Over Land and Lake

After our Nyassa visit, we headed back towards home via the lake (known as
Nyassa to Portuguese speakers and Malawi to English speakers) crossing
the skinny strip of water from island to island. Likoma island with its century
old cathedral, which is still the largest and most graceful church in Central
Africa, and extremely friendly locals was a welcome respite from our frenetic
Peace Corps lives and a nice place to catch our breathes. Water transport in
Africa is as crowded, uncomfortable, and full of surprises as land transport.
We took a motorized canoe for the first streach, a traditional swahili type sail
boat on the second streach, and the legendary Ilala ferry, which has been plying
the waters of Lake Malawi for the past fifty years, on the last strech. The
ferry showed up four hours late, blowing its baritone fog horn at 1AM to wake us
and the other potential travelers who were all dozing on the beach guarding
their piles of baggage. Everyone simotaneously scrambled for the skiffs
which shuttle passangers from the shoreside to the massive boat, which can't get
too close for fear of getting stuck in the sand. Once on board we squeezed
through the humanity in search of a spot on the floor not covered in dried fish
or nursing mothers. We eventually found somewhere we could fully extend out on
the cargo deck where the air was fresh enough to breathe. We slept
shallowly, clutching our valuables, for the five hour journy to the Malawi
mainland, or at least until a morning downpour aroused us from our uneasy
slumber and everyone tried to crush into the already full second class galley.
At one time the Ilala must have been an elegant means of getting from place to
place, but with at least ten times the recommended number of human beings on
board at all times, its more an exercise of endurance these days. Of course
most of the foreigners and white people or anyone else with enough money to
spare to pay three times the base fare, can escape the dingey underbelly of the
boat and relax on the airy upper deck, next to the bar. We could have afforded
this luxury, but Luc's strong ideological stubborness got in the way. We made
it all the same to Nkhata where Janet immediately found a bed and slept for the
next five hours while Luc scouted out the transportation situation for the rest
of the overland haul to the Peace Corps Office in Lilongwe. Although Mozambique
is all about the beaches, since we live deep in the Tete interior, we're fairly
isolated from the postcard paradise beaches, so this return voyage offered a
couple piteresque spits of sand to watch the day close while sipping a sundowner
beer (or water in Luc's case).

Fim do Mundo

Anyone who read this blog regularly last year knows how we struggled while
serving in isolated Tete province so far away from Peace Corps Mozambique. Well
this year Peace Corps opened a new province, Nyassa, and the six volunteers
there have stolen the title of serving at the edge of the world. Since Luc is
the local volunteer Peer Support Network representative, and with just
skinny Malawi seperating Tete from Nyassa, we decided to give the newbies a
visit and share the coping strategies we developed during our solitary existance
last year. So after a 4:30 AM start and six different transports, we
successfully made the international jump, landing in Nyassa by mid
afternoon. Our last transport was an open-back truck, which took us up switchbacks with great views of the lakes behind us as we ascended into a misty cloud, which unfortunately meant we got a little wet. But we did see some baboons and the sun finally came out for the final piece of our journey, a seven- kilometer walk across a no-man´s land between border posts. Nyassa is the most forgotten neglected province in the country, and the infrastructure reflects this. The roads are terrible. Several people commented unsolicitedly that the Cuamba to Mandimba dirt road is the worst stretch in the country, confirming what our sore butts already knew. The province is beautiful, and the sites are great for Peace Corps service; they are just isolated. The new volunteers are coping all right, despite some rodent issues in one site. Volunteers always show each other plenty of hospitality, so despite sleeping on the floor, they made us comfortable with whatever spare
mattresses, blankets, or padding they could scrounge and we ate at the nicest
restaurants available, but most of all we just enjoyed chatting and sharing each
other's company.

Women´s Day Take Two

So once again its April 7th and we're celebrating Mozambican Women's Day with
our community. As usual, our youth groups prepared a play, and some songs and
dances. Our theater group has improved dramatically over the past year. With a
little prompting from us, the kids chose to present a piece on being boyfriend
and girlfriend without having sex entitled "Sexo, Liga Mais Tarde" (Sex, Call
back Later).We've been doing exercisizes to get them to focus on more body
movement and gesturing and voice projection and enunciation, and it shows. We
had two canadian visitors who speak no Portuguese watch a practice and they
totally got what was happening just based on our kid's non-verbal skills. Come
April 7th we were all down at the star shaped monument for the ritual of mostly
disorganized holiday celebrating. The women's group forgot their anthum, so
after the first line they just all looked sheepish and mumbled while the local
dignitaries shook their heads in shame. Our groups, on the other hand were all
primed and ready to go. The girls sang and danced with Janet's counterpart,
decked out in various 2011 Women's Day wraps, and then it was time for our main
act. Unfortunately, our compelling theater performance inspired so much
excitement the entire audience tried to squeeze to the front row resulting in a
choking mosh pit crush. Then we all witnessed Janet transform into the
incredible hulk, stop the entire holiday, and parted the seas of squirming
youths so that the show could go on. Wow, that was really exciting, I think our
kid's were impressed with Janet's ability to establish order in such a chaotic
setting. After, the drum corps starting beating their tribal rythms to summon
the Nyau dancers and everyone starting boogie-ing in circles Mozambique style.
We quitely slipped out the back.

Sketchy Electricity

Workmanship here would generally fall into the category of shoddy if graded by USA standards. This is particularly scary in the electrical field. Copper from live wires stripped of their plastic insulation protrude into everyday life everywhere, including our own home, although we’ve tried to cover any potentially life threatening hazards within casual touching range. In just our first month in site one of our three-pronged South African sockets into which our landlord had jammed one of our two pronged European type extension cords spontaneously started on fire, leaving us with only two functioning electric outlets in the entire house. Currently we cannot turn our porch light on because the plastic light switch fell off one night. Even when we could turn it on we would have to rotate the bulb until we got its orientation just right for it to glow. Half the time we leave our cell phones to charge we come back after an hour with still no juice in the battery because the plug shifted slightly in our absence. We’re constantly charging batteries to use when the power’s out for various American gadgets such as our headlamps, ipod speakers, ipod, e-reader, cell phone, camera, etc. Our fan only works when its plug is left at about a 45° angle and it can’t get going on its own with the weak night time power, so we have to jump start it by manually rotating the blades until the motor takes over. In the evening time, or whenever we turn our stove on, the lights dim to just below what’s desired for reading comfortably. We can only operate our laptop or any other type of sensitive electronics with a voltage stabilizer, and even then it’s not 100% safe, as testified by the fried hardware in our school computers (we’re down to just 4 from the 7 computers we started with last year). We thought the computer lab AC had been fried last month while we were still in hot season, but it was just that the tape holding the circuit breaker closed had fallen off. Since there are no real electricians in town, our school recruits the physics teacher for any electrical work. This was great last year when we had Nazare, who specialized in electricity, but this year’s group of physics teachers really struggles keeping our school wired, which is essential for the adult students who study at night. But at least we have electricity, and it’s been much more reliable this year, even though it did go out last night in the middle of cooking spaghetti dinner.

Vaccines in Malawi

You already know how many shots and vaccines we’ve received here in Mozambique to protect us from the hordes of tropical diseases continuously laying siege to our foreign bodies. Luckily we’ve managed to stay relatively healthy here, probably due to this vaccine aegis. Also our site’s higher elevation, a good source of clean water, a well balanced diet, and lots of good karma contribute to our relatively disease-free service. Despite the occasional bouts with minor sickness we haven’t experienced anything that would seem outlandish by USA standards. Now we’ve added two more vaccines to the list. Luc had to have his Yellow fever vaccine renewed. He had been inoculated his first time serving in Honduras in 2001, but the protection against this potentially lethal fever only lasts ten years and just ran out a couple months ago. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem since Yellow Fever is not usually present in Moz, but it is endemic to Tanzania, where we are planning to spend our winter break. We discovered this while inspecting our large yellow World Health Organization cards that document our now extensive history of vaccinations which visitors must present proof of vaccination to enter, and again when leaving. Luckily our Mozambique Peace Corps Office was able to refer us to the Malawi office for the shot. The half day journey to Lilongwe certainly beats the 40+ hour trek to Maputo. Plus, Evelyn, the big mama nurse who administers the shots gives the best hugs. So, just a few weeks after our trip to the Peace Corps Malawi office we’re back again this time for both of us to get a flu shot. It’s not too bad of a trip, and we get to eat at Janet’s favorite Chinese restaurant and stock up on peanut butter, powdered milk, and toilet paper. It’s much easier to prevent a disease than to treat one; we just wish they had a malaria vaccine we could get instead of having to take prophylaxis medications during the whole two years here in Africa.

Celebrating in Site

As a holdover from their ancestor worship beliefs, families here periodically commemorate the deaths of loved ones. Seven days, six months, and one year seem like particularly important intervals for celebrating. This past weekend marked the half year anniversary of Nelson’s death. He was our neighbor and landlord. His widow, Marcelina, came by months ago to invite us to the event and ask for a three month advance on our rent; apparently there are lots of expenses associated with hosting this type of affair, mainly for feeding out of town relatives. We didn’t know what exactly to expect for this funeral reprise, but given the theme of death we imagined something dour. It turned out to be a raucous happening, more in the frat party genre, with guests focused mainly on inebriation. We weren’t too surprised as we had noticed two youths carrying some oversized speakers on their heads to our neighbor’s yard earlier that morning, and we did remember something in retrospect about Marcelina needing to buy lots of corn to brew the party staple pombe, a homemade beer Janet describes as semi-sweet burning fermented grossness. At some point Marcelina borrowed our knife to slice up a goat to barbeque. It turns out there was a more solemn sunrise ceremony at the cemetery involving cleaning the gravesite and covering it in flowers, but it must have happened very early since Luc was up at 6am, and everyone had already returned. We didn’t spend too much time at the party, as it turns out we had our own impromptu celebration for our Peace Corps Malawi neighbor Oliver. He lives in the bush with no public transportation to and from site, just a daily ambulance to hitch with. His friends had planned a big surprise birthday party for him and invited us, but Africa had a surprise of its own. A week of heavy rain left the already sketchy 25 km dirt road from his village to the district capital impassable, leaving all the would-be guests partying at our buddy Jordan’s house and Oliver celebrating his birthday by himself. Luckily thanks to a transnational foot path that connects our site to Oliver’s, he just biked to our house (which took under 2 hours on his fancy Peace Corps issued South African Trek which Luc tries not to covet). It’s easy to impress volunteers from the bush, we forget about the little things like electric lights, our toaster oven for baking cakes (Janet improvised an orange chocolate chip cake of amazingness, complete with birthday candles), watching movies on our laptop computer, charging cell phones, and refrigeration (which we used for making lime Jello); but these are all luxuries and special treats for Oliver. So as we enjoyed our subdued celebration of Oliver’s special day, our neighbors drank and danced the afternoon away, occasionally spilling over into our yard with their off balanced gyrations and incomprehensible speech in slurred dialect. A heavy afternoon shower dampened the mood next door and finally a power outage finished off the celebration, which we didn’t mind since everyday life here already generates noise beyond ideal relaxation levels and we weren’t anticipating sleeping well with hundreds of people partying fifty feet outside our window.

Sunday Soccer

The few locals with satellite services able to televise professional soccer matches charge about 10mts, 30 cents US, for watching, which only our teacher colleagues and other salaried workers can afford. With plenty of passion for soccer but very limited access to viewing broadcasts, the weekly soccer games on the town pitch always draw a crowd. Our town has several teams, some drawing players from local entities, like the health workers or boarder guard teams, and others from neighborhoods, like the Sanjika team based in our bairro. We even have a teachers’ team, but we don’t play too often, although several of our teachers manage other local teams. Sometimes its hard to tell who exactly is playing because there are only a few complete sets of uniforms, so the teams pass them around. A hierarchy exists encompassing all levels of Mozambican soccer, although no one seems able to explain its exact structure. What is clear is that our teams are near the bottom of the soccer pecking order, but occasionally when one of our them is on a winning streak the team may get invited to play one of the more legitimate sides from the provincial capital. Other times we get stood-up, like the week we all came out to see our boys play one of the teams sponsored by the big coal company down in Moatize that never showed up. Game day atmosphere tends to be mellow and conducive to talking with friends on the sidelines while eating sugar cane or other simple snacks available from the ladies who usually work near the market, but migrate to wherever large crowds assemble. Alcohol is usually consumed moderately, but there’s always enough for a few drunken fans to take their cheerleading and trash talking to either funny or annoying extremes. After last year’s World Cup vuvuzela craze, at least one person in town managed to get one of those annoying horns and he makes it heard at every game. Matches usually start late and don’t necessarily end with the referee’s final whistle. Various unrelated problems can lead to the termination of play: the ball getting stuck in a tree or going flat, lack of light if the game gets going too late in the day, a controversial penalty call prompting one team to storm off the field, or actual storms when the rain is really heavy. The soccer field is not completely flat, but it does sit on the edge of town with a panoramic backdrop of the rolling fields dotted by mango trees and gigantic rock mountains. We don’t always make it to games, but we live close enough for the cheering to inform us how many goals have been scored in each contest.

Community Justice

We are sitting calmly in the shade of our mango tree, when we hear a growing roar. Without any further warning, a large crowd squeezes down the pathway just outside our fence. Its attention fixated on a pathetic, almost naked man, with a swollen face and bleeding limbs. We’ve been here long enough to know that another thief has been caught, and the neighbors, armed with bamboos, branches, rocks, and belts, are exacting justice. Almost unable to walk, and surely unable to escape, the robber is at the mercy of the frenzy. He probably will not be killed, normally the mob will stop before that and leave the already severely punished individual to the police to deal with as they see fit, or, as we saw in another occasion, tie him to a tree so that all passers-by can behold the fate of criminals. In this way, the brutish ritual serves as a deterrent to future would-be-thieves; surely it must leave a strong impression on the throngs of youngsters yelping behind the main participants as the horde parades through town, swelling in numbers as it weaves between homes along the narrow twisted paths. In this case the thief attempted to rob our neighborhood mill when he thought no one would be around due to a power outage. Unfortunately for him, the proprietors happened upon him while he was rummaging for valuables and jammed the door shut from the outside. With the red-handed thief trapped inside, the mill’s owners gathered the nearby residents. With the posse assembled, they pulled out the crook and began wailing on him with anything at hand. In the cities, where crime is rampant and more violent, people take local justice to an extreme, frequently killing criminals. The method we’ve seen reported the most often on TV involves immobilizing victims by squeezing old pneumatic tires around their bodies, dousing them in petrol, and setting them afire. Lynching is officially discouraged, but many people see it as their only chance of maintaining order in areas were police forces don’t have the resources to attend to the expanding needs of growing urban populations. Although it is easy to sympathize with community members trying to protect themselves from crime, this extreme street justice does not seem like a viable solution, and it can easily get out of hand, like when several women accused of witchcraft on the outskirts of the capital city where burned to death. Here in rural Mozambique cases tend to be more clear cut and non-lethal, with street justice reserved for those caught in the actual act of committing a crime. Sometimes the punishment seem sto outweigh the offense. Upon inquiring about the wrongdoing of a recently severely abused man we were told his trespass was stealing a chair.

Photocopy extortion

Unfortunately teachers, like our school, tend to be cash strapped, so they use finals as a time to extort money from students. The current racket involves making photocopies for the exam. Our school has no copier, so it would be easier to just write the exam on the chalk board and have students take it on a piece of notebook paper, but our school wants to keep up with the fancy city schools who give out photocopied tests during finals, so the director authorized teachers to collect money from students and make copies on their own. Copies cost less than 2mts each, about 5 cents US, but the nearest and only reliable place to make copies in Mozambique for us is in Tete city, over 100 kms away. We had a copy machine in town at Richard’s a little electronics hut near the market, but Richard has been accused of selling exams to students in the past, so we’re discouraged from using him, plus he can only buy the toner in South Africa, so his machine is usually out of commission. We can also make copies in Malawi, but that involves crossing the border and exchanging Meticais for Kwachas. Plus the last time we tried to make copies on that side we just found a note written in Chewa stapled to a tree where the copy stand was supposed to be located with a phone number, so we didn’t get any copies that day. Still, despite all the photocopy drama, a teacher can cover all of his or her transportation costs and make copies with charging students just 3mets each. We have never charged more and we have never lost money on the errand. Still, we have teachers charging students up to 10mets for a one-page exam. With most of us teaching about 300 to 500 students, the extra 20 cents each per copy can add up to a nice little bonus. Of course it comes at the expense of our students, some of whom have a hard time mustering up the cash. Those who haven’t paid by exam day are forced to negotiate with their teacher before being allowed to sit for the test. Some students are starting to protest, and one teacher even agreed to return some of the money after pressured by protesting 10th graders, but most of the poorest students or the new 8th graders are too meek to speak out, even when they are the ones with the most difficulty in paying the dollar or so their nine exams might add up to. We are thinking about bringing up the situation next faculty meeting because all of our reputations suffer when certain colleagues take advantage. We already recommending having students make a single photocopy contribution at the beginning of each academic year so that the school could have one representative travel to the city with everyone’s exam and make all the copies at once, but that didn’t happen. Luc still refuses to use photocopies. For most exams it is unnecessary since the five or six questions could be easily written on the board, but our school and most students really enjoy the modern feel photocopies give our finals period, so our administrators keep encouraging them, despite the inconvenience. Of course teachers pocketing some extra cash aren’t complaining about the extra work.

Mrs. ID

The Ministry of Education now requires 10th graders sitting for national exams to have some sort of photo ID to verify who they are. Out here in rural Mozambique it’s rare for a student to even have a birth certificate, so most of our kids don’t have anything official with their name on it. Many kids don’t even have an official spelling for their name, which makes alphabetizing anything difficult since a name like Xababe can also appear as Chababi. Official ID cards cost 200mets, about 6$, and can only be made in the city, over 100kms away. The process requires two trips, one to order the ID and another trip three weeks later to receive it, and the ID office is not open on the weekends. Plus, you need two mugshots, something else that can only be done in the city, so that requires yet another trip. Transport to and from the city costs about $6, even if you hitch on a semi, so it adds up and discourages most of our students from getting the fancy government cards. Last year our school’s solution was to have Janet, our resident computer whiz (haha), make student ID cards for the 10th graders without any ID. This basically involved taking pictures and inserting them into a little word document template Janet designed, and printing them, off six per page on some green card stock. We charged 10 mets each, about 25 cents US, to cover the costs and make a little extra for the school. The IDs were so popular and lucrative that this year the school director told every student to get one. Janet heard about this during the morning assembly, so no, she wasn’t consulted on how feasible this would be or how many extra hours she would have to put in to make it happen. Of course, everyone wants one of these little pieces of colored paper with their printed name and picture and an official school stamp; we’ve even had non-students asking about them, so over 350 people showed up. As this is one of the few times students are photographed, and indeed for some it is the first time ever, this turned into a big deal with some students even showing up in ties and jackets. Luc tried to collect money and biometric data from the hundreds of students, and maintain some sort of line so that each individual could stand in front of the white backside of the school digestive system poster we hung in front of the computer lab as Janet snapped away with her little camera. Of course every bystander crowded around her trying to catch a glimpse of the camera’s digital screen, and inevitably laughed at every one of their classmates’ portraits. The 25 cents are funds desperately needed by our cash-strapped school and we’re always glad to help when we can, but it is a major logistical hassle, especially during finals week!

Finals

It’s that time again when we have to control final trimester exams. Our reputations as the strictest teachers at the school, long cemented with the older kids, increases with ever cheater we expel. Rumors of our methods must have percolated even to the newbies since 8th graders we’ve never controlled before also shudder when we walk by and cheer when they realize we are not entering their classroom this time just like the others. One of Luc’s former students made the sign of the cross when Luc walked particularly close to the door of the 9th grade A class, the soon to be cheating student’s prayer was answered as Luc had been assigned 8th grade C for the Bio test, one students prepare extraordinarily elaborate cheat sheets for due to the amount of drawings and chalk board information provided during the trimester. When we do enter a class there are always a few students who moan making the “what am I going to do now?” sentiment audible. One classroom Luc entered had several students immediately jettison their cheat sheets out the nearest window even before he initiated his thorough inspection routine, so the odds of getting caught are discouraging at least some from playing the cheating game. We can sympathize with how professional sportsmen must feel when receiving the jeers in front of a hostile crowd, we try to convince ourselves that this is somehow an honoring of our principles or at least our proctoring skills, but it is mostly discouraging. Of course the one or two students who actual studied applaud our entry knowing their high marks will not need to compete with the usual hordes of cheating-inflated scores. We now have a whole year of experience, so it’s easier to manage our final exam duties, but it’s tiring facing such a hostile crowd day after day. Luc had a particularly intense proctoring schedule, appearing on the afternoon duty roster 10 times and we only have 9 tests, so that meant he was assigned to both 8th grade classes D and E for mathematics. Janet had less proctoring duties since she is only available during the morning when the 9th and 10th graders studying. We suspect they are trying to keep our no-nosense tactics away from these classes so as not to depress the passing rates.

Making it Through Another Trimester!

All teachers probably fantasize at times about arriving to school only to find it devoid of students and enjoying a surprise day off. Of course it's wrong to imagine our already educationally handicapped kids losing more school time, but sometimes we are just dreaming of a little respite from the demanding workweek. We definitely don't have snow days here, but Mozambique has other little ways for miracles to work their magic for teachers limping to the end of a trimester. This Thursday our site happened to host Tuberculosis Day. Coincidentally Thursdays happen to be Luc's craziest day of the week; so after four hours of teaching and a rushed lunch, he was heading back to school for six more periods of repeating, "I AM, YOU ARE, HE IS..." The vice-principal had already assured us that classes would continue as scheduled despite the festivities, but sure enough, Luc showed up to an empty classroom. The electric drumming at the soccer field had drawn
everyone to the Nyau's magnetic dancing and the conclusion of the TB program. Even though the event only burned the first two periods of the afternoon, only about half the students drifted back to campus making a joke of the rest of the school day. The next day it's Friday afternoon and Luc is typing this blog while Janet finnishes student ID cards for the entire 8th grade and we realize not a single one of our colleagues is to be found on campus. Kids are slowly wandering away so its unlikely any classes will take place. A lady selling beans nextdoor tells us a rural chief had died so teachers are attending the funeral; someone else theorizes the district must have deposited teacher salaries that week so everyone has rushed off to the city to visit our nearest ATM. We never got an authoritative answer, but as the last teaching day of the trimester it's an anticlimactic end to ten weeks of hard work. Considering our current state of exhaustion, we're
not complaining.