomorrow) he said as he batted the umbrella away, still running at full bore.
“Ate manzico” I replied as I chased him down the street.
The chase went on in silence for the last 30 meters until I got home, the smile never fading from his face (or mine). I saw him again the next day and almost every day since.
One of my students, Ilorgio, stopped by my house the other day. Again, our conversation was about basic things, school and family mostly. He’s a first year in the secondary school, meaning he’s about 14 years old. He acts very mature, with a measured step and an even tone of voice, and a slow, deliberate handshake.
Ilorgio lives here in town with his family. He lives with his mother and younger brother. “That’s a very small family” I said, most Mozambican families are quite a bit larger, sharing a house with many generations and cousins.
“Yes it is. I once had another brother, but he died. In school his teacher gave the chefe (the elected class leader) permission to hit anyone that came into the class late. One day my brother came in late and the chefe hit him on the head. In the following days my brother was very sick. We took him to the hospital, and they gave him some medicine. After that he didn’t get better. We went back to the hospital, but a short time after that he died.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But in life these things happen.”
Do they? I wanted to ask him.
I have been trying to get in some hang out time with my colleagues for the last couple of months. It’s not easy, my language still has a ways to go, and making friends can sometimes take a while as it is, let alone through a cultural barrier. I had gotten some numbers, made a few calls, but nothing had come of it. Until yesterday.
A colleague texted me, about something I had mentioned a few days before about celebrating the end of our finals week. I could hardly believe it. I was on a chapa when I received the text, and by happenstance so was another of my colleagues. I showed the text to him, and sure enough we three met up, plus another colleague, for a beer at the small bar across the street.
It started a little stiff, but by the end it was all laughs. Guy time is still guy time. We talked about politics, and girls, but mostly we talked about food. I was actually getting most of the jokes, and had no problem pitching in. I had planned to be out for maybe thirty minutes, two and a half hours later I had to peel myself off. “One more beer!” They insisted, but I still had to cook before bed, so with a prolonged goodbye I walked across the street to my house. It was just what I needed.
I was walking back to school from lunch when I ran into a student of mine. She is one of my best students, one I probably give too much slack because of it. Our conversation was very basic. I asked about her family. Her mother lives in a village a few hours away, she gets to see her on the weekends. “What about your dad?” I asked.
“He lives here.” She said.
“Oh that’s nice, do you live with him?”
“No. My dad never wanted me since my mother was pregnant with me. He never spoke to me as I grew up. Now that I am older he wants me, but now I do not want him,” was her calm reply.
“Oh,” was mine.
Celeste is one of the women at school. She’s is the oldest, and is very much our mother figure. She is the woman who rounded everyone up on my birthday and insisted we celebrate. Celeste attended my English class for my coworkers and was one of the first people to openly welcome me.
She works more hours than anyone else, by a long shot. Almost forty hours of classes, which is a huge number. She says that she likes to work.
Celeste does not live with her husband. Apparently he began to develop some mental issues and one day left home and retreated into the mato (the Mozambican word for the bush, or the wilderness). He left Celeste and her children, and no one—including the family—heard from him for more than fifteen years. Celeste’s children are grown and she has been living alone for some time. She shows pictures of her once intact family willingly.
Last week he returned, again without warning. Celeste was beside herself, elated. She brought him around the school and introduced him to everyone. He’s living with her now.
On my way to school I often see a little boy whose name I do not know, of maybe seven years. He is mischievous, I can tell by the look in his eye, and obviously very poor. He wanders around the village alone and likes to speak Shitswa to me, probably because he is too young to know any Portuguese.
The other day I had my umbrella. It wasn’t raining anymore so it was hanging from my bag. He approached, “Uvukili ke!” (How are you?)
I saw him and drew my umbrella like a sword, “nzi vukile hante wenau!” (I’m well and how are you?)
He turned and ran, “nzi vukileyo” (I am also fine)
Ï chased him down the street, brandishing the umbrella, “eyo!” (also)
He threw his hands in the air and ran evasively, trying to dodge the umbrella’s pokey end, “uya kuehi?” (where are you going?) He asks me this same question every time we meet.
“Nzia kaia” (I’m going home) I responded as I poked him in the ribs with the umbrella.
“Ate manzico,” (until tomorrow) he said as he batted the umbrella away, still running at full bore.
“Ate manzico” I replied as I chased him down the street.
The chase went on in silence for the last 30 meters until I got home, the smile never fading from his face (or mine). I saw him again the next day and almost every day since.
One of my students, Ilorgio, stopped by my house the other day. Again, our conversation was about basic things, school and family mostly. He’s a first year in the secondary school, meaning he’s about 14 years old. He acts very mature, with a measured step and an even tone of voice, and a slow, deliberate handshake.
Ilorgio lives here in town with his family. He lives with his mother and younger brother. “That’s a very small family” I said, most Mozambican families are quite a bit larger, sharing a house with many generations and cousins.
“Yes it is. I once had another brother, but he died. In school his teacher gave the chefe (the elected class leader) permission to hit anyone that came into the class late. One day my brother came in late and the chefe hit him on the head. In the following days my brother was very sick. We took him to the hospital, and they gave him some medicine. After that he didn’t get better. We went back to the hospital, but a short time after that he died.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But in life these things happen.”
Do they? I wanted to ask him.
I have been trying to get in some hang out time with my colleagues for the last couple of months. It’s not easy, my language still has a ways to go, and making friends can sometimes take a while as it is, let alone through a cultural barrier. I had gotten some numbers, made a few calls, but nothing had come of it. Until yesterday.
A colleague texted me, about something I had mentioned a few days before about celebrating the end of our finals week. I could hardly believe it. I was on a chapa when I received the text, and by happenstance so was another of my colleagues. I showed the text to him, and sure enough we three met up, plus another colleague, for a beer at the small bar across the street.
It started a little stiff, but by the end it was all laughs. Guy time is still guy time. We talked about politics, and girls, but mostly we talked about food. I was actually getting most of the jokes, and had no problem pitching in. I had planned to be out for maybe thirty minutes, two and a half hours later I had to peel myself off. “One more beer!” They insisted, but I still had to cook before bed, so with a prolonged goodbye I walked across the street to my house. It was just what I needed.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Munch continues his endless, fierce and exhausting war with my shoelaces. To his credit he never relents, dodging back and forth, pouncing. He has spent hours hidden in a crouch a few inches from my feet, staring them down, waiting for the perfect time to strike…
23: the year of champions. The year where I shed the inadequacies of youth behind. 23 is the year I claim the mantle of manhood. Never again will I experience self doubt or weakness. My soul is now primed for the metamorphosis to blind, unencumbered perfection. Never again will I fail at anything. Ever. 23.
I was fully prepared for my birthday to pass without note. I was ready to act like it didn’t matter, to receive the requisite call from home, to sit in my house staring at the wall playing back through the Lord of The Rings trilogy in my head.
But, as it of course turns out, my birthday was not a slow dirge of despondent misery. Firstly, I didn’t know how to tell people that it was coming up, so I tried the “hello how are you tomorrow is my birthday!” approach. I did this dozens of time, blatantly and shamelessly seeking attention, and my efforts did bear fruit.
Thursday night: Italians take me out to dinner. Eight people, TEN LOBSTERS. Ten. On top of this four fish and half a chicken. I’ve been eating cold lobster leftovers for days. I was the youngest one there.
A side note, you leave college feeling old, entering the real world, this strange place that is your birthright. Looking down on your friends behind you, you get the sensation of adulthood for the first time. It’s a sobering and unforgettable type of fear that only the unknown and sharks can generate. Then you leave college, and you are younger than everyone, utterly without experience. I’m the youngest teacher at my school and younger than any of the Italians by at least five years.
On Friday I was told to buy two cases of soda for the party. Would I be reimbursed? I was assured by several colleagues that reimbursement was theoretically possible. So I brought the sodas in at the designated time and...no one showed. Well, my boss was there but we were having the party in her office. I found some colleagues and tried to keep my temper in check as I asked them why exactly I had spent a quarter of my monthly salary on @#$%ing sodas if no one was going to drink them. The party would happen, I was assured, at lunch.
At lunch no one showed. At my boiling point I considered sitting by the side of the road and selling the sodas for half price, but a kind colleague wouldn’t hear of it and summoned the others. A small party followed, I had even been bought a gift, a (cough) festive t shirt that would make any vacationing septuagenarian more than happy. And come cups, which I actually needed.
That day in class I gave out stickers and plastic spider to my students. That night I was invited over for dinner by a neighbor. This weekend I visited some Peace Corps peeps in our nearest big city.
So I hardly spent any time alone, as opposed to the dark loneliness I anticipated. I was reminded that my fledgling life here is developing, that I am on the right track, and that I still have a chance to live happily ever after. 23 is the beginning of all that, a life of victory and happiness and bounty and security and ease and puppies and candy and recognition and love and relaxation and...
23: the year of champions. The year where I shed the inadequacies of youth behind. 23 is the year I claim the mantle of manhood. Never again will I experience self doubt or weakness. My soul is now primed for the metamorphosis to blind, unencumbered perfection. Never again will I fail at anything. Ever. 23.
I was fully prepared for my birthday to pass without note. I was ready to act like it didn’t matter, to receive the requisite call from home, to sit in my house staring at the wall playing back through the Lord of The Rings trilogy in my head.
But, as it of course turns out, my birthday was not a slow dirge of despondent misery. Firstly, I didn’t know how to tell people that it was coming up, so I tried the “hello how are you tomorrow is my birthday!” approach. I did this dozens of time, blatantly and shamelessly seeking attention, and my efforts did bear fruit.
Thursday night: Italians take me out to dinner. Eight people, TEN LOBSTERS. Ten. On top of this four fish and half a chicken. I’ve been eating cold lobster leftovers for days. I was the youngest one there.
A side note, you leave college feeling old, entering the real world, this strange place that is your birthright. Looking down on your friends behind you, you get the sensation of adulthood for the first time. It’s a sobering and unforgettable type of fear that only the unknown and sharks can generate. Then you leave college, and you are younger than everyone, utterly without experience. I’m the youngest teacher at my school and younger than any of the Italians by at least five years.
On Friday I was told to buy two cases of soda for the party. Would I be reimbursed? I was assured by several colleagues that reimbursement was theoretically possible. So I brought the sodas in at the designated time and...no one showed. Well, my boss was there but we were having the party in her office. I found some colleagues and tried to keep my temper in check as I asked them why exactly I had spent a quarter of my monthly salary on @#$%ing sodas if no one was going to drink them. The party would happen, I was assured, at lunch.
At lunch no one showed. At my boiling point I considered sitting by the side of the road and selling the sodas for half price, but a kind colleague wouldn’t hear of it and summoned the others. A small party followed, I had even been bought a gift, a (cough) festive t shirt that would make any vacationing septuagenarian more than happy. And come cups, which I actually needed.
That day in class I gave out stickers and plastic spider to my students. That night I was invited over for dinner by a neighbor. This weekend I visited some Peace Corps peeps in our nearest big city.
So I hardly spent any time alone, as opposed to the dark loneliness I anticipated. I was reminded that my fledgling life here is developing, that I am on the right track, and that I still have a chance to live happily ever after. 23 is the beginning of all that, a life of victory and happiness and bounty and security and ease and puppies and candy and recognition and love and relaxation and...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Orquido
Munch is still alive. He can now fully see and can recognize me. He can run now, and is working on his pounce. Being needed by the little fluffball does bring a maternal feeling of warmth to my house. He follows me around constantly, tugs on the hem of my pants, my shoelaces, or gnaws on my arm. The only way I can really get him (or her) to calm down is to put him in my lap and play my guitar. He falls asleep instantly.
I have, on occasions when I am hungry, tired, and just need a minute to relax when I get in the door, lost my patience with Munch. I have honestly thought about killing him in fleeting moments when my patience wavered. So again, no kids for a long, long time.
Everywhere I go now, every day, people greet me in Shitswa. I know how to greet people at different times of the day (there is a different way of asking “how are you” in the morning, at midday, in the evening, and another at night) and how to buy things in the market. I know some basic vocab, how to say where I am going, stuff like that.
I also know how to say “I love you” (and conversely: I don’t love you, which I’ve actually used a few times), “you are beautiful,” and several other handy game-spitting phrases, just in case I became smitten with a Mozambican women within 100 miles of where I am now. This is all thanks to my best friend in the market, Orquido.
I’ve mentioned him before; the twenty year old with whom I sit every weekend, sometimes for hours, exchanging English for Shitswa, and answering his constant barrage of questions about America, music, and anything else that happens to cross his mind. He talks so fast he often trips over his words, as if so excited that he cannot possibly wait until they all file out one by one. He has an easy smile, a giggle that rivals only a little girl in its out and out silliness, and a kind, goofy disposition.
Without exaggeration I can say that Orquido is one of the kindest people I have met, here in Moz or otherwise. He is the type of friend you hope to have, whom everyone likes. Many a lonely night have been followed by long sits with Orquido, who complains when I am not there, such that when I enter the market on Saturdays people often say “Orquido was asking for you” before I can even get to his shop.
And two days ago, during class, my friend Jessica called me. She told me she had some bad news: that Orquido had died in his sleep the night before. The doctor is unsure of the cause of death.
I have little experience with death. I have been lucky thus far to have not lost any close family members or friends. I was and remain stunned. No warning, just like that? I am not sure how to react or what to do. I feel guilty when I find myself thinking of other things, how can my mind stray so easily? I haven’t gone to the market since, but I will go later today and visit his shop.
I don’t mean to overstate the importance we had in each others lives, just that he was a good friend. I am going to find out today is there is something I can or should do. I am generally shocked, what can I do? What can be done? I am sad, yes, but more than that I am stunned. The kind of heart stopped feeling akin to fear or awe.
My birthday is tomorrow. 23 years old. One of those “huh,” birthdays that doesn’t mean anything. Munch and I will be spending some quality time.
I have, on occasions when I am hungry, tired, and just need a minute to relax when I get in the door, lost my patience with Munch. I have honestly thought about killing him in fleeting moments when my patience wavered. So again, no kids for a long, long time.
Everywhere I go now, every day, people greet me in Shitswa. I know how to greet people at different times of the day (there is a different way of asking “how are you” in the morning, at midday, in the evening, and another at night) and how to buy things in the market. I know some basic vocab, how to say where I am going, stuff like that.
I also know how to say “I love you” (and conversely: I don’t love you, which I’ve actually used a few times), “you are beautiful,” and several other handy game-spitting phrases, just in case I became smitten with a Mozambican women within 100 miles of where I am now. This is all thanks to my best friend in the market, Orquido.
I’ve mentioned him before; the twenty year old with whom I sit every weekend, sometimes for hours, exchanging English for Shitswa, and answering his constant barrage of questions about America, music, and anything else that happens to cross his mind. He talks so fast he often trips over his words, as if so excited that he cannot possibly wait until they all file out one by one. He has an easy smile, a giggle that rivals only a little girl in its out and out silliness, and a kind, goofy disposition.
Without exaggeration I can say that Orquido is one of the kindest people I have met, here in Moz or otherwise. He is the type of friend you hope to have, whom everyone likes. Many a lonely night have been followed by long sits with Orquido, who complains when I am not there, such that when I enter the market on Saturdays people often say “Orquido was asking for you” before I can even get to his shop.
And two days ago, during class, my friend Jessica called me. She told me she had some bad news: that Orquido had died in his sleep the night before. The doctor is unsure of the cause of death.
I have little experience with death. I have been lucky thus far to have not lost any close family members or friends. I was and remain stunned. No warning, just like that? I am not sure how to react or what to do. I feel guilty when I find myself thinking of other things, how can my mind stray so easily? I haven’t gone to the market since, but I will go later today and visit his shop.
I don’t mean to overstate the importance we had in each others lives, just that he was a good friend. I am going to find out today is there is something I can or should do. I am generally shocked, what can I do? What can be done? I am sad, yes, but more than that I am stunned. The kind of heart stopped feeling akin to fear or awe.
My birthday is tomorrow. 23 years old. One of those “huh,” birthdays that doesn’t mean anything. Munch and I will be spending some quality time.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Munch
Last Tuesday night my friend Sara, an Italian aid worker who also works at my school, showed up to my house. In her hands was a bundle of fabric with a little white thing in the folds.
“Look!” she said adoringly. I didn’t know what I was looking at. “I found it on the beach, alone. I didn’t want to leave it.” It was a kitten. A tiny, tiny little kitten. “Pequeniiiiiiiiiina (veeeeery small)! I was hoping to leave it with you until I get back from Italy.”
“Sara, I can’t!” I said, “I’ve never taken care of a kitten. I don’t know how to feed it or care for it. What if it dies? I have enough going on in my life right not.”
“Ok,” Sara said sadly, “I guess I’ll go put it out on the street.” Presumambly to die a horrible, slow death freezing to death, waiting for a gigantic man-eating spider to finish it off.
And so I took it in. Such a cliché, but what was I supposed to do? That first night the little bugger, who I’ve come to call Munch, cried all night long. I gave him a box to sleep in, swathed in blankets, but he just cried and howled. The only thing that seemed to calm him was my holding him. So I held him all night. Or her. Whatever. He crawled all over and around me all night, and neither of us slept.
Now I spend every waking moment worrying that Munch is going to die. I heat up milk for it (him? Her? How can you tell with a kitten?) which it seems to like. When it fusses, which is almost always, I hold it and sometimes that calms it down. When I’m in the house it sits in a joey pouch hanging from my neck, poking its tiny little head out and looking around with its little black eyes. Is it healthy? Should I be looking for medication for parasites? Or fleas? How old is Munch? Does it miss its mom? Am I going to come home after class one day to find my little Munchkin dead on the floor?
This experience has made me decide to put off parenting indefinitely.
My birthday is coming up. I don’t know what I should do to celebrate.
“Look!” she said adoringly. I didn’t know what I was looking at. “I found it on the beach, alone. I didn’t want to leave it.” It was a kitten. A tiny, tiny little kitten. “Pequeniiiiiiiiiina (veeeeery small)! I was hoping to leave it with you until I get back from Italy.”
“Sara, I can’t!” I said, “I’ve never taken care of a kitten. I don’t know how to feed it or care for it. What if it dies? I have enough going on in my life right not.”
“Ok,” Sara said sadly, “I guess I’ll go put it out on the street.” Presumambly to die a horrible, slow death freezing to death, waiting for a gigantic man-eating spider to finish it off.
And so I took it in. Such a cliché, but what was I supposed to do? That first night the little bugger, who I’ve come to call Munch, cried all night long. I gave him a box to sleep in, swathed in blankets, but he just cried and howled. The only thing that seemed to calm him was my holding him. So I held him all night. Or her. Whatever. He crawled all over and around me all night, and neither of us slept.
Now I spend every waking moment worrying that Munch is going to die. I heat up milk for it (him? Her? How can you tell with a kitten?) which it seems to like. When it fusses, which is almost always, I hold it and sometimes that calms it down. When I’m in the house it sits in a joey pouch hanging from my neck, poking its tiny little head out and looking around with its little black eyes. Is it healthy? Should I be looking for medication for parasites? Or fleas? How old is Munch? Does it miss its mom? Am I going to come home after class one day to find my little Munchkin dead on the floor?
This experience has made me decide to put off parenting indefinitely.
My birthday is coming up. I don’t know what I should do to celebrate.
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