Halloween

 SCHOOL IS OUT! Classes are finally over, which means I'm free! Well, almost. After the trimester ends, there's always a three-day period of Conselho de Notas, which is where teachers supposedly get together, look at the grades of all the students, and decide who passes and who doesn't. This, in reality, turns into a horribly dragging experience where teachers artificially raise grades and take bribes. So naturally, I left.  

This weekend I went to Messica for a goodbye party for the cohort of volunteers that is leaving in the next couple of weeks. Due to the political situation, our plans changed a few times and lots of people ended up not being able to make it, but it was still a low-key and enjoyable weekend. We despedired (said goodbye to) our colleagues, and had a super fun halloween party while we were at it -- costumes and everything!

I'm really going to miss the people that are leaving -- I know that they will be replaced with different and equally awesome new volunteers, but still! It's the end of an era.

Anna and Haleigh chill out by the pool.

Chilling out in the shade.

The boys play cards on the grass.



Pretty impressive costumes for Africa, no?

When Elephants Fight

Once again, the political situation has flared up. Over the past few days, we've been hearing rumors about more attacks and skirmishes in the Gorongosa region of Sofala province between the Mozambican military (controlled by the Frelimo-led government) and Renamo 'rebels' in their bush camp. These types of rumblings have become commonplace since the political unrest earlier this year and I didn't think too much about it -- that is, until I spoke with my next door neighbor, Texeira.

Texeira is a very calm, collected man. Unlike many other Mozambican men that I know, Texeira doesn't drink, doesn't have more than one wife, and doesn't skip work for no reason. He's very responsible, very down-to-earth, not one to exaggerate. So naturally, I wasn't worried about the political situation until I asked Texeira what his family's plans for Christmas were and he responded "It depends on the war. If it's not too bad, we'll go visit Páscoa's family in Sena. If it's too violent, we might just hide out in Tete City."

A lot about the current situation is not clear yet. We do know that as of yesterday, Renamo abandoned the 1992 peace accord that ended the 16-year Mozambican civil war. This in itself is not a declaration of war, but it certainly is a step in that direction. A big step. And this just over two weeks after celebrating the Day of Peace on 4 October, marking the signing of said peace accord.

"I guess that's one less public holiday we'll have next year," joked my neighbor Fanilio. "More work for us!"

Fanilio's not the only one joking around. Everyone's making wisecracks. They're all concerned about the situation, but war was ever-present in Mozambique for decades before the 21-year peace. I imagine that joking about it is their way of dealing with the knowledge that the devastation of war might come back all too soon.

"Well, it's been twenty years of peace," said my friend Morais, "We Mozambicans just can't deal with that much peace. We need to blow some stuff up every once in a while."

While he meant this as a tongue in cheek remark, this attitude is something I've noticed a lot in Mozambicans, and it makes me very sad. Mozambique ranks 185th out of 187 on the Human Development Index, and its citizens know it. Many of them have very little pride in their country, and in themselves. Mozambique is a mess and Mozambicans point the finger of blame at themselves.

"You see how we are?" one teacher confided in me after I told him of my frustration with people asking me for money all the time, "Mozambicans are greedy and insolent. They only want money. No wonder our country is a mess."

And yet, while certainly Mozambique has a lot to answer for as far as corruption and human rights are concerned, if we're going to play the Blame Game, there are plenty of other players involved. After decades of foreign powers meddling in the politics of Mozambique, after millions of dollars in ill-spent "aid", and after countless reports condemning the way things are done here without really understanding why they are done that way, Mozambicans are certainly not alone in shouldering the responsibility for the country's past and present situation.

Where we go from here remains to be seen. I am holding out for the possibility that somehow, things will get resolved. I'm hoping against hope that Mozambique is able to rise above its past, come to an agreement, and continue improving itself daily. The leaders of both parties are saying they want peace.

And yet, I've grown weary of Mozambicans telling me what I want to hear instead of what they really think. So when I hear a big-shot politician saying "Let's work for Peace!" on the TV, I want to reach in there, grab them by the shoulders and give them a good shake, shouting "Actions speak louder than words!"

I was walking by the river yesterday with my friend Páscoa. She pointed at an old pile of stones. "See that? That's where the original bridge over the Mavudzi river was. That's the bridge that gave our town its name, Mavudzi-Ponte ('Mavudzi Bridge')."

I looked at the old pile of bricks and tried to imagine the bridge as it once was. "What happened to the bridge?" I asked.

"They blew it up during the war," said Páscoa sadly. "Along with most everything else around here."

Later that day, I was sitting on my front porch, watching the sun go down, when my friend Arleti came over and sat with me. Arleti is the very smart, outspoken young niece of Texeira. She graduates high school in a few weeks and wants to be a nurse.

"Teacher Helena, if it comes to war, what will you do? Will you leave us?"

"I hope not!" I said, smiling, trying to keep the conversation light. "I love living here. Besides, what would I do with my cat?"

"Professora, I'm serious. What's going to happen?"

I looked at her, and all I could say was "Ndidziwalini." I don't know.

Arleti sighed. It was heartbreaking -- I felt like I could see her hopes and dreams evaporating into the sunset.

"Quando os elefantes lutam, é o capím que sofre," she said quietly, glumly resting her head on her folded hands.

When the elephants fight, it's the grass that suffers.

A Story of Trash

Ah, home -- such sweet memories. The beauty of the sunset from our fourth-story apartment in Houston... the taste of delicious Texas barbeque... the feeling of togetherness that accompanies a midnight Teahouse run... the smell of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies... and most of all, the sight of that glorious trash chute.

Wait, what?

You heard me. I miss that trash chute almost as much as I miss carpets, almost as much as I miss driving -- almost, even, as much as I miss frappucinos. ("Darn, she's serious...")

Trash is something that gives me a headache almost daily here. First of all, I am one of very few people in my neighborhood who produce any trash at all. And my muzungu trash is apparently much more fascinating than other people's trash.

Here's how the system is supposed to work: I generate trash. Weekly, I collect this trash and throw it in the communal trash pit along with everyone else's trash. After some time, all the trash in the pit gets burned. Acabou.

I tried that system. Here's what happened: I generated trash. I collected it in a small plastic baggie in my house. About three times a day, neighborhood kids would look in my door, see the trash and say "Estou a perdir lixo." (Can I have your trash?) I tried to tell said children that playing with trash is not a good habit. They smiled and nodded, "Yes, Professora, of course." When the bag was full, I dutifully toted it to the pit and thew it in. As I walked back to my house, a horde of children ran past me to the trash pit, jumped in and immediately started taking everything out and looking at it. For the next two hours, I had kids coming up to my door and having conversations like this:

Kid: Professora, what's this?
Me: Garbage.
Kid: But what WAS it then?
Me: Mac and Cheese. Where did this come from?
Kid: What's Mac and Cheese?
Me: It's a food.Were you looking through my garbage?
Kid: How much does it cost?
Me: I don't know. My mom sent it. Didn't I tell you to leave my garbage alone?
Kid: How much did it cost to send it?
Me: I don't know. Do you remember promising me that you wouldn't rifle through the trash?
Kid: Can I have some Mac and Cheese?
Me: No.
Kid: Then can I have some money?
Me: No.
Kid: Can I at least have a cookie?
Me: Do you see any cookies in my pockets? Go home! Stop rooting through my trash!
(Child proceeds to drop the trash in question and run away, leaving the trash back in my house where I didn't want it.)

Needless to say, after several dozen of these incidents, including one very awkward conversation about an empty tampon container, I was left with a quintal full of boomerang-garbage (refused refuse?) and the distinct impression that the system didn't work. So I came up with a new one.

Currently, I have three-pronged Garbage Disposal Plan.

For ordinary garbage (i.e. Benny wrappers, empty xima bags, and other items that Mozambicans consider everyday items) there is a trash bag in the living room. Once a week or so, my neighbor's kids will come over and ask me if they can "throw away my trash". I say yes, fully realizing that they are just going to go root through it to see if there are any interesting things in there that they can play with. (There aren't.) I figure that they're going to go through it either way, so I might as well get some free domestic help out of the deal. I've told them if my garbage ever winds its way back to my front porch, I will never let them take out the trash again. So far, boomerang-trash has been kept at a minimum.

For gross garbage (i.e. rotting food, used tissues, etc) that I do not want children playing with, there is a "compost bucket". I use the term compost very lightly here. Disposal of this bucket requires waiting until everyone has gone to bed (around 9 pm), and then sneaking out the back porch and dumping the bucket's contents over the fence. The goats immediately come and start eating everything. By morning, the evidence is gone! You see, the goats are my accomplices now. (Alternative option for extreme trash: Throw it down the latrine.)

And finally, for special garbage -- that is, American garbage, or anything that would just raise too many questions, there's a separate plastic bag in my bedroom. These items are collected over a week or two, and then disposed of in the nearest garbage can, which happpens to be in Tete City. Yup, when I go shopping on weekends, I leave Mavudzi-Ponte with a backpack full of garbage, carry it 60 kilometers into the city, and dispose of it ninja-style in a secluded trash can there. (I bet the little beggar kids in the city talk about the magical trash can by the bank that always has fascinating stuff in it on Fridays.) I return to the village with a backpack full of groceries. I like to think of it as the Trash Cycle -- kind of like the Water Cycle, but less eco-friendly.

I never thought I'd have to think so much about trash.

Actually, I am a little tired of thinking this much about trash. When the new year starts, I'm going to buy a big metal bucket and just burn my own darn garbage once a week. Problem solved.

A Close Call

I almost died yesterday.

It all started with phone call. I was at school in between classes, hanging out with the other teachers and debating the age of consensual sex, when my phone rang. I reached into the pocket of my bata and pulled out my phone.

"NO!" shouted the Chemistry teacher, as he grabbed my phone from me, fumbling with the buttons to turn it off. "Don't answer that! You'll die!"

I stared, nonplussed. "Huh?"

The math teacher jumped in. "Yeah, there's this mystery 4-digit number that has been calling people, and if you answer the phone call, you die. Instantly."

I looked around to see if anyone else found this as ridiculous as I did, but the other teachers were all just nodding their heads in agreement. As far as they were concerned, I'd just had a brush with death.

The whole day, people were talking about this mystery death number. Mothers flipped out when their children touched their phones (and yet had no problem letting their kids play with the empty bleach bottle in my trash...priorities!) The men debated how they could stop this evil from getting to our village. Even my toughest tenth grade boys shied away from their phones. "I'm scared, Teacher, I don't want to die!"

I just watched, and laughed. How silly!

...but I turned off my phone, juuuuust in case.

Tests and Juicys

I loved school, but I never loved tests. I didn't hate them, but I didn't like them either. After all, who likes tests? Little did I know, however, that many years later, as a teacher, I would rather subject myself to a painful dental exam than have to proctor an English one.

Before any test, I do a review of what we have learned with my classes. Inevitably, everyone has forgotten everything except for maybe two kids. Concepts that really should not be that difficult seem impossible to grasp. ("FOR GOD'S SAKE, YOU JUST LOOK AT THIS CHART THAT I MADE SPECIFICALLY FOR YOU TO FIND OUT WHAT THE PAST TENSE IS!") I cross my fingers and hope that at least something has sunk in.

Come test day, I have to set aside the friendly-English-teacher routine and put on my Stern Teacher Face.

"Put all your notebooks, backpacks, and papers at the front of the classroom," I say, and the students all groan (as if this is a surprise -- not like we've been doing it every single time...) I remind the kids of the rules, which are always the same.

"If I see you talking, minus 1 point. If I see you cheating, minus 5 points. Repeat offenders immediately get a zero. Are we clear?"

"Yes, teacher," the students murmer, rolling their eyes. I roll my eyes back at them and they laugh.

And yet, inevitably, when the test starts, not 5 minutes goes by that someone doesn't turn around and talk to their friend. Moments later, I hear the tell-tale rustle of a notebook being pulled out of some hidden location.

And so it begins.

These kids just love to cheat. They're used to cheating -- that's how most of them have gotten through school up until this point. They don't understand why it's a big deal to me, so they all try -- even the good kids who study for the test cheat.

Boys hide notebooks in their pants. Girls have them up their skirts. Kids put notebooks on the floor so they can kick them open when the test starts. They write on their hands, their arms, their thighs. They hide cheat sheets inside their pencil cases, taped to the underside of their desk, on their friend's backs. They copy their notes several times over to hide them in several places at once. They text answers to each other. They arrange to have someone come to the window to whisper answers into the classroom. Heck, they're probably having someone smoke signal answers to them from the market.

Seeing as you only need a 50% to pass here, if these kids put some of that cheating energy into studying, they'd be just fine.

It's exam time right now, and that means I'm generally in a pretty bad mood. Giving my own tests is rough, but at least I have the authority to take off points and kick kids out. Now that we're doing final exams, I have to proctor other teachers' tests and I have no authority to do anything.

After a particularly rough test today, I was in a foul mood. My next door neighbor's daughter had given me attitude in front of the whole class, nobody was listening to me, and I ended up smacking a kid upside the head with his notebook when I found him cheating for the 3rd time. ("Did I really just hit one of my students? What's happening to me!?")

When that test was over, I seriously considered calling in sick for the rest of the day. I was having one of those moments where you think "Why on earth am I here? What good is this doing anyone?"

That's when my student, Izaquel, came up to me.

"Here teacher," he said, holding out a small frozen popsicle locally called juicy. "I thought you might be hot. And angry. Have a juicy."

"For me?" I asked, and he nodded.

Now let me put this in perspective. Izaquel walks an hour to get to school every day. He owns one shirt and one set of pants, and can't afford the school uniform. His father is drunk most of the time, and spends what little money his family has on low-quality gin. In order to get money to feed his sisters, Izaquel herds cows before and after school for a local farmer for a few meticais a day. Izaquel and his family live on much less than a dollar a day. And yet, here he was, giving me a popsicle.

Honestly, I felt bad taking something from someone who has so little, but refusing would have been rude, and Izaquel genuinely wanted me to take the juicy. I took it, and I ate it, and it wasn't very good and probably gave me some kind of unfiltered-water-parasite, but I enjoyed it 100%.

Immediately, I remembered why I'm here. It's for kids like Izaquel, who, if he continues to study as diligently as he does now, might have a real shot at becoming a professor someday and really improving his station in life. I'm here for the kids who pay attention and raise their hands in my class, even if they have the answer wrong. I'm here for all the students who come to me after class and ask for help.

Tests are awful, and I hate them with every fiber of my being, but I'll get through them. I'll stick it out for my students.

African Magic

I hear about magic on an almost daily basis -- and not the swish-and-flick magic of Harry Potter, or the you-shall-not-pass variant from Lord of the Rings, or even the creepy-red-lady magic of a Song of Ice and Fire. No, this is traditional African Magic, and it's influence, even in a supposedly Catholic town like mine, is huge. Sometimes, the effects of magic on the population make me want to laugh, or shake some sense into people. Sometimes they make me want to hide in my room. On some unfortunate occasions, it makes me want to cry.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

One memorable encounter with magic was a few weeks ago, as summer was really hitting its stride -- one of those days where, even with a fan you still want nothing more than to jump into a pool of ice water. On hot nights, people start to sleep outside to escape their heat-retaining concrete houses.

"You shouldn't sleep outside unless other people are also doing it," my neighbor cautioned, "People have been attacked in the past."

"Attacked?" I asked hesitantly, wondering if my town isn't as safe as I thought it was.

"Yes. By hyenas."

"Uh... hyenas?" I was starting to get nervous about what was really out there in the bush.

"Yes. They're like ghosts, and they come and get you when you're alone. They've very aggressive."

It was at this point when I realized we were not talking about real hyenas, but about magical spirit hyenas. The real kicker was what came next, though.

"Yes, those hyenas are ferocious. Someone saw two of them just last night," she said thoughtfully, "They were wearing baseball caps."

Hmm. OK, sure... transparent ghost-hyenas wearing baseball hats. Sounds legit. No chance at all, of course, that this may have been some of the neighborhood children causing a ruckus. Nope, it was angry spirit hyenas.

Wearing baseball caps.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

My second memorable encounter came just a few days later, on a windy cloudless night.

"Come outside! The world is ending! Come quickly!" my neighbor cried, "The moon is gone!"

My roommate and I rushed outside, and there, in the sky, was a faintly glowing, fuzzy white circle.

"What is it?" people were whispering. The glowing orb was so faint that you couldn't see it if you looked straight at it -- you had to look with your peripheral vision.

"It's probably just a lunar eclipse," my roommate said matter-of-factly. "Yes, this is definitely a lunar eclipse."

That's when the energy went out. Men gasped, children screamed, and women crossed themselves, holding their rosaries.

"It's the end of the world!" people were shouting.

At this point, everyone was outside of their houses, holding their loved ones close, the sound of howling wind mixing with their frantic prayer. It was a tense few minutes.

And then... it disappeared. To be more specific, it dissipated. The wind died down, and the energy came back on. People looked around, shrugged, and went back inside.

Spoiler alert: The world did not end that day. In fact, a US-launched rocket had dumped fuel in the atmosphere, and that was what caused the creepy white cloud. That's what the scientists say, anyway. My neighbors? Well, they're convinced it was a sign from the ancestors, who were clearly unhappy. Interestingly enough, that week all the teachers were at school -- no one skipped, everyone did their job. It seems fear of the apocalypse will do wonders for job productivity!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

 My third major encounter with magic took place just last week, and has a much more tragic ending.

In the really rural bush towns, curandeiros, or witch doctors, are still considered the go-to solution for illnesses, curses, and life's setbacks. Most of the time, the healing of curandeiros consists of a paste made of herbs, or magical plants tied around parts of the body in special ways. However, it's not unheard of for curandeiros to use rather extreme measures -- specifically, kidnapping children and using their bones and blood to cast the most powerful of spells.

It happened last week at about six-thirty at night. One of the seventh-graders from my school was walking back to Mavudzi-Ponte after a weekend at his home village a dozen kilometers away. In a stroke of luck, a passing Land Cruiser stopped, and the driver offered him a ride. The kid got in the back of the truck and settled down for the short ride. In no time at all, they arrived in Mavudzi-Ponte. The driver of the car had his windows closed and his radio up, so he didn't hear the kid knocking on the glass of the cab to signal his desire to get out. He just kept driving, straight past Mavudzi-Ponte.

At this point, the kid started to panic, thinking he was being kidnapped. Having heard horror stories from his parents and grandparents about the fate of children doomed for use in black magic, he made a decision.  Better to be permanently scarred and deformed than dead in the bush, he reasoned. Then he jumped out of moving car.

Unfortunately, he underestimated the speed of the Land Cruiser. When he landed, he bounced, and cracked his skull open on the pavement, dying almost instantly. A simple journey, that he had made many times before, proved fatal this time.

The next day at school, classes were canceled. All the teachers facilitated conversations with their classes about what is and is not dangerous, and each student gave a contribution for the dead student's family. The student was buried the very next day, and after that, life went back to normal as if nothing had happened.

"É assim que o Moçambicano morre," my friend said sadly, shaking her head. "This is how Mozambicans die."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My New Roommate

As you know, I've been pretty excited about receiving a new roommate. Someone to hang out with when everyone else in town has left... someone to chat with in the evenings... someone to sit on the couch with and watch movies late at night....

Today, I finally received my new roommate, and, well... she's got some quirks.

First of all, the spent the first three hours after moving in hiding in dark corners. She didn't say anything, just kind of.. whimpered for a bit. She wouldn't interact with anyone, and only came out when I prepared dinner. She's very frightened and jumpy. Oh, and she's super hairy. Just thick black hair all over her body.

I should probably mention, I am talking about a cat.

Meet Lilu. I just watched the Fifth Element again last night, and I decided to name my new kitten after the "CHICKEN! GOOD!" chick from that movie. Incidentally, what a simultaneously horrible and awesome movie.

Back to the point. Taking a yowling kitten home in a crowded chapa with a backpack full of groceries is no walk in the park. Lilu was transported to my house in a cardboard beer box. As soon as she got here, she darted under the couch and didn't come out until I set a saucer of milk in front of the couch. She was thirsty, and hungry too! I fed her some canned fish that I bought in the grocery store -- looks pretty disgusting, but she ate it right up.

Honestly, I have no idea how to take care of a cat. I've never had one. But I'm really looking forward to learning! It's already been pretty fun. As I write this, Lilu is playing around in my buckets. In fact, it looks like she's stuck in the big bucket. Oops. Well, that's all for now then, more later!