Peanut butter, my lifeblood. When you don't want to cook, when you want something that reminds you of home, full of protein and fat--two nutrients not easily gotten here--peanut butter.
My town does not have peanut butter. It's my only complaint about where I live. My addiction to peanut butter drives me at least once a month to the nearby city (read "large town kind of") of Vilanculos.
The lone mode of transport is the chapa, a large grey van that seats 12 comfortably but is considered full at around 25 people (plus live goats, chickens, babies and luggage--once a live goat was strapped to the roof). It's cheap and completely unpredictable. Sometimes they leave every half hour, sometimes not for a few hours at a time. I've been in chapas that have broken down on the road many times. Once I was in a chapa whose engine was continually overheating, necessitating a stop every two miles or so to cool the engine with water fetched from a river that parallels the road. Another time the chapa came to a complete and normal stop, and the door fell off. Yet another time they couldn't get the door open, and I was stuck in that glorified RC car with 20+ sweating bodies for almost an hour without moving.
But you make it work, and you get better at accepting it. After all, there is no alternative. Mozambican patience is, generally speaking, heroic, and it figures.
Remember that almost anywhere I go in my corner of Mozabique, I cause a stir. This applies especially to chapas. I approach the chapa stop and I am bombarded with "My fren! My fren! Where you go? Where you go my fren?" I try to stay calm and explain where I am going in Portuguese. "Oh!" they say, "you speak Portuguese!" Yes, I do, and that gets me a handfull of respect, enough to ensure that they don't try to rip me off, usually.
The problem is that in chapas they do not speak Portuguese. And the stir continues when I get in. My tiny amount of Shitswa is enough for me to know when they are talking about me, that and the fact that they stare, point and laugh quite openly. Sometimes I try to respond in the little Shitswa I know, sometimes I just address them in Portuguese to break the ice. But as the jokes go on, and am I talked about more and more but personally acknowledged less I find myself paralyzed. "Why is the white man riding with us in the chapa?" "Doesn't the boss have a car?" It's the most alienating experience I have ever had.
I want to tell them not to call me "boss", first of all. But explaining to a complete stranger the racial ramifications of the word boss out of the blue is not an endeavor I would recommend. Your good intentions are hampered by language barriers, massive cultural barriers, and the simple fact that most people don't want to be burdened with that kind of stuff. I sympathize, I don't want to be burdened by it either. But when you are a racially sensitized white American surrounded by black Africans and they are calling you "boss" over and over it's hard not to feel like you are drowning in it.
It will calm down after a few minutes, because I have lived in my community for so long most of the time the chapa driver or someone on the chapa knows me, and that diffuses the situation.
I get off the chapa after 3 hours and I can't feel my feet because the chapa is so small that my knees have to be raised to fit, so only a fraction of my butt touches the seat at any one moment. But I need my damn peanut butter and I'll do whatever it takes at this point. If I thought the chapa was bad, Vilanculos proper is far worse. In the market there are men whose profession is to scam white people. As I approach they see me and pounce. They ask me if I want to change money, they ask me what I want, offering to get it for me at jacked up prices. I tell them I don't want anything, and sometimes they follow me. I ask them to leave me alone and a brave few will continue to follow, asking what I want over and over. When I threaten violence and scream at them that I am not some %$^#@ tourist they will almost always leave, laughing as they go (this is to diffuse the tension, a very common Mozambican maneuver). They may follow at a distance though, on the prowl as I look for the best prices on peanut butter.
Everywhere I go kids shout "Milungo!" at me. People call me "boss" (it sounds like "boys" when they say it. And when you ask them what it means none of them know), one time a man on the other side of the street selling phone credit shouted "sista! sista! sista!" over and over again, perhaps "sister" being the only English word the guys knows. Children ask me for money, adults ask me for money. It’s not everyone or even most people, but it feels like I am being sized up and calculated. My shirt, my bag, my sunglasses and especially my shoes give me away, let alone of course my skin and hair. Some days it feels like every friendly conversation ends with them asking me for money.
I'm on my guard, on edge, the whole time. Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you that when I travel I can be brutal, especially to people who think they can rip me off. My community isn't anything like Vilanculos. It's smaller, quieter, I'm well known, and sure I get harassed now and then but after a short conversation I can usually introduce myself and ensure that that person will never call me "boss" or "milungo" again. But Vilanculos is a hardened tourist town. White people pass through all the time and they are almost all tourists, none speaking Portuguese. I am just another white, a target for some, a novelty for others, or ignored (as I would prefer it).
I get my peanut butter and go home. Being in Vil is exhausting, riding on chapas is exhausting, and it all makes me feel like an outsider with no means of being anything but white, and that feeling is the most exhausting and hopeless feeling a volunteer can get..
Once back in town though I say thank you to the driver. I stop by the market and say hi to my friends there. I joke around with Nina who sells me tomatoes. Luisa who breast feeds her baby as she talks to me in my broken Shitswa. True story:
While buying bananas a little girl looks at me and says "milungo!" And Julia, one of the banana ladies stops her and says, "Hey, that's not a milungo, that's Colin." I thank her like an idiot ("You don't have to thank me!" she says, almost annoyed) and go home with my peanut butter tucked under my arm.
Victory.
Family t-minus one month.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Goal Three
The Peace Corps has three goals. Very basically they are 1) to help the host country, 2) to represent America, and 3) to represent the host country to Americans.
Number one is too vague to quantify. Number 2 is pretty much a guarantee. Number three can be more complicated than it suggests. Keeping a blog, for instance, is a very simple way to give a snapshot of Mozambique, to humanize and characterize Mozambicans, and so forth. But I was speaking to a volunteer about this a few weeks ago, and a snapshot does not capture the ridiculous complexity of a society and a people.
Example:
One of the Italians at my site has a house. In front of this house is a pack of stray dogs that has accumulated over the last few months. In the beginning they seemed dangerous, and after a while they were a nuisance, but after some months my Italian friend came to grow fond of them, and especially fond of the two that spent the most time on her front steps.
One of these dogs was female, and was soon enough pregnant. As the dog grew fatter and less mobile my friend took some extra care of it. When the dog gave birth she started to make plans for the puppies.
Shortly thereafter, one of the neighbors killed the dog with a knife, and all of the puppies died.
My initial reaction was of repulsion and outrage. Killing a dog with a knife? A dog with puppies? It was difficult to think of any justification, and very easy to think of sadistic, cruel evil. I have been a dog owner my whole life, I could never imagine doing anything like that to a dog.
And if we left it at that Mozambique might seem like a cruel place, and Mozambicans a violent people.
But being culturally sensitive liberal stereotypes with our relativistic moralities we are going to try to understand this situation. Firstly: the man who killed the dogs certainly did not have any inkling that these dogs had owners. They were strays; he wasn’t overstepping his authority because no one had claimed any official ownership over them. In fact, the dog had had the puppies in front of his own house in his yard. So suddenly a random dog sat down on his lawn and popped out a bunch of puppies.
Secondly, animals rights are a luxury we have in the US that is simply not recognized here. If people aren’t getting enough to eat, don’t have proper shelter against the cold, or medical care where exactly do dogs enter as a priority? Animals are labor, food, or nuisance, the concept of a pet is not one that exists in the Mozambican countryside (nor does it likely exist anywhere outside of our Western world).
Thirdly, stray dogs can be dangerous. Just a few weeks ago a woman in my town died of rabies, which as I understand it is a downright terrifying way to die. Dogs can bite kids, steal food, attack livestock and carry diseases like rabies, scabies, etc etc. So when the mommy dog has puppies on the lawn its just a few more dangerous roaming animals in the neighborhood.
Lastly, the knife. He killed the mother dog with a knife! How grisly and awful, I though at first. But it’s not like his stabbed the dog repeatedly for the adrenaline rush or sadistic thrill. Slitting an animals throat is how animals are killed here, mostly because it is a fairly quick and therefore relatively merciful way to kill an animal.
The incident evolved in my mind from a violent murder to a practical measure. Packs of stray dogs can be a dangerous nuisance. There are no vets to give rabies shots or to “put the dog to sleep” (I wonder what dogs would think of that euphemism). The man was looking out for his house and his family.
But my friend was still sad afterwards, and angry. I don’t blame her. But I don’t blame him either.
Then I watched every superhero movie I could get my hands on to right my head. Then my computer died and I was very, very sad.
50 days until my family arrives! Way too long to start a realistic countdown!
Number one is too vague to quantify. Number 2 is pretty much a guarantee. Number three can be more complicated than it suggests. Keeping a blog, for instance, is a very simple way to give a snapshot of Mozambique, to humanize and characterize Mozambicans, and so forth. But I was speaking to a volunteer about this a few weeks ago, and a snapshot does not capture the ridiculous complexity of a society and a people.
Example:
One of the Italians at my site has a house. In front of this house is a pack of stray dogs that has accumulated over the last few months. In the beginning they seemed dangerous, and after a while they were a nuisance, but after some months my Italian friend came to grow fond of them, and especially fond of the two that spent the most time on her front steps.
One of these dogs was female, and was soon enough pregnant. As the dog grew fatter and less mobile my friend took some extra care of it. When the dog gave birth she started to make plans for the puppies.
Shortly thereafter, one of the neighbors killed the dog with a knife, and all of the puppies died.
My initial reaction was of repulsion and outrage. Killing a dog with a knife? A dog with puppies? It was difficult to think of any justification, and very easy to think of sadistic, cruel evil. I have been a dog owner my whole life, I could never imagine doing anything like that to a dog.
And if we left it at that Mozambique might seem like a cruel place, and Mozambicans a violent people.
But being culturally sensitive liberal stereotypes with our relativistic moralities we are going to try to understand this situation. Firstly: the man who killed the dogs certainly did not have any inkling that these dogs had owners. They were strays; he wasn’t overstepping his authority because no one had claimed any official ownership over them. In fact, the dog had had the puppies in front of his own house in his yard. So suddenly a random dog sat down on his lawn and popped out a bunch of puppies.
Secondly, animals rights are a luxury we have in the US that is simply not recognized here. If people aren’t getting enough to eat, don’t have proper shelter against the cold, or medical care where exactly do dogs enter as a priority? Animals are labor, food, or nuisance, the concept of a pet is not one that exists in the Mozambican countryside (nor does it likely exist anywhere outside of our Western world).
Thirdly, stray dogs can be dangerous. Just a few weeks ago a woman in my town died of rabies, which as I understand it is a downright terrifying way to die. Dogs can bite kids, steal food, attack livestock and carry diseases like rabies, scabies, etc etc. So when the mommy dog has puppies on the lawn its just a few more dangerous roaming animals in the neighborhood.
Lastly, the knife. He killed the mother dog with a knife! How grisly and awful, I though at first. But it’s not like his stabbed the dog repeatedly for the adrenaline rush or sadistic thrill. Slitting an animals throat is how animals are killed here, mostly because it is a fairly quick and therefore relatively merciful way to kill an animal.
The incident evolved in my mind from a violent murder to a practical measure. Packs of stray dogs can be a dangerous nuisance. There are no vets to give rabies shots or to “put the dog to sleep” (I wonder what dogs would think of that euphemism). The man was looking out for his house and his family.
But my friend was still sad afterwards, and angry. I don’t blame her. But I don’t blame him either.
Then I watched every superhero movie I could get my hands on to right my head. Then my computer died and I was very, very sad.
50 days until my family arrives! Way too long to start a realistic countdown!
Goal Three
The Peace Corps has three goals. Very basically they are 1) to help the host country, 2) to represent America, and 3) to represent the host country to Americans.
Number one is too vague to quantify. Number 2 is pretty much a guarantee. Number three can be more complicated than it suggests. Keeping a blog, for instance, is a very simple way to give a snapshot of Mozambique, to humanize and characterize Mozambicans, and so forth. But I was speaking to a volunteer about this a few weeks ago, and a snapshot does not capture the ridiculous complexity of a society and a people.
Example:
One of the Italians at my site has a house. In front of this house is a pack of stray dogs that has accumulated over the last few months. In the beginning they seemed dangerous, and after a while they were a nuisance, but after some months my Italian friend came to grow fond of them, and especially fond of the two that spent the most time on her front steps.
One of these dogs was female, and was soon enough pregnant. As the dog grew fatter and less mobile my friend took some extra care of it. When the dog gave birth she started to make plans for the puppies.
Shortly thereafter, one of the neighbors killed the dog with a knife, and all of the puppies died.
My initial reaction was of repulsion and outrage. Killing a dog with a knife? A dog with puppies? It was difficult to think of any justification, and very easy to think of sadistic, cruel evil. I have been a dog owner my whole life, I could never imagine doing anything like that to a dog.
And if we left it at that Mozambique might seem like a cruel place, and Mozambicans a violent people.
But being culturally sensitive liberal stereotypes with our relativistic moralities we are going to try to understand this situation. Firstly: the man who killed the dogs certainly did not have any inkling that these dogs had owners. They were strays; he wasn’t overstepping his authority because no one had claimed any official ownership over them. In fact, the dog had had the puppies in front of his own house in his yard. So suddenly a random dog sat down on his lawn and popped out a bunch of puppies.
Secondly, animals rights are a luxury we have in the US that is simply not recognized here. If people aren’t getting enough to eat, don’t have proper shelter against the cold, or medical care where exactly do dogs enter as a priority? Animals are labor, food, or nuisance, the concept of a pet is not one that exists in the Mozambican countryside (nor does it likely exist anywhere outside of our Western world).
Thirdly, stray dogs can be dangerous. Just a few weeks ago a woman in my town died of rabies, which as I understand it is a downright terrifying way to die. Dogs can bite kids, steal food, attack livestock and carry diseases like rabies, scabies, etc etc. So when the mommy dog has puppies on the lawn its just a few more dangerous roaming animals in the neighborhood.
Lastly, the knife. He killed the mother dog with a knife! How grisly and awful, I though at first. But it’s not like his stabbed the dog repeatedly for the adrenaline rush or sadistic thrill. Slitting an animals throat is how animals are killed here, mostly because it is a fairly quick and therefore relatively merciful way to kill an animal.
The incident evolved in my mind from a violent murder to a practical measure. Packs of stray dogs can be a dangerous nuisance. There are no vets to give rabies shots or to “put the dog to sleep” (I wonder what dogs would think of that euphemism). The man was looking out for his house and his family.
But my friend was still sad afterwards, and angry. I don’t blame her. But I don’t blame him either.
Then I watched every superhero movie I could get my hands on to right my head. Then my computer died and I was very, very sad.
50 days until my family arrives! Way too long to start a realistic countdown!
Number one is too vague to quantify. Number 2 is pretty much a guarantee. Number three can be more complicated than it suggests. Keeping a blog, for instance, is a very simple way to give a snapshot of Mozambique, to humanize and characterize Mozambicans, and so forth. But I was speaking to a volunteer about this a few weeks ago, and a snapshot does not capture the ridiculous complexity of a society and a people.
Example:
One of the Italians at my site has a house. In front of this house is a pack of stray dogs that has accumulated over the last few months. In the beginning they seemed dangerous, and after a while they were a nuisance, but after some months my Italian friend came to grow fond of them, and especially fond of the two that spent the most time on her front steps.
One of these dogs was female, and was soon enough pregnant. As the dog grew fatter and less mobile my friend took some extra care of it. When the dog gave birth she started to make plans for the puppies.
Shortly thereafter, one of the neighbors killed the dog with a knife, and all of the puppies died.
My initial reaction was of repulsion and outrage. Killing a dog with a knife? A dog with puppies? It was difficult to think of any justification, and very easy to think of sadistic, cruel evil. I have been a dog owner my whole life, I could never imagine doing anything like that to a dog.
And if we left it at that Mozambique might seem like a cruel place, and Mozambicans a violent people.
But being culturally sensitive liberal stereotypes with our relativistic moralities we are going to try to understand this situation. Firstly: the man who killed the dogs certainly did not have any inkling that these dogs had owners. They were strays; he wasn’t overstepping his authority because no one had claimed any official ownership over them. In fact, the dog had had the puppies in front of his own house in his yard. So suddenly a random dog sat down on his lawn and popped out a bunch of puppies.
Secondly, animals rights are a luxury we have in the US that is simply not recognized here. If people aren’t getting enough to eat, don’t have proper shelter against the cold, or medical care where exactly do dogs enter as a priority? Animals are labor, food, or nuisance, the concept of a pet is not one that exists in the Mozambican countryside (nor does it likely exist anywhere outside of our Western world).
Thirdly, stray dogs can be dangerous. Just a few weeks ago a woman in my town died of rabies, which as I understand it is a downright terrifying way to die. Dogs can bite kids, steal food, attack livestock and carry diseases like rabies, scabies, etc etc. So when the mommy dog has puppies on the lawn its just a few more dangerous roaming animals in the neighborhood.
Lastly, the knife. He killed the mother dog with a knife! How grisly and awful, I though at first. But it’s not like his stabbed the dog repeatedly for the adrenaline rush or sadistic thrill. Slitting an animals throat is how animals are killed here, mostly because it is a fairly quick and therefore relatively merciful way to kill an animal.
The incident evolved in my mind from a violent murder to a practical measure. Packs of stray dogs can be a dangerous nuisance. There are no vets to give rabies shots or to “put the dog to sleep” (I wonder what dogs would think of that euphemism). The man was looking out for his house and his family.
But my friend was still sad afterwards, and angry. I don’t blame her. But I don’t blame him either.
Then I watched every superhero movie I could get my hands on to right my head. Then my computer died and I was very, very sad.
50 days until my family arrives! Way too long to start a realistic countdown!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Year One
Upon completing my first year of school I was feeling oddly…unimpressed. I had completed some of my year end goals, and in fact was still working on my last one, the school journal. But the end of the year seemed to come out of nowhere. How would I mark the occasion? I figured that a fun lesson involving the free flow of stickers would lead to some entertaining antics.
The lesson was simple: I wrote what was essentially the final exam up on the board and we would fill it in together. I would give stickers for any correct or semi-correct answer. Was their thirst for stickers was quenched I would leave a hero.
But once they realized that stickers would be happening with more or less reckless abandon their incentive to stay focused and attentive dissolved. Once the seed of chaos is sown in a room full of preteens it is all but impossible to expunge it. It spread like a flame. They were running up to the board, oblivious to my demands of quiet hand-raising, grasping for chalk to scribble some approximation of English on some random patch of blackboard to feed their addiction to stickers. Seeing order running away like a freight train I boomed for order, commanded the kids to their desks and for a moment it looked as if everything would be ok.
But Durao, the elected class leader, made a break for the board. I told him to sit down but he ignored me and started writing. The class fell quiet as they watched to see what I would do in the face of such open disobedience.
When I put Durao in a headlock the class exploded into a frenzy. All hope was lost; the students leapt from their seats, grasped the stickers from my hand and generally did whatever they wanted. Durao struggled to get free, but my godlike teacher strength held him there as the only proof of my (former) position of dominion over the class.
I don’t know where my stickers went. There is nothing more wild than the uncontrolled, sugar driven frenzy of young people, and it never ceases to entertain me. Happy one year Colin Jones.
The lesson was simple: I wrote what was essentially the final exam up on the board and we would fill it in together. I would give stickers for any correct or semi-correct answer. Was their thirst for stickers was quenched I would leave a hero.
But once they realized that stickers would be happening with more or less reckless abandon their incentive to stay focused and attentive dissolved. Once the seed of chaos is sown in a room full of preteens it is all but impossible to expunge it. It spread like a flame. They were running up to the board, oblivious to my demands of quiet hand-raising, grasping for chalk to scribble some approximation of English on some random patch of blackboard to feed their addiction to stickers. Seeing order running away like a freight train I boomed for order, commanded the kids to their desks and for a moment it looked as if everything would be ok.
But Durao, the elected class leader, made a break for the board. I told him to sit down but he ignored me and started writing. The class fell quiet as they watched to see what I would do in the face of such open disobedience.
When I put Durao in a headlock the class exploded into a frenzy. All hope was lost; the students leapt from their seats, grasped the stickers from my hand and generally did whatever they wanted. Durao struggled to get free, but my godlike teacher strength held him there as the only proof of my (former) position of dominion over the class.
I don’t know where my stickers went. There is nothing more wild than the uncontrolled, sugar driven frenzy of young people, and it never ceases to entertain me. Happy one year Colin Jones.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
English Theatre
This year I had several projects that I wanted to accomplish. First was my English group for my colleagues, which I saw a natural precursor to a community English group. It failed. My colleagues failed to show up reliably, or eventually at all, and I failed to plan my lessons, hoping that I could go in shooting from the hip. I was wrong. The project sunk in about two months.
My second two projects were directed at the students in my school. I will now tell the tale of my first successful project in the Peace Corps.
English Theatre is a competition started and managed by Peace Corps Volunteers. Spread throughout the country there are three regional competitions, each with about ten groups of more or less ten students each. We heard about this in March at a conference we attended, and since then I decided that this would be perfect for me. My school is a professional school, one of those professions being Hotel and Tourism, and what could be a more useful skill than English in that industry? Mozambique is literally surrounded by English speaking countries, and you can bet with certainty that all of the tourists that come here to spend money are English speakers from South Africa, Zimbabwe, America and so forth. English Theatre would be a fantastic opportunity to practice English with a motivated group of students while doing something fun. Theatre is deeply rooted in Mozambican culture, it was a perfect match.
Now even better, a group of students approached me. Here I was thinking I would somehow have to scrounge up a group of students and one falls into my lap! They had heard about ET (English Theatre for you citizens) from the year before—the volunteer I replaced had done it as well—and decided that they wanted to do it. I accepted, certain that I had a motivated group that was anxious to get started. We celebrated by playing some Mozambican games, singing songs and dancing. It was awesome.
And I planned WAY in advance. This group was not to fail. I set two days a week to practice, and we would only speak English during practice hours. Sure, it would be hard at first, but they would be forced to learn and adapt. They would be my cadre of English speakers. Then after some practice we would write a script. Somehow.
But despite our biweekly planned meetings the students simply would not show up. About half the group would show up on any given time. I would inform them the day before, during class and every other opportunity. They would always respond, “yes teacher I will be there,” but hardly ever would be. After several absences I would ask the student if they wanted to continue in the group: “Yes, yes Teacher, I will be there tomorrow.” Then they wouldn’t be.
Now I should say that at any meeting about half the group would be there. Nadia, the queen bee, always showed up. She was the unofficial boss of our group, almost as tall as me, with a huge voice and domineering personality. She does not hesitate to criticize me in any way she sees fit and bosses everyone around, myself included. Nadia’s clique, under her constant leadership, would also always attend.
But of course they wouldn’t memorize their lines. All they wanted to do was play games, sing songs and dance. I don’t even think they really understood them for the first weeks of the process, which was strange because wouldn’t they want to know if they were spreading AIDS awareness or if I had them memorizing instruction manuals? Three weeks until the competition and they weren’t even close. Two weeks came and I was legitimately worried.
“Teacher Colin, don’t worry. The week before the competition we’ll really practice. It’s all good,” they would say again and again. But the students still weren’t coming to practice. I started feeling like I had done something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t structured enough, maybe they didn’t respect me. I had started planning so far in advance and now I was staring failure in the face, and I didn’t feel that there was anything I could do about it.
So I told them, four days from the competition when they still hadn’t come anywhere near memorizing the lines, that I didn’t know if we were going to succeed. I wasn’t angry at that them, I even told them that I liked them and wasn’t mad. Just that I was worried that if they hadn’t memorized their lines, hadn’t been showing up to practice, that maybe it was too late. It had a sobering effect, “Jeez Teacher Colin. You didn’t have to say it like that,” Nadia said to me.
But it had the desired effect, and they really started giving it serious attention. It was clear that they weren’t going to memorize their lines, so I told them to improvise. Who cares if the English is bad? Just make it work, became my new ideal. They stopped playing games and singing songs and dancing and practiced every day, and everyone finally showed up. On the last day of rehearsal they were still quite weak on their lines, but the improvement was vast. We wouldn’t be the belles of the ball, but at least they would go out there and do it, and that’s what counted.
I had arranged for a private car to take us to Massinga where the competition was to take place. It’s about a four hour drive, and we had to arrive before eight am, which means leaving at the unfortunate hour of 3:30 am.
“Don’t be late!” I lectured them, “3:30 does NOT mean you are going to leave your houses at 3:30. It means you will be there at exactly 3:30. Not 3:35, not 3:45, but 3:30. Do we understand?” They groaned, but punctuality had not been a strong suit of theirs up to that point, and this was something they couldn’t be late for.
That night before bed I was nervous and excited. I just wanted the kids to do ok. I didn’t care if all of their lines were straight, or if their pronunciation was good, I just didn’t want them to embarrass themselves. On my way to bed the bar behind my house was blasting music so I put my earplugs in. After all, I’d need my sleep.
I awoke in the middle of the night. I knew I had to get up at 3:30, so I checked my watch to see if I could squeeze in another hour or two of sleep.
3:52.
Nothing makes you feel more awake then waking up late. I leapt up with an adrenaline jolt. I scrambled for my phone and called one of the students.
“Teacher Colin, where are you?! We are all here and we are waiting for you!”
“I’m on my way! Tell the car to come to my house!”
I packed my bag as fast as I could and ran out the door, sweating and guilty. I had given them an earful about punctuality. I had put my earplugs in, what a stupid thing to do! I felt awful. The car was out front. I through my bags in and immediately started to apologize, when Nadia interrupted:
“Teacher Colin, we want to give an oration”
I use the word “oration” because she used the word “oração,” the equivalent word in Portuguese. An oration? What did she mean? Had they prepared a speech to chew me out for being late after I had given them so much heat the day before? I froze.
And then they joined hands and said the Our Father, and the Hail Mary. An oration.
Then they started singing. We pulled out of our town in the middle of the night, the students singing in chorus in languages I could never hope to understand. And call me corny, but it was joyous, and I could have listened to it the whole four hours there, I was so grateful to be with them. Thirty minutes later we were all asleep.
We bleary eyed, just one of eleven other groups flooding into the courtyard of the tiny university in Massinga. In classic fashion my group immediately formed a circle and started playing games, singing songs and dancing. They were making a ruckus, but I noticed that out of all of the groups, and the over one hundred students from different parts of the country, that my group was the only group that was playing games, singing songs and dancing. Shamelessly, almost obnoxiously they danced and sang, completely unprovoked. I even joined in, which I normally felt that I couldn’t do as the responsible adult. And it all made me love them.
We were one of the last groups to go, and as our time approached I could tell that my students were nervous. I shot down a dozen last minute panicky changes, and reassured them that they would be fine. And I really wanted them to be fine. Just to not embarrass themselves. I didn’t care that they hadn’t shown up, that they hadn’t put in the hours. I just wanted them to have some fun. As I sat there pale-faced rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants one of my buddies said that I had “stage dad” syndrome.
And they went up and performed. They did great. Yes, they forgot a lot of lines and had to limp through some scenes using faulty improvisation, but all in all it was fine. I was so relieved, and as they left the stage I ran up to them to ask how they felt.
But they didn’t feel good. I could tell they were a little shaken, and a couple students even told me that they didn’t do as well as they hoped. I was crushed. But I patted their backs and said “what’s a line here or there? The important thing is that we understood.” And the crowd had understood. It had gone fine, but I couldn’t stand the thought of them feeling like they had failed.
All of the participants got a gift bag with t shirts, English-Portuguese dictionaries and some school supplies, but there was also an awards ceremony for the top three groups, best actor overall and best actress overall. I sat with my group and I could tell they were already feeling better. We joked around and I relaxed. I loved these kids. I was pissed that it had taken me this long to appreciate it, but happy as a clam all the same.
And as the awards were announced I zoned out. So I was more than a little surprised when my group leapt up and started screaming. We had won first place. The cherry on top was our leading girl had won best actress as well. The elation is hard to describe.
If I thought they had danced and sang before it was nothing compared to after winning first place. “We told you everything was fine teacher Colin!!” Nadia screamed at me, dragging me into the group. Louder than ever they played games, sang songs at the top of their lungs and danced with every fiber of their bodies. And I did, too. Call me corny, but I felt just about as happy as I could hope to feel.
On the ride back they sang until their voices were hoarse. “Teacher Colin was worried we weren’t going to succeed” they ribbed me the whole way home. We joked and laughed and they complained about how they were hungry and I bought them all food. “Stage dad” syndrome made me feel vulnerable, and I think they knew it. They saw how nervous I was, and it brought us closer together.
Was it right that they had been so unprepared and still won? What was the life lesson being learned with this victory? I put those questions away—it was better just to enjoy it.
When I said goodbye to them I realized that at the end of the year almost all of them would be graduating. These students had been with me my whole first year, and I might not see some of them again. Thinking about how well I had gotten to know them made me realize how long I had been here, and just how far I had come in my first year as a volunteer. I told them that they were a special group, that I had had fun with them, and that I was proud of them. And I was.
My second two projects were directed at the students in my school. I will now tell the tale of my first successful project in the Peace Corps.
English Theatre is a competition started and managed by Peace Corps Volunteers. Spread throughout the country there are three regional competitions, each with about ten groups of more or less ten students each. We heard about this in March at a conference we attended, and since then I decided that this would be perfect for me. My school is a professional school, one of those professions being Hotel and Tourism, and what could be a more useful skill than English in that industry? Mozambique is literally surrounded by English speaking countries, and you can bet with certainty that all of the tourists that come here to spend money are English speakers from South Africa, Zimbabwe, America and so forth. English Theatre would be a fantastic opportunity to practice English with a motivated group of students while doing something fun. Theatre is deeply rooted in Mozambican culture, it was a perfect match.
Now even better, a group of students approached me. Here I was thinking I would somehow have to scrounge up a group of students and one falls into my lap! They had heard about ET (English Theatre for you citizens) from the year before—the volunteer I replaced had done it as well—and decided that they wanted to do it. I accepted, certain that I had a motivated group that was anxious to get started. We celebrated by playing some Mozambican games, singing songs and dancing. It was awesome.
And I planned WAY in advance. This group was not to fail. I set two days a week to practice, and we would only speak English during practice hours. Sure, it would be hard at first, but they would be forced to learn and adapt. They would be my cadre of English speakers. Then after some practice we would write a script. Somehow.
But despite our biweekly planned meetings the students simply would not show up. About half the group would show up on any given time. I would inform them the day before, during class and every other opportunity. They would always respond, “yes teacher I will be there,” but hardly ever would be. After several absences I would ask the student if they wanted to continue in the group: “Yes, yes Teacher, I will be there tomorrow.” Then they wouldn’t be.
Now I should say that at any meeting about half the group would be there. Nadia, the queen bee, always showed up. She was the unofficial boss of our group, almost as tall as me, with a huge voice and domineering personality. She does not hesitate to criticize me in any way she sees fit and bosses everyone around, myself included. Nadia’s clique, under her constant leadership, would also always attend.
But of course they wouldn’t memorize their lines. All they wanted to do was play games, sing songs and dance. I don’t even think they really understood them for the first weeks of the process, which was strange because wouldn’t they want to know if they were spreading AIDS awareness or if I had them memorizing instruction manuals? Three weeks until the competition and they weren’t even close. Two weeks came and I was legitimately worried.
“Teacher Colin, don’t worry. The week before the competition we’ll really practice. It’s all good,” they would say again and again. But the students still weren’t coming to practice. I started feeling like I had done something wrong. Maybe it wasn’t structured enough, maybe they didn’t respect me. I had started planning so far in advance and now I was staring failure in the face, and I didn’t feel that there was anything I could do about it.
So I told them, four days from the competition when they still hadn’t come anywhere near memorizing the lines, that I didn’t know if we were going to succeed. I wasn’t angry at that them, I even told them that I liked them and wasn’t mad. Just that I was worried that if they hadn’t memorized their lines, hadn’t been showing up to practice, that maybe it was too late. It had a sobering effect, “Jeez Teacher Colin. You didn’t have to say it like that,” Nadia said to me.
But it had the desired effect, and they really started giving it serious attention. It was clear that they weren’t going to memorize their lines, so I told them to improvise. Who cares if the English is bad? Just make it work, became my new ideal. They stopped playing games and singing songs and dancing and practiced every day, and everyone finally showed up. On the last day of rehearsal they were still quite weak on their lines, but the improvement was vast. We wouldn’t be the belles of the ball, but at least they would go out there and do it, and that’s what counted.
I had arranged for a private car to take us to Massinga where the competition was to take place. It’s about a four hour drive, and we had to arrive before eight am, which means leaving at the unfortunate hour of 3:30 am.
“Don’t be late!” I lectured them, “3:30 does NOT mean you are going to leave your houses at 3:30. It means you will be there at exactly 3:30. Not 3:35, not 3:45, but 3:30. Do we understand?” They groaned, but punctuality had not been a strong suit of theirs up to that point, and this was something they couldn’t be late for.
That night before bed I was nervous and excited. I just wanted the kids to do ok. I didn’t care if all of their lines were straight, or if their pronunciation was good, I just didn’t want them to embarrass themselves. On my way to bed the bar behind my house was blasting music so I put my earplugs in. After all, I’d need my sleep.
I awoke in the middle of the night. I knew I had to get up at 3:30, so I checked my watch to see if I could squeeze in another hour or two of sleep.
3:52.
Nothing makes you feel more awake then waking up late. I leapt up with an adrenaline jolt. I scrambled for my phone and called one of the students.
“Teacher Colin, where are you?! We are all here and we are waiting for you!”
“I’m on my way! Tell the car to come to my house!”
I packed my bag as fast as I could and ran out the door, sweating and guilty. I had given them an earful about punctuality. I had put my earplugs in, what a stupid thing to do! I felt awful. The car was out front. I through my bags in and immediately started to apologize, when Nadia interrupted:
“Teacher Colin, we want to give an oration”
I use the word “oration” because she used the word “oração,” the equivalent word in Portuguese. An oration? What did she mean? Had they prepared a speech to chew me out for being late after I had given them so much heat the day before? I froze.
And then they joined hands and said the Our Father, and the Hail Mary. An oration.
Then they started singing. We pulled out of our town in the middle of the night, the students singing in chorus in languages I could never hope to understand. And call me corny, but it was joyous, and I could have listened to it the whole four hours there, I was so grateful to be with them. Thirty minutes later we were all asleep.
We bleary eyed, just one of eleven other groups flooding into the courtyard of the tiny university in Massinga. In classic fashion my group immediately formed a circle and started playing games, singing songs and dancing. They were making a ruckus, but I noticed that out of all of the groups, and the over one hundred students from different parts of the country, that my group was the only group that was playing games, singing songs and dancing. Shamelessly, almost obnoxiously they danced and sang, completely unprovoked. I even joined in, which I normally felt that I couldn’t do as the responsible adult. And it all made me love them.
We were one of the last groups to go, and as our time approached I could tell that my students were nervous. I shot down a dozen last minute panicky changes, and reassured them that they would be fine. And I really wanted them to be fine. Just to not embarrass themselves. I didn’t care that they hadn’t shown up, that they hadn’t put in the hours. I just wanted them to have some fun. As I sat there pale-faced rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants one of my buddies said that I had “stage dad” syndrome.
And they went up and performed. They did great. Yes, they forgot a lot of lines and had to limp through some scenes using faulty improvisation, but all in all it was fine. I was so relieved, and as they left the stage I ran up to them to ask how they felt.
But they didn’t feel good. I could tell they were a little shaken, and a couple students even told me that they didn’t do as well as they hoped. I was crushed. But I patted their backs and said “what’s a line here or there? The important thing is that we understood.” And the crowd had understood. It had gone fine, but I couldn’t stand the thought of them feeling like they had failed.
All of the participants got a gift bag with t shirts, English-Portuguese dictionaries and some school supplies, but there was also an awards ceremony for the top three groups, best actor overall and best actress overall. I sat with my group and I could tell they were already feeling better. We joked around and I relaxed. I loved these kids. I was pissed that it had taken me this long to appreciate it, but happy as a clam all the same.
And as the awards were announced I zoned out. So I was more than a little surprised when my group leapt up and started screaming. We had won first place. The cherry on top was our leading girl had won best actress as well. The elation is hard to describe.
If I thought they had danced and sang before it was nothing compared to after winning first place. “We told you everything was fine teacher Colin!!” Nadia screamed at me, dragging me into the group. Louder than ever they played games, sang songs at the top of their lungs and danced with every fiber of their bodies. And I did, too. Call me corny, but I felt just about as happy as I could hope to feel.
On the ride back they sang until their voices were hoarse. “Teacher Colin was worried we weren’t going to succeed” they ribbed me the whole way home. We joked and laughed and they complained about how they were hungry and I bought them all food. “Stage dad” syndrome made me feel vulnerable, and I think they knew it. They saw how nervous I was, and it brought us closer together.
Was it right that they had been so unprepared and still won? What was the life lesson being learned with this victory? I put those questions away—it was better just to enjoy it.
When I said goodbye to them I realized that at the end of the year almost all of them would be graduating. These students had been with me my whole first year, and I might not see some of them again. Thinking about how well I had gotten to know them made me realize how long I had been here, and just how far I had come in my first year as a volunteer. I told them that they were a special group, that I had had fun with them, and that I was proud of them. And I was.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Brainstem's the only way to stop em
Every morning when I leave my house I am accosted by a group of about one hundred children. This is a difficult thing to describe in terms of enjoyment. That is to say, do I like being accosted by one hundred children every morning? Someone taught them all to say “ta ta!” to any white person they saw, and having one hundred small children wave frantically at you and scream “ta ta!” in unison is a heart meltingly adorable thing.
As their curiosity grew they would approach me, at first only the brash/stupid ones that Darwinian selection would get if only society were not here to stop them from poking snakes or crawling into dark caves (the ones that either die young or grow up to be Bear Grylls). When one finally got the courage to hold my hand I did what any man would do, I started roaring like a lion while picking them up and pretending to eat them. They were at first terror-stricken, but after a few thrilling moments of the white hot, blinding fear that only a child can feel they began to actually want to be picked up. A few of them developed the unfortunate tendency to try to eat me back. Since then leaving my house has become something of an issue.
Every morning I am quite literally blockading by one hundred screaming children. They lock onto my legs, weigh down my arms, climb up me like a tree—and while at first my lion gig was good enough to get rid of them they now think its rip-roaringly hilarious. My threats to kill them are lost because these children are too young to speak Portuguese, and while my shitswa is good enough to scream “go away!” at them it has no effect. So I do what any man would do, I run away.
So for the last month or so you will see me leaving my yard dressed in a button down collared shirt, slacks and dress shoes, cradling my man-purse as I run as fast as I can past a pursuing mass of crazed children. It’s a lot like 28 Days Later only I can’t shoot them.
As their curiosity grew they would approach me, at first only the brash/stupid ones that Darwinian selection would get if only society were not here to stop them from poking snakes or crawling into dark caves (the ones that either die young or grow up to be Bear Grylls). When one finally got the courage to hold my hand I did what any man would do, I started roaring like a lion while picking them up and pretending to eat them. They were at first terror-stricken, but after a few thrilling moments of the white hot, blinding fear that only a child can feel they began to actually want to be picked up. A few of them developed the unfortunate tendency to try to eat me back. Since then leaving my house has become something of an issue.
Every morning I am quite literally blockading by one hundred screaming children. They lock onto my legs, weigh down my arms, climb up me like a tree—and while at first my lion gig was good enough to get rid of them they now think its rip-roaringly hilarious. My threats to kill them are lost because these children are too young to speak Portuguese, and while my shitswa is good enough to scream “go away!” at them it has no effect. So I do what any man would do, I run away.
So for the last month or so you will see me leaving my yard dressed in a button down collared shirt, slacks and dress shoes, cradling my man-purse as I run as fast as I can past a pursuing mass of crazed children. It’s a lot like 28 Days Later only I can’t shoot them.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Riots in Maputo
The last week has seen some violence in Mozambique. Rises in the prices of basic goods in conjunction with a food shortage (due I believe to a drought in Russia or some such whatever) have caused large protests, which some crazy kids took as an opportunity to riot and loot, and unfortuntely lead some police officers to use live rounds on rioters/protesters killing between 7 and 13 people, depending on the report. The protests did spread to some other metropolitan areas of Mozambique, and in the city of Chimoio some reports said 3 more were killed.
Now despite all that my life has changed not at all. My community has not been affected in the slightest by these problems. In fact when my mother called she knew quite a bit more about it than I did. The peace corps volunteers here in Moz are in no danger of any kind, though the Peace Corps has taken precautions and restricted our travel to keep tabs on us just in case.
Reports of jeeps full of police rolling the streets of Maputo armed with AK47s calls to mind dark times in this countrys past, so worry over the violence in the international news is no surprise. It is also a tragedy that police used live rounds, or that some protesters chose to riot. That being said, the effects of all of this have been quite small. Though in the coming weeks we'll see what rising food prices does to my community.
So it's relatively all good in the hood.
Now despite all that my life has changed not at all. My community has not been affected in the slightest by these problems. In fact when my mother called she knew quite a bit more about it than I did. The peace corps volunteers here in Moz are in no danger of any kind, though the Peace Corps has taken precautions and restricted our travel to keep tabs on us just in case.
Reports of jeeps full of police rolling the streets of Maputo armed with AK47s calls to mind dark times in this countrys past, so worry over the violence in the international news is no surprise. It is also a tragedy that police used live rounds, or that some protesters chose to riot. That being said, the effects of all of this have been quite small. Though in the coming weeks we'll see what rising food prices does to my community.
So it's relatively all good in the hood.
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