Yesterday, we had a “Day of Culture” in Monapo, or as I like to call it “I don’t feel like going to school or work so I officially dub thee a Day of Culture.” I walked from the school with my students to the community stage, where there was music blasting and kids in uniform as far as the eye could see. I quickly got asked to dance and my students got pretty excited when I pulled out my dance moves. It was a repeat of the rousing impromptu dance performance during physical education last year. Let’s just say, I took it to the streets for about…10 seconds. Northwestern Wisconsin streets. In a matter of seconds, I was surrounded by cheering/staring kids. They get a kick out of anything out of the ordinary my roommate or I do. Kids here are amazing dancers. You will be walking down the street and all of a sudden, with music blaring from a local store, they will pull out these sick dance moves and then continue walking as if nothing just happened. People can pop and lock it from the womb here.
For culture day, there was a presentation by local officials – a presentation that, in all honesty, no one cared about. There is a stage but it’s odd because the officials sit on the stage while people dancing or performing are on the ground with the general public. Wouldn’t it make more sense to put those people on the stage so people could see? Yes. Yes, it would. But anyways, as they were presenting on the stage, we noticed a guy had a shirt from the JOMA conference in Nampula this year. Backstory - besides REDES in Mozambique, there is also another youth group that is run by Peace Corps volunteers called JOMA (Youth for Change and Action – translated). They had their conference at the same time as ours that I made a speech at and Nia and I both have shirts. Nia had run into him earlier in the month for “Day of Workers” and he was wearing the shirt. She asked him where he got it and he leaned in really close and was like “why do you want to know so bad?” She asked him where he got the shirt from and he said it was from someone in Angoche. She then asked him who gave it to him because she probably knows them. And then he went into this ridiculous lie about how people have different names on their identification cards so he couldn’t be certain. Well, after getting home yesterday, I was curious about where my JOMA shirt was and lo and behold, it’s missing. The only explanation we can come up with is that he took it off our clothesline. What a creep. So I am determined to see him in public wearing the shirt, and then walk up behind him and do that nifty little hockey trick where they pull it over the person’s back. Followed promptly by the biggest wedgie of his life.
I have been going running every morning at 5:30 at the soccer field by our house and I’m up to 7 laps. There are always children playing soccer, so it can be annoying at times. I have to hide my heavy breathing every time I jog past. You jog past a group of people and they just stare. Stare, Stare. Stare. That’s life for us. Like a monkey in a cage. I enjoy staring back with exaggeration – my jaw hanging down. And then say something like “flies are going to enter your mouth.” Most of the time they get embarrassed and look away, but sometimes they just look confused. One day, these two little boys were sitting in the field and as I started my laps, they stood up and started jogging behind me. Every time I would go slow, they would go slow. Every time I sprinted, they would sprint. It was all quite annoying - like “I know you are but what am I?” or repeating everything someone says. Another time I had the same pace as a 12-year old girl. I tried to pass her but then she sped up. I tried to slow down and I swear she slowed her gait. I think she wanted to run with me, which is cute and everything because I’m the only other female in the field in the morning, but I can’t handle that kind of pressure. I’m the lone wolf type when it comes to exercise.
I am having issues with a turma (class) of students. I handed out a falta collectiva (marking everyone as absent) and a falta vermelha (the worst offense) one day this last week. They just get obnoxious and you have to try to put them in their place. Some teachers have changed classes in the school so they don’t have to teach certain bad turmas. It shouldn’t be like that. In my mind, there should be major punishment for that kind of behavior. For example, kicking them out of school. I become evil when I have a bad turma. I was kicking people out left and right. I made everyone who didn’t do their homework (which was about 90 percent of the class) sit on the floor between the aisles for the entire class period, which is not comfortable. A fellow teacher walked into my classroom in the middle of class to make an announcement and all my students looked up from between the desks like prairie dogs. I think I’ll have a Mozambican teacher yell at them for me. Or at least tattle on specific people to the pedagogical director. There just gets to a point where there isn’t anything you can do and you have to call in the reinforcements.
Kids at the school have been barking at the dog and standing in the cashew tree again. So I went and talked to the school and we haven’t had a problem for the rest of the week. It’s ridiculous that no one controls the kids here. No teachers show up to school so the kids just sit around and get bored, so they decide to stir up trouble. One day I was teaching at school and Nia was home. I guess a kid was throwing rocks at the dog and barking at Timba. Well, Timba has this King Kong-like ability to burst free from his restraints when he is enticed and he managed to do so. He immediately sprinted out of the gate and chased down the kid. As he was trying to flee, the kid got so scared that he fell down and Timba just stopped on a dime next to the kid and turned around as if to say “well, my work here is done.” I like to imagine he dusted his paws off. I would have given up my monthly salary and eaten just cassava for weeks to see that.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
I am Feeling Downright Collicky Today
So life has been crazy busy and internet hasn’t been working in my town…and those are my reasons for not updating this. Just think of my desire to update this often as a new years resolution – a completely breakable promise with the best intentions. The REDES conference was a success! It was in the city for four days with 47 girls, 7 Mozambican counterparts and 10 Peace Corps volunteers. Each day, they had a focus on a certain area – gender, HIV/AIDS and health, women’s rights and setting goals. Also, they had technical projects – painting a mural, sewing a capulana purse, first aid sessions, cleaning a park, and computer classes. Everything ran fairly smoothly. No one got seriously ill during the conference. One of my girls told another girl to tell me that she felt sick. I went and found her and asked her what was wrong, only to have her reply with “I feel a little colicky.” I thought that babies only got that. I just told her to drink some water and sleep, which worked like a charm. That was my response to all reported headaches and minor pains. Yeah, I know. I’m a veritable Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. All in all, I’ve never been that tired in the span of a week. It was stressful and wonderful all wrapped into one. I definitely consider it one of my top achievements in life thus far…besides figuring out that it’s “I’m Shameless,” not “I’m Shaving,” in the hit country song by Garth Brooks.
Since the conference, I’ve had a chance to relax a bit. All of us Nampula volunteers went to Angoche the weekend after to celebrate a fellow PCV’s opening of an impressive youth center and to hang out on the beach. Then, I went to Chocas and Ilha with another volunteer and some ex-pats. It was a lot of fun, despite unnecessarily long chapa rides and a freakishly horrible display of exiting a boat. I have realized that these Wisconsin legs are meant only for land and reasonably small bodies of water. There’s a reason why the Little Mermaid had transition issues. I tried to gracefully descend from the boat, only to slide down the side and fall straight into the water, leaving three bruises (arm, leg and ego, respectively).
One might say I have an irrational fear of a boat tipping over but I think it all circles back to swimming lessons I took when I was about 7 years old. I refused to jump off the diving board until they finally convinced me that it’s not as bad if you hold onto the long metal pole. Well, those teenage swimming instructors were a bunch of Judases because it’s not. When I went to Girl Scout camp a couple years later, Camp Nawakwa, to be exact, they gave me a “yellow zone” swimming bracelet – based entirely on my inability to tread water. The yellow zone was equivalent to what I was bathed in at the age of three. So I stood there in my swimsuit and yellow bracelet, stomping through that puddle they referred to as the “yellow zone” while the other girls got to be submersed in the “orange” and cannon ball like lunatics off of the “red zone” dock. I don’t regret it though. If you think about it, if that lake were an ocean, those red zone show-offs would be the first victims of a great white and I would be the one with all my limbs intact, applying a thick layer of SPF 40 on the shore, saying “well, that sucks.” Glass half full indeed.
My REDES group is going well. We started sewing machine lessons this week. The sewing machine “master” (as he refers to himself) took apart the machine and oiled it. With the machine torn apart, screws lying everywhere, he then tried to tell me that the job would cost 400 mt to complete. I flat out refused and said 100 mt and he laughed. When people try to rip me off and then giggle, I go straight from negotiating to slinging insults. It’s a defense mechanism that doesn’t always get me what I want but it makes me feel a ton better to emotionally maim someone. I went from saying 100 mt to telling the guy that if he wants to take advantage of people and hinder development in Mozambique, he can walk out the front gate and I can get someone else to put the machine together. And then he starts talking to the girls in Macua. Which resulted in me saying “You don’t know how to speak Portuguese, huh? Do you know anything?” All of my REDES girls looked at the ground. I think I made them uncomfortable but maybe it was a lesson in not letting people walk all over you. We settled on 150 and the assurance that he would come when I call to do machine maintenance. That is a promise that might be similar to my promise to update this blog - minus the best intentions.
I am having a woman from the Women’s Club in town teach me a different skill each week that I will, in turn, teach the girls. I tried to get her to come last week. Apparently, in her world, saying to be somewhere at 8 technically falls somewhere between 9 and 9:30. It’s amazing how one can feel like a date being continuously stood up in Mozambique. It’s like Groundhog’s Day meets…Never Been Kissed? We are trying it again this week and I’m hopeful everything will run smoothly and according to plan and other cliches I cant think of at the moment. My ultimate goal though is to give them the basic sewing instructions they need in order to operate a sewing machine and they can take it from there after I leave. Before I leave Mozambique, I have to figure out a location to leave the sewing machines so that the girls can continue the project in order to make it sustainable. So far, we are learning how to work the pedal on the machine and punch holes in a piece of paper. If you are nice to me, I can stitch your name in a piece of notebook paper along with a heartwarming message. Merry Christmas.
I went to the police station next door to finally talk to them about actually sitting down and talking to this guy who stole money from a project I was working on last year. I filed a report and sat in a concrete room with three bored police officers plucking away on typewriters the size of a small SUV. I returned later in the day to walk to the guy’s house with a police officer. I wanted to do it all SWAT-like. For example, send a plain clothes police officer or just send me in first to lay down a false sense of security. But no, the officer goes with me in full policeman’s garb. Apparently subtlety is right up there with chivalry in terms of all things dead. Children in the neighborhood ran screaming when they saw the whitey and the officer. Their mothers were no help either. “Policia! Policia! Policia!” The kids then ran and grabbed guns they had fashioned out of banana leaves and bamboo and pretended to hide from the police while their mothers pretended to turn them in. Would have been cute if we weren’t trying to apprehend a perp. Turns out, this guy got a job working at a banana farm about 50 km from Monapo and is only home on the weekends. The school still won’t let him graduate because of the money he stole and all he can do now is work. If I were him, I would be doing everything I could to get this money back but his priorities seem to be about as organized as my intestinal tract.
I received my COS (close-of-service) date of November 20th. I’m pretty happy about that because it means I will be home in time for Thanksgiving. I will fly home on the 20th. There’s a lot to do before then though so I have plenty to keep myself occupied. I have the library project I’m working on at my school. My sister is coming in July to visit for a couple of weeks and then we are going to Cape Town in South Africa for a week. After that, in August, I have a close of service conference with everyone from my Peace Corps group. September and October will be busy with finishing up projects and beginning that fateful step of searching for a job in the states. I don’t want to be pulled into the black hole of watching The Price is Right and eating frozen chicken pot pies in my parents’ living room for any longer than I have to. And my spider senses tell me my parents would rather not have that black hole exist either. I am thinking I want to work in the Twin Cities for a year or two to save up money for some furthering of education. I’m not exactly sure of what that furthering of education will entail at this point but I figured that it will come to me. Maybe in a dream. Or on a piece of buttered toast in my parents’ living room.
Since the conference, I’ve had a chance to relax a bit. All of us Nampula volunteers went to Angoche the weekend after to celebrate a fellow PCV’s opening of an impressive youth center and to hang out on the beach. Then, I went to Chocas and Ilha with another volunteer and some ex-pats. It was a lot of fun, despite unnecessarily long chapa rides and a freakishly horrible display of exiting a boat. I have realized that these Wisconsin legs are meant only for land and reasonably small bodies of water. There’s a reason why the Little Mermaid had transition issues. I tried to gracefully descend from the boat, only to slide down the side and fall straight into the water, leaving three bruises (arm, leg and ego, respectively).
One might say I have an irrational fear of a boat tipping over but I think it all circles back to swimming lessons I took when I was about 7 years old. I refused to jump off the diving board until they finally convinced me that it’s not as bad if you hold onto the long metal pole. Well, those teenage swimming instructors were a bunch of Judases because it’s not. When I went to Girl Scout camp a couple years later, Camp Nawakwa, to be exact, they gave me a “yellow zone” swimming bracelet – based entirely on my inability to tread water. The yellow zone was equivalent to what I was bathed in at the age of three. So I stood there in my swimsuit and yellow bracelet, stomping through that puddle they referred to as the “yellow zone” while the other girls got to be submersed in the “orange” and cannon ball like lunatics off of the “red zone” dock. I don’t regret it though. If you think about it, if that lake were an ocean, those red zone show-offs would be the first victims of a great white and I would be the one with all my limbs intact, applying a thick layer of SPF 40 on the shore, saying “well, that sucks.” Glass half full indeed.
My REDES group is going well. We started sewing machine lessons this week. The sewing machine “master” (as he refers to himself) took apart the machine and oiled it. With the machine torn apart, screws lying everywhere, he then tried to tell me that the job would cost 400 mt to complete. I flat out refused and said 100 mt and he laughed. When people try to rip me off and then giggle, I go straight from negotiating to slinging insults. It’s a defense mechanism that doesn’t always get me what I want but it makes me feel a ton better to emotionally maim someone. I went from saying 100 mt to telling the guy that if he wants to take advantage of people and hinder development in Mozambique, he can walk out the front gate and I can get someone else to put the machine together. And then he starts talking to the girls in Macua. Which resulted in me saying “You don’t know how to speak Portuguese, huh? Do you know anything?” All of my REDES girls looked at the ground. I think I made them uncomfortable but maybe it was a lesson in not letting people walk all over you. We settled on 150 and the assurance that he would come when I call to do machine maintenance. That is a promise that might be similar to my promise to update this blog - minus the best intentions.
I am having a woman from the Women’s Club in town teach me a different skill each week that I will, in turn, teach the girls. I tried to get her to come last week. Apparently, in her world, saying to be somewhere at 8 technically falls somewhere between 9 and 9:30. It’s amazing how one can feel like a date being continuously stood up in Mozambique. It’s like Groundhog’s Day meets…Never Been Kissed? We are trying it again this week and I’m hopeful everything will run smoothly and according to plan and other cliches I cant think of at the moment. My ultimate goal though is to give them the basic sewing instructions they need in order to operate a sewing machine and they can take it from there after I leave. Before I leave Mozambique, I have to figure out a location to leave the sewing machines so that the girls can continue the project in order to make it sustainable. So far, we are learning how to work the pedal on the machine and punch holes in a piece of paper. If you are nice to me, I can stitch your name in a piece of notebook paper along with a heartwarming message. Merry Christmas.
I went to the police station next door to finally talk to them about actually sitting down and talking to this guy who stole money from a project I was working on last year. I filed a report and sat in a concrete room with three bored police officers plucking away on typewriters the size of a small SUV. I returned later in the day to walk to the guy’s house with a police officer. I wanted to do it all SWAT-like. For example, send a plain clothes police officer or just send me in first to lay down a false sense of security. But no, the officer goes with me in full policeman’s garb. Apparently subtlety is right up there with chivalry in terms of all things dead. Children in the neighborhood ran screaming when they saw the whitey and the officer. Their mothers were no help either. “Policia! Policia! Policia!” The kids then ran and grabbed guns they had fashioned out of banana leaves and bamboo and pretended to hide from the police while their mothers pretended to turn them in. Would have been cute if we weren’t trying to apprehend a perp. Turns out, this guy got a job working at a banana farm about 50 km from Monapo and is only home on the weekends. The school still won’t let him graduate because of the money he stole and all he can do now is work. If I were him, I would be doing everything I could to get this money back but his priorities seem to be about as organized as my intestinal tract.
I received my COS (close-of-service) date of November 20th. I’m pretty happy about that because it means I will be home in time for Thanksgiving. I will fly home on the 20th. There’s a lot to do before then though so I have plenty to keep myself occupied. I have the library project I’m working on at my school. My sister is coming in July to visit for a couple of weeks and then we are going to Cape Town in South Africa for a week. After that, in August, I have a close of service conference with everyone from my Peace Corps group. September and October will be busy with finishing up projects and beginning that fateful step of searching for a job in the states. I don’t want to be pulled into the black hole of watching The Price is Right and eating frozen chicken pot pies in my parents’ living room for any longer than I have to. And my spider senses tell me my parents would rather not have that black hole exist either. I am thinking I want to work in the Twin Cities for a year or two to save up money for some furthering of education. I’m not exactly sure of what that furthering of education will entail at this point but I figured that it will come to me. Maybe in a dream. Or on a piece of buttered toast in my parents’ living room.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Bend It Like Encyclopedia Brown
We just finished the week of ACP exams in Monapo and we all know what that means. We got to play a little game I like to call “close your eyes and point your finger and you’ve got yourself a cheater.” We aren’t even talking about good cheating. Slick 007 cheating. Ocean’s 11 rig-the-deck cheating. No. This is the type of cheating where they see the teacher looking at them and throw their notebook back on the floor. Or the notebook is on the floor but they page through it with their toes. There’s also my favorite: blatantly sitting on the notebook. You can always tell because they might as well have brought a blanket and picnic basket. They don’t tuck in their shirts so that the fabric will cover any corner of the notebook that is peaking out. Also, they look slightly uncomfortable when you walk past them, give you a side-glance or are sweating more than what is seasonably acceptable. When I would yank a notebook out from under a student like the golden egg from under the goose, a look of shock and horror would appear on their faces.
“Senhora Professora! I didn’t cheat! I don’t know how that got there! That’s not my notebook!”
And then I joke that they were probably sitting on the notebook so they could see the board better. They continue to argue with me and the amazing thing is that they actually seem to believe they did nothing wrong. They are just that desperate to pass without doing any work. All of the teachers control the exams of other teachers. We just pass out the tests and keep an eye on them. The teacher eventually comes in and explains everything. I can’t help but feel sheepish when the teacher comes in to explain and I’m standing on a chair, looming over the students in my dark sunglasses, red marker in hand. The teacher usually appreciates it though and backs me up when the students try to complain to them that I’m actually marking down who is cheating and talking.
The students have this trick of not telling you their name after they cheat and not writing their names on the test,so that they can go to the teacher of that discipline later and say that they were sick that day and couldn’t take the test. I have found a good way to combat this problem. I steal from the students. They don’t tell me their name or are suffering from temporary Alzheimer’s? Fine. Osvaldo doesn’t get to wear his shoes on the long walk home. It’s virtually fail proof (unless I worked in a nursing home). When they want their shoes or their random personal belongings returned, they have to go and talk to the teacher. At the end of one test, my tote bag looked like a middle school lost and found.
They take two tests each day for ACPs and one day I controlled 11th grade exams, it was bloodshed. I was handing out “cheated” on tests like a shoe salesman getting commission. After the break between tests, I walked into the room to find a message scrawled on the board.
“Erin – you can not enter this classroom anymore! We are not asking – we are ordering!”
Frankly, I was flattered that they spelled my name correctly. Now if only they would stop spelling English as “Inglesh.” I was hoping for a skull and crossbones. Or at least a Mr. Ick. But alas, we can’t have everything we want in this world.
Life has been amazingly busy between planning a conference in the city and school. I have been dealing with a man who works at a venue in the city where the REDES conference room and food will be provided. I should have known what it would be like to deal with the man from this place (I will call him “half pint”) when one of the first things he asked me when I talked to him in January was “are you married?” I have learned that I just need to lie and say yes in hopes that it will squash the possibility of future discussion of the topic. The problem is that you can tell men you are married, but that isn’t good enough. They need to see your spouse as a conjoined twin at your side, like some warped TLC special, in order to leave you alone. Half Pint attempts to flirt with me each time I go to discuss conference logistics, making me want to shove his stubby tie halfway down the paper shredder in the corner of the office so he can sit there and think about what he’s done.
I went to stay at a friend’s house the other week in an attempt to get more accomplished and in the morning, as I was walking out to the road, I flagged down a chapa to take me to the center of the city. Well, lo and behold, Half Pint was behind the wheel of an SUV directly behind the chapa. He waved for me to come so he could give me a ride. I couldn’t say “oh no, thank you. I much prefer this smelly, dilapidated excuse for public transportation.” So I hopped in with my belongings strapped to my back. The bulk of the conversation went like this.
Half Pint: “I like you a lot.”
Me: “Is that a soccer field over there?”
Half Pint: “When I think about you, I feel frightened by how much I like you.”
Me: “Sporting is a Nampula team? Or is it Benfica? Or are they both?”
Half Pint: “Fright. I don’t know why. Strange, isn’t it?”
Me: “Soccer is a good sport.”
Half Pint: “I like you a lot. We should have dinner the next time you are in the city.”
Me: “I am married.”
Half Pint: “I sense that you are bothered when I talk about how I feel for you.”
Me: “I am married.”
Half Pint: “We should have dinner.”
Me: “I eat dinner with my friends when I’m in the city.”
Half Pint: “You are bothered?”
Me: “Yes.”
Yes, Half Pint is a true Encyclopedia Brown of female emotions. I feel like the closest I could come to him understanding that I don’t like him is by punching him in the face, and outweighing him by a good 50 lbs., I am fairly certain a sneeze would suffice in steamrolling the little feller. I just have to put up with it for another month. Until then, he isn’t charging me for the use of the microphones and sound system.
Speaking of dogs, Timba got his rabies vaccination. So if he bites a thief and they start foaming at the mouth, I can wave a piece of paper in their face and say it must have been something they ate. I was relieved to find out that it wasn’t our town veterinarian but a veterinary technician who was available. The man had gin on his breath but hey, he was a dapper gentleman in comparison with the other guy. I had to pin Timba to the ground while he shot the dog up. I couldn’t plaster the little guy down the whole time and he got up, snarling at the tech. I always love getting a front row seat to Mozambican men yelping like little girls. The man picked up his feet and ran like a collegiate marching band’s half-time show to our front gate and I had to talk to him through the door to have him drop off the paperwork later. Part of the injection ended up on the ground, which the dog promptly lapped up. This is Africa. Waste not. Want not.
“Senhora Professora! I didn’t cheat! I don’t know how that got there! That’s not my notebook!”
And then I joke that they were probably sitting on the notebook so they could see the board better. They continue to argue with me and the amazing thing is that they actually seem to believe they did nothing wrong. They are just that desperate to pass without doing any work. All of the teachers control the exams of other teachers. We just pass out the tests and keep an eye on them. The teacher eventually comes in and explains everything. I can’t help but feel sheepish when the teacher comes in to explain and I’m standing on a chair, looming over the students in my dark sunglasses, red marker in hand. The teacher usually appreciates it though and backs me up when the students try to complain to them that I’m actually marking down who is cheating and talking.
The students have this trick of not telling you their name after they cheat and not writing their names on the test,so that they can go to the teacher of that discipline later and say that they were sick that day and couldn’t take the test. I have found a good way to combat this problem. I steal from the students. They don’t tell me their name or are suffering from temporary Alzheimer’s? Fine. Osvaldo doesn’t get to wear his shoes on the long walk home. It’s virtually fail proof (unless I worked in a nursing home). When they want their shoes or their random personal belongings returned, they have to go and talk to the teacher. At the end of one test, my tote bag looked like a middle school lost and found.
They take two tests each day for ACPs and one day I controlled 11th grade exams, it was bloodshed. I was handing out “cheated” on tests like a shoe salesman getting commission. After the break between tests, I walked into the room to find a message scrawled on the board.
“Erin – you can not enter this classroom anymore! We are not asking – we are ordering!”
Frankly, I was flattered that they spelled my name correctly. Now if only they would stop spelling English as “Inglesh.” I was hoping for a skull and crossbones. Or at least a Mr. Ick. But alas, we can’t have everything we want in this world.
Life has been amazingly busy between planning a conference in the city and school. I have been dealing with a man who works at a venue in the city where the REDES conference room and food will be provided. I should have known what it would be like to deal with the man from this place (I will call him “half pint”) when one of the first things he asked me when I talked to him in January was “are you married?” I have learned that I just need to lie and say yes in hopes that it will squash the possibility of future discussion of the topic. The problem is that you can tell men you are married, but that isn’t good enough. They need to see your spouse as a conjoined twin at your side, like some warped TLC special, in order to leave you alone. Half Pint attempts to flirt with me each time I go to discuss conference logistics, making me want to shove his stubby tie halfway down the paper shredder in the corner of the office so he can sit there and think about what he’s done.
I went to stay at a friend’s house the other week in an attempt to get more accomplished and in the morning, as I was walking out to the road, I flagged down a chapa to take me to the center of the city. Well, lo and behold, Half Pint was behind the wheel of an SUV directly behind the chapa. He waved for me to come so he could give me a ride. I couldn’t say “oh no, thank you. I much prefer this smelly, dilapidated excuse for public transportation.” So I hopped in with my belongings strapped to my back. The bulk of the conversation went like this.
Half Pint: “I like you a lot.”
Me: “Is that a soccer field over there?”
Half Pint: “When I think about you, I feel frightened by how much I like you.”
Me: “Sporting is a Nampula team? Or is it Benfica? Or are they both?”
Half Pint: “Fright. I don’t know why. Strange, isn’t it?”
Me: “Soccer is a good sport.”
Half Pint: “I like you a lot. We should have dinner the next time you are in the city.”
Me: “I am married.”
Half Pint: “I sense that you are bothered when I talk about how I feel for you.”
Me: “I am married.”
Half Pint: “We should have dinner.”
Me: “I eat dinner with my friends when I’m in the city.”
Half Pint: “You are bothered?”
Me: “Yes.”
Yes, Half Pint is a true Encyclopedia Brown of female emotions. I feel like the closest I could come to him understanding that I don’t like him is by punching him in the face, and outweighing him by a good 50 lbs., I am fairly certain a sneeze would suffice in steamrolling the little feller. I just have to put up with it for another month. Until then, he isn’t charging me for the use of the microphones and sound system.
Speaking of dogs, Timba got his rabies vaccination. So if he bites a thief and they start foaming at the mouth, I can wave a piece of paper in their face and say it must have been something they ate. I was relieved to find out that it wasn’t our town veterinarian but a veterinary technician who was available. The man had gin on his breath but hey, he was a dapper gentleman in comparison with the other guy. I had to pin Timba to the ground while he shot the dog up. I couldn’t plaster the little guy down the whole time and he got up, snarling at the tech. I always love getting a front row seat to Mozambican men yelping like little girls. The man picked up his feet and ran like a collegiate marching band’s half-time show to our front gate and I had to talk to him through the door to have him drop off the paperwork later. Part of the injection ended up on the ground, which the dog promptly lapped up. This is Africa. Waste not. Want not.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Hell Hath No Fury
I was sitting on my front veranda, relaxing after an afternoon of teaching, when my peaceful silence was upset by a ruckus. That's right. A ruckus. The primary school children won't give a moment's peace; particularly when Timba is outside. They tend to bark at him, throw rocks at him and generally taunt him with their presence. They yell "succa!" at him, meaning "go away," but in a rude manner, even though he is clearly in the boundaries of the fence and they would likely prefer that he stay in the fence, given their ungodly fear of all canines. Well, I looked up and saw a gaggle of children taunting him and then running back to the school. They were repeating this over and over again, like those little birds who have nothing better to do but come out of cuckoo clocks. Except these little birds were like the Pauly Shore birds of the cuckoo clock world. Don't get me wrong though. I loved Son-in-Law.
I had enough. I picked up my things, got my bag and keys and headed out the front door to the fence. I looked around in my bag for a moment, like I was prepping for a market run. My acting skills worked. I didn't look at all on a mission as I walked leisurely toward the school. I might have swung my arms more to look to be walking leisurely, now that I think about it. As I walked toward the group of children, the jig was up and they fled like Godzilla was clomping down the dirt path after them. It was that running-while-looking-over-the-shoulder-with-fear-in-your-eyes type of flight. And I'll admit - it was kind of satisfying. I tracked a couple of the fugitives to their hiding place in a classroom, where they were trying to casually blend in with the innocents. Au contraire. If you choose to harass a neighbor's dog, make sure you aren't the only ones wearing non-uniform clothing. They just sat there by their bookbags, as if they had been sitting there, casually chatting up their classmates and discussing the turning point in the economic climates of the United States and Japan.
As soon as I entered the classroom, which unsurprisingly was unchaperoned by a teacher, the kids started screaming. I am fairly certain that the two girls didn't think I would recognize them. I spotted them and grabbed their arms to take them outside. Immediately, one of the girls goes Helen Keller, pre-Ann Sullivan, on me, flipping out and crying and flailing her free arm. An almost immediate sign of guilt and angry denial. I took them outside, followed by every child in the classroom and we were quickly surrounded by what appeared to be every child in the school. There were no classes being held as a result of teachers not showing up, so I, the white girl about three feet taller than everyone within 100 meters, was the main source of entertainment. I think the girls thought I was leading them to the jail that is right next door because they started to drift in that direction. I corrected them and steered them toward the school office. For a moment though, I thought it would have been very interesting. I should make friends with a jailer and then lead the children to the jail to have them sit in a cell for ten minutes. Give them some time to think about what they've done. Deny them their one phone call.
The amazing part is that the girls actually came with me and didn't put up too big of a fight as I marched them out of their classroom and to the school office. If I were a horrible child, I would have laid down and had to have been dragged out, suffragette style. We were surrounded by a swarm of children. One little boy I know said "Irene! What did they do?" But he didn't say it in an "Ah, eegats, Senhora Professora, what did these innocent young whippersnappers do? It couldn't have possibly been that dreadful. You going to the clam bake next weekend?" kind of way. It was a teeth-gnashing, eyes red with the desire for blood kind of "sick 'em" you might see in lynch mobs. When I got to the office, it was closed and no one was there. I looked around and there was only one teacher in school and they weren't even teaching. Again, no surprise. So I turned the girls over to the proper authorities at the school, asked them to inform their students to leave our house alone, and then bid him a stern adieu. It was all very classy. Very Anne of Green Gables "your cow got loose in my pasture."
I never got so many respectful "boa tardes" in my life though as I walked past the school again on my way back from the market. There were groups of children standing around and as they saw me, pointed at me and continued talking in hushed whispers. Ah yes. All of Monapo probably knew about the episode within the hour. But at least now the children at the primary school know that if you mess with the bull, you get the horns. Or at least you run a high risk of me recognizing you and dragging you to the director's office to be given the punishment of cleaning out the school latrines. Personally, I'd much rather get the horns.
I was walking down the street the other day and a drunk man walked up to me. "Hello! You need to get your dog vaccinated! And you have to marry a Mozambican." I'm guessing in that order. This scholar and gentleman was referring to my dog's booster rabies shot. He is due for it in March. I think that the only way this man knew about my dog's vaccination history was that he is friends with the creepiest veterinarian alive. I went last year to get Timba his rabies shot and I had to talk my way out of getting beers with the vet with my own money. And that was before he called me his pita in front of a large group of people.
I will remind you, faithful readers, that a pita, here in Mozambique, is not a delicious sandwich bread that you stuff with an assortment of meats and salads. It is someone you have sex with at your leisure - a quasi-lady of the night, if you will. At that time, I just walked away quickly and ignored the comment. As of late, I have been unable to ignore this comment. Men around here just seem to think that it's a name you can shout out like Bingo on a Tuesday night. I was walking home from school the other day and a guy shouted "pita" at me as if he was calling for his lost dog. And yes, he did whistle. I wasn't appealing in any way, shape or form. I was wearing a bata, the equivalent of a white lab coat, hadn't showered in 48 hours, and was sweating so much, you could have set pots under my forehead to save water for the next dry spell. The next day, I'd had it. I walked past a carpenter's shop and a man called out the magic name. I promptly turned around and flicked him off. I have never flicked anyone off out of anger before and to be honest, it was exhilarating. There's only so much harassment one can take.
I just bought a sewing machine for my girls group and we are going to begin sewing lessons next week. I am becoming more and more busy as the year is progressing. I am starting a school newspaper and between that, juggling my girls group, planning the girls' conference in the city and my library project, I am beginning to talk to myself. That may be the first sign of insanity but hey, at least I'm never lonely. Everything moves at an anvil's pace here. For example, my counterpart for the library project has had to make three separate trips into the city to get the right documents so she can open a joint bank account with me. She had documentation before but the bank informed us that the documents were only good enough to open an individual account. This is an anvil with a heck of a lot of red tape on it. Some people get used to it. I, however, still complain bitterly about it in private every few days.
I had enough. I picked up my things, got my bag and keys and headed out the front door to the fence. I looked around in my bag for a moment, like I was prepping for a market run. My acting skills worked. I didn't look at all on a mission as I walked leisurely toward the school. I might have swung my arms more to look to be walking leisurely, now that I think about it. As I walked toward the group of children, the jig was up and they fled like Godzilla was clomping down the dirt path after them. It was that running-while-looking-over-the-shoulder-with-fear-in-your-eyes type of flight. And I'll admit - it was kind of satisfying. I tracked a couple of the fugitives to their hiding place in a classroom, where they were trying to casually blend in with the innocents. Au contraire. If you choose to harass a neighbor's dog, make sure you aren't the only ones wearing non-uniform clothing. They just sat there by their bookbags, as if they had been sitting there, casually chatting up their classmates and discussing the turning point in the economic climates of the United States and Japan.
As soon as I entered the classroom, which unsurprisingly was unchaperoned by a teacher, the kids started screaming. I am fairly certain that the two girls didn't think I would recognize them. I spotted them and grabbed their arms to take them outside. Immediately, one of the girls goes Helen Keller, pre-Ann Sullivan, on me, flipping out and crying and flailing her free arm. An almost immediate sign of guilt and angry denial. I took them outside, followed by every child in the classroom and we were quickly surrounded by what appeared to be every child in the school. There were no classes being held as a result of teachers not showing up, so I, the white girl about three feet taller than everyone within 100 meters, was the main source of entertainment. I think the girls thought I was leading them to the jail that is right next door because they started to drift in that direction. I corrected them and steered them toward the school office. For a moment though, I thought it would have been very interesting. I should make friends with a jailer and then lead the children to the jail to have them sit in a cell for ten minutes. Give them some time to think about what they've done. Deny them their one phone call.
The amazing part is that the girls actually came with me and didn't put up too big of a fight as I marched them out of their classroom and to the school office. If I were a horrible child, I would have laid down and had to have been dragged out, suffragette style. We were surrounded by a swarm of children. One little boy I know said "Irene! What did they do?" But he didn't say it in an "Ah, eegats, Senhora Professora, what did these innocent young whippersnappers do? It couldn't have possibly been that dreadful. You going to the clam bake next weekend?" kind of way. It was a teeth-gnashing, eyes red with the desire for blood kind of "sick 'em" you might see in lynch mobs. When I got to the office, it was closed and no one was there. I looked around and there was only one teacher in school and they weren't even teaching. Again, no surprise. So I turned the girls over to the proper authorities at the school, asked them to inform their students to leave our house alone, and then bid him a stern adieu. It was all very classy. Very Anne of Green Gables "your cow got loose in my pasture."
I never got so many respectful "boa tardes" in my life though as I walked past the school again on my way back from the market. There were groups of children standing around and as they saw me, pointed at me and continued talking in hushed whispers. Ah yes. All of Monapo probably knew about the episode within the hour. But at least now the children at the primary school know that if you mess with the bull, you get the horns. Or at least you run a high risk of me recognizing you and dragging you to the director's office to be given the punishment of cleaning out the school latrines. Personally, I'd much rather get the horns.
I was walking down the street the other day and a drunk man walked up to me. "Hello! You need to get your dog vaccinated! And you have to marry a Mozambican." I'm guessing in that order. This scholar and gentleman was referring to my dog's booster rabies shot. He is due for it in March. I think that the only way this man knew about my dog's vaccination history was that he is friends with the creepiest veterinarian alive. I went last year to get Timba his rabies shot and I had to talk my way out of getting beers with the vet with my own money. And that was before he called me his pita in front of a large group of people.
I will remind you, faithful readers, that a pita, here in Mozambique, is not a delicious sandwich bread that you stuff with an assortment of meats and salads. It is someone you have sex with at your leisure - a quasi-lady of the night, if you will. At that time, I just walked away quickly and ignored the comment. As of late, I have been unable to ignore this comment. Men around here just seem to think that it's a name you can shout out like Bingo on a Tuesday night. I was walking home from school the other day and a guy shouted "pita" at me as if he was calling for his lost dog. And yes, he did whistle. I wasn't appealing in any way, shape or form. I was wearing a bata, the equivalent of a white lab coat, hadn't showered in 48 hours, and was sweating so much, you could have set pots under my forehead to save water for the next dry spell. The next day, I'd had it. I walked past a carpenter's shop and a man called out the magic name. I promptly turned around and flicked him off. I have never flicked anyone off out of anger before and to be honest, it was exhilarating. There's only so much harassment one can take.
I just bought a sewing machine for my girls group and we are going to begin sewing lessons next week. I am becoming more and more busy as the year is progressing. I am starting a school newspaper and between that, juggling my girls group, planning the girls' conference in the city and my library project, I am beginning to talk to myself. That may be the first sign of insanity but hey, at least I'm never lonely. Everything moves at an anvil's pace here. For example, my counterpart for the library project has had to make three separate trips into the city to get the right documents so she can open a joint bank account with me. She had documentation before but the bank informed us that the documents were only good enough to open an individual account. This is an anvil with a heck of a lot of red tape on it. Some people get used to it. I, however, still complain bitterly about it in private every few days.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Thank you, Mr. Pasteur
We are back in Monapo, putting our nose right back to that grindstone in the state we left it in. School started the other week and I am playing fast and loose with the term "start." Technically, no one shows up for the first week of the year because the school has administrative issues to handle. Then, the second week, no one comes because let's face it, it's just not cool to show up that week. You don't want to look too eager - too overzealous cheerleader from Grease. Then, we find ourselves in the third week of the year. The trimester only has nine weeks in it. And the last two weeks are quite similar to the first few weeks. So you can just imagine how the level of productivity is nowhere close to that of the Keebler Elves. I always loved that commercial. Those little elves...working in a tree...with cookies...So easily confused with Snap, Crackle and Pop, the Rice Krispies sweatshop laborers. But I digress...
We had a new fence built, made entirely out of bamboo. The old one fell down while we were on vacation because of the torrential downpours. The only thing weaker than the structure of the fence itself was the work ethic of the students who built it for us. The fence was important for a number of reasons. We have goats that wander into our yard. Children from the school like to antagonize the dog and stand there and stare at us. It's a far more daunting task to brush your teeth in the morning when you have an audience. I struggle from performance anxiety with all the pressure and as we all know, a thorough brushing is always in order. Well, those children are a tour de force. They have been constantly throwing rocks at the dog, barking at him and stealing bamboo from our fence. Bamboozlers. If these children were in the states, they would have monkey leashes on them. Trust me. If you heard "how ah you!?" about 15 times a day and then see eyes peaking through the fence at you when you are hanging up underwear on the clothesline, you would also feel the urge to hurl a few expletives in English.
My dog is good. And by good, I mean he bit me. I was on the phone with my parents a few Sundays ago and he didn't want to come inside when I called. When I grabbed his leg, he pulled and I held on. Well, apparently it hurt him to pull away and he bit my palm, leaving a bloody puncture/gash. There were Mozambicans standing around watching and here I was, standing with blood dripping off of one hand and my phone in the other: multi-tasking at its worst. Good thing he got his rabies shot a while back. According to Ms. Manners, foaming at the mouth is not very becoming of a lady. At least seeing that the owner's dog even bites the owner is a good theft deterrent. I should have started screaming "Ele esta vicioso! Esta vicioso, eu digo!" (He is vicious! He is vicious, I say!") Then collapse to the ground in convulsions. I am just curious to see if my fifth grade forensics talent was just a fluke or if I should shirk the Peace Corps and move to L.A. My spider senses are telling me that it wouldn't be such a good idea.
My dog has gotten gigantic since I've been gone and more unruly. He is so ill-mannered that it's difficult to train him or even take him on walks. I tell him to come and he walks away. I tell him to sit and he licks himself. At least he's meeting me halfway on the sit. He has the attention span on a peanut. So far, he only knows "sit" and "act like a jerk." He broke his second choke collar. Second! I had to bribe him to come back to me by sprinkling saltines on the ground in front of me. Very Hansel and Gretel. I think he is going to grow tired of the saltines, so then I'll have to buy lemon cookies for him. And then he'll grow tired of those and I'll have to buy him hard-boiled eggs. At that point, I might as well start a college fund for him with all the money put toward bribes. I would palm him a 50 but his lack of opposable thumbs would make that transaction seem downright inhumane.
The other day, I was washing dishes in the back room of the house and I saw a little girl watching the dog through the fence. In one hand, she had her shoe, posed in prime shoe-throwing position. I called out for her to leave the dog alone because he was in the fence and wouldn't bother her. Well, who was I to know there was a hole in the fence? He ran out and misinterpreted her attention as playtime. He wasn't doing anything to her but existing and she threw her shoe at him. I walk out to the front of the house and she is standing there alone.
"He took my shoe."
Yep, she threw her shoe and Timba thought she was showering him with gifts. He picked it up, ran over to the shade of the police station bathroom and promptly began to gnaw on it. When I shook a bag of bread crumbs at him and shouted his name, he came running, leaving the little girl to hunt for her shoe for the next 15 minutes. Well, if you throw your shoe, you have to know that there is a chance you aren't going to get it back. Cause and effect, my dear.
School is going fine so far. I am teaching ninth grade this year, following most of my students from last year. I have all of my students who passed and my roommate's students who didn't pass. It's good seeing them all again after break. It's amazing how different they look. Apparently, I look different too. I was waiting for the obvious "teacher, you got fat!" and have them point out my skin's reaction to the abrupt changes in climate it has endured over the past two months. It's those everyday jabs I've grown accustomed to. However, I wasn't expecting "you got really white." I wasn't sure how to respond to that one. A short "sure did" and a shrug seemed to do the trick.
We have been helping at school a little bit. My roommate has a computer program to make schedules and is a master at it, so she did the teachers' schedules for the school with my occasional help. As a result, we had dibs on which times we'd teach at. We got out of teaching at night again. It's creepy to walk alone at night. Sure, I have an airhorn, pepperspray and a mean upper-cut thanks to my past interest in Tae Bo, but I could do without that discomfort of walking in the dark by myself.
Well, I hope everyone had a lovely Valentine's and a rip-roarin' Presidents' Day. I'm heading to the ocean later for the weekend for my birthday to hang out with friends. I promise to update this more often, Girl Scout's honor. I only made it to Junior status in the scouts until I submitted my resignation, but I like to think I can still lay claim. In all honesty, I only wanted to be a Junior so I could get that leprechaun-green vest. Juliette Low would be proud.
We had a new fence built, made entirely out of bamboo. The old one fell down while we were on vacation because of the torrential downpours. The only thing weaker than the structure of the fence itself was the work ethic of the students who built it for us. The fence was important for a number of reasons. We have goats that wander into our yard. Children from the school like to antagonize the dog and stand there and stare at us. It's a far more daunting task to brush your teeth in the morning when you have an audience. I struggle from performance anxiety with all the pressure and as we all know, a thorough brushing is always in order. Well, those children are a tour de force. They have been constantly throwing rocks at the dog, barking at him and stealing bamboo from our fence. Bamboozlers. If these children were in the states, they would have monkey leashes on them. Trust me. If you heard "how ah you!?" about 15 times a day and then see eyes peaking through the fence at you when you are hanging up underwear on the clothesline, you would also feel the urge to hurl a few expletives in English.
My dog is good. And by good, I mean he bit me. I was on the phone with my parents a few Sundays ago and he didn't want to come inside when I called. When I grabbed his leg, he pulled and I held on. Well, apparently it hurt him to pull away and he bit my palm, leaving a bloody puncture/gash. There were Mozambicans standing around watching and here I was, standing with blood dripping off of one hand and my phone in the other: multi-tasking at its worst. Good thing he got his rabies shot a while back. According to Ms. Manners, foaming at the mouth is not very becoming of a lady. At least seeing that the owner's dog even bites the owner is a good theft deterrent. I should have started screaming "Ele esta vicioso! Esta vicioso, eu digo!" (He is vicious! He is vicious, I say!") Then collapse to the ground in convulsions. I am just curious to see if my fifth grade forensics talent was just a fluke or if I should shirk the Peace Corps and move to L.A. My spider senses are telling me that it wouldn't be such a good idea.
My dog has gotten gigantic since I've been gone and more unruly. He is so ill-mannered that it's difficult to train him or even take him on walks. I tell him to come and he walks away. I tell him to sit and he licks himself. At least he's meeting me halfway on the sit. He has the attention span on a peanut. So far, he only knows "sit" and "act like a jerk." He broke his second choke collar. Second! I had to bribe him to come back to me by sprinkling saltines on the ground in front of me. Very Hansel and Gretel. I think he is going to grow tired of the saltines, so then I'll have to buy lemon cookies for him. And then he'll grow tired of those and I'll have to buy him hard-boiled eggs. At that point, I might as well start a college fund for him with all the money put toward bribes. I would palm him a 50 but his lack of opposable thumbs would make that transaction seem downright inhumane.
The other day, I was washing dishes in the back room of the house and I saw a little girl watching the dog through the fence. In one hand, she had her shoe, posed in prime shoe-throwing position. I called out for her to leave the dog alone because he was in the fence and wouldn't bother her. Well, who was I to know there was a hole in the fence? He ran out and misinterpreted her attention as playtime. He wasn't doing anything to her but existing and she threw her shoe at him. I walk out to the front of the house and she is standing there alone.
"He took my shoe."
Yep, she threw her shoe and Timba thought she was showering him with gifts. He picked it up, ran over to the shade of the police station bathroom and promptly began to gnaw on it. When I shook a bag of bread crumbs at him and shouted his name, he came running, leaving the little girl to hunt for her shoe for the next 15 minutes. Well, if you throw your shoe, you have to know that there is a chance you aren't going to get it back. Cause and effect, my dear.
School is going fine so far. I am teaching ninth grade this year, following most of my students from last year. I have all of my students who passed and my roommate's students who didn't pass. It's good seeing them all again after break. It's amazing how different they look. Apparently, I look different too. I was waiting for the obvious "teacher, you got fat!" and have them point out my skin's reaction to the abrupt changes in climate it has endured over the past two months. It's those everyday jabs I've grown accustomed to. However, I wasn't expecting "you got really white." I wasn't sure how to respond to that one. A short "sure did" and a shrug seemed to do the trick.
We have been helping at school a little bit. My roommate has a computer program to make schedules and is a master at it, so she did the teachers' schedules for the school with my occasional help. As a result, we had dibs on which times we'd teach at. We got out of teaching at night again. It's creepy to walk alone at night. Sure, I have an airhorn, pepperspray and a mean upper-cut thanks to my past interest in Tae Bo, but I could do without that discomfort of walking in the dark by myself.
Well, I hope everyone had a lovely Valentine's and a rip-roarin' Presidents' Day. I'm heading to the ocean later for the weekend for my birthday to hang out with friends. I promise to update this more often, Girl Scout's honor. I only made it to Junior status in the scouts until I submitted my resignation, but I like to think I can still lay claim. In all honesty, I only wanted to be a Junior so I could get that leprechaun-green vest. Juliette Low would be proud.
Monday, January 19, 2009
When You Wish Upon a Yeti
So we went on our DisneyWorld trip this last week. As much as I had been opposed to the trip in the beginning, I found myself starting to enjoy myself. Everything ran smoothly for the most part since my parents went the distance and bought a vacation package through a travel agent. It was four action-packed days of park-hopping and large crowds. Who would have thought that New Years is always a busy time for DisneyWorld? Not I. We went to all four of the theme parks (Magic Kingdom, Epcot, MGM Studios, and Animal Kingdom). We had direct transportation to and from a resort (albeit, the Motel 6 of the Disney resort experience – but still nice and clean) and a meal plan. Just thinking about that carrot cake brings back fond memories and gushing salivary glands.
It was interesting having to share a hotel room with my family, now that both my sister and I are in our mid-twenties. One thing is for certain and that is that nothing has changed. Except maybe the size of the bed. Whenever I had been forced to share the bed with my sister as a child, it had always seemed bigger. We would always fight over someone crossing the center line of the bed and I think I may have actually bitten her at one point. Since we’ve become adults, the bed seems to have shrunk to the size of an ill-fitting suit. We battled each other at night, as in the past, kicking and one of us hogging all the blankets. I can’t help it but I’m a thrasher. I wake up and I’m wrapped up tighter in my sheets than a Jimmie Dean sausage link. At one point, I physically pushed my sister’s face with my hand. I don’t really remember why. It’s not like I didn’t give a warning. I had even submitted a verbal disclaimer that I could not be held accountable for my actions when I was sleeping. As a result, she spent two nights sleeping on the floor until finally she resorted to a medicated form of sleep rather than risk a stiff back in the morning.
When we weren’t sleeping, we were constantly walking or waiting in lines. Walking is something that is difficult to accomplish when you have child strollers and children wearing backpack monkey leashes in every direction. There were these fancy little monkey shaped backpacks for children and the leash was cleverly disguised as the monkey’s tail. It was chaos at its closest definition. Don’t get me wrong. Kids are cool and all but not wild monkey leash children. As my sister pointed out when she saw a leashed child “that kid’s going to closeline us all if he takes off running.” I wonder if there is hope for an off-leash theme park. Because at DisneyWorld, I half-expected parents to pull out packages of string cheese and bite off bits to throw to their children when they behaved themselves and sat. Or maybe a squeaky toy shaped like a rolled up newspaper.
I got to see a few temper tantrums. I’m always severely disappointed in the tactics employed by children in order to get what they want. In my opinion, lying on the ground, kicking your feet and screaming so loud your skin turns the shade of a red M&M is not the most effective mode of communication. A little girl did that as I was waiting in line for my flight to Africa. Everyone looked at her with alarm and moved as close to the front of the line as possible, as if that would guarantee them not being seated next to the little banshee.
One of the best rides I went on was the new ride at Animal Kingdom, Expedition Everest. The roller coaster includes going backward and downhill in the dark and of all things, a yeti. The attention to detail was impressive, with a hiker’s lodge and a yeti museum to glance at while we wound through the ropes. When you were done with the ride, like all other rides, everyone was funneled out through the gift shop to stock up on souvenirs to be sold at next summer’s garage sale. One of their most prominent souvenirs was a stuffed yeti. It was basically a round white fur ball with feet and eyes. I was not impressed. The yeti appeared too genial. It could at least be growling or be gnawing on a dead deer carcass. The sweet, furry yeti would be like making the Loch Ness monster a character in Finding Nemo. It’s just a distortion of stories that originally, at their best, gave a reason for the production of the nightlight.
My sister and I split up from my parents each day because it just seemed easier to decide where to go when there were only two people chiming in on the decisions. Also, when together my parents tend to choose the presentations, rather than attractions, such as the American Adventure. That title is full of deception because I fell asleep faster than I do in church. I dozed off just as the soldiers were talking about how there was no food at Valley Forge. I fell asleep during the Lights, Motors, Action stunt show that involved live high-speed car chases and explosions. I fell asleep at the Country Bear Jamboree. They don’t deserve the name “Jamboree” because it was possibly the most boring bunch of bears I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Now if they had Cirque du Soleil bears, I definitely would have stayed awake.
While my sister and I wandered separate from our parents during the day, we sat down to a family meal every night. One night, we went out to eat at a place called The Brown Derby, based on the restaurant frequented by Hollywood stars during the golden years of cinema in Los Angeles. A little girl was sitting with her family at a table nearby and had a friendly, neighborhood yeti in her possession. Throughout dinner, she made the yeti dance and sway, occasionally sharing it with her siblings, but only under direct supervision. Before dinner came, I made a trip to the bathroom and the little girl and her siblings were in there too. Probably hopped up on cotton candy and lollipops shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, the girls were singing to each other, each taking a turn with classic Disney tunes. One of the girls had the best lyric, belting out in her best Little Orphan Annie voice “when you wish upon a yeti!” The rest of the song was hummed but I found myself nodding to the beat while reaching for the soap dispenser.
Later on, after dinner, the singer/owner of the stuffed animal left the table with one of her sisters, leaving another little girl behind with the yeti and direct orders.
Raising her finger and wagging it in the air, she spoke to the younger sister.
“No touchies!”
The little sister stared at the yeti on the table in front of her, her face lingering inches away from his jovial grin. She nodded briefly in response but kept her gaze fixed on the yeti, like a dog staring at a snausage just out of its reach.
DisneyWorld was, overall, one of the top places I’ve ever been to people watch. There are foreigners, senior citizens in line for high-speed roller coasters, line gophers (a technical term we heard used by Disney workers for people who cut in line), overwhelming moms, and straight-up crazies. We even got to chat about what it’s like to work at Disney with a former Snow White while watching the Pixar Block Party Parade. She told us about how the characters, like Snow White, Cinderella and Jasmine, all need to have a reason ready why they need to leave when they have lines of people. For example, maybe Snow White needs to go bail Dopey out of jail for a drug possession charge. Also, Disney characters with heads are never allowed to remove them in the park. Apparently, Minnie Mouse once got pushed into a pond and was drowning, so she took off her head and she was fired as a result. Now it’s these types of things that should be on a backlot tour, not movie props from Lassie. It also would make for some excellent reality television. If you like that kind of thing.
Now, it’s back to reality. I survived the 17-hour flight from New York to Johannesburg, managing to be productive by watching three in-flight movies (Hancock, Mamma Mia and Baba Mama, in case you are curious), reading and cat-napping. It helps that I always pass out during take-off (another example of my mad sleeping skills), probably snoring with my mouth wide open. Maybe it’s the altitude change. I really can’t explain this superpower. It has a mind of its own. I had a couple of good seatmates who respected my personal bubble: a South African college student who discussed with me her love of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington and an American guy heading to Senegal to study the effect of American hip-hop on music in Africa. He is going to teach kids how to break-dance and rap. Now that would be something to see.
I am back inMozambique now. We just had our mid-service conference and oodles of standard mid-service medical check-ups this last week. And later today, it’s back to Nampula for this gal. I had a great time at home during the holidays and I know it helped refuel me for my second year of work. I will miss everyone at home just like last year but word on the street is that the second year flies by even faster than the first one did.
It was interesting having to share a hotel room with my family, now that both my sister and I are in our mid-twenties. One thing is for certain and that is that nothing has changed. Except maybe the size of the bed. Whenever I had been forced to share the bed with my sister as a child, it had always seemed bigger. We would always fight over someone crossing the center line of the bed and I think I may have actually bitten her at one point. Since we’ve become adults, the bed seems to have shrunk to the size of an ill-fitting suit. We battled each other at night, as in the past, kicking and one of us hogging all the blankets. I can’t help it but I’m a thrasher. I wake up and I’m wrapped up tighter in my sheets than a Jimmie Dean sausage link. At one point, I physically pushed my sister’s face with my hand. I don’t really remember why. It’s not like I didn’t give a warning. I had even submitted a verbal disclaimer that I could not be held accountable for my actions when I was sleeping. As a result, she spent two nights sleeping on the floor until finally she resorted to a medicated form of sleep rather than risk a stiff back in the morning.
When we weren’t sleeping, we were constantly walking or waiting in lines. Walking is something that is difficult to accomplish when you have child strollers and children wearing backpack monkey leashes in every direction. There were these fancy little monkey shaped backpacks for children and the leash was cleverly disguised as the monkey’s tail. It was chaos at its closest definition. Don’t get me wrong. Kids are cool and all but not wild monkey leash children. As my sister pointed out when she saw a leashed child “that kid’s going to closeline us all if he takes off running.” I wonder if there is hope for an off-leash theme park. Because at DisneyWorld, I half-expected parents to pull out packages of string cheese and bite off bits to throw to their children when they behaved themselves and sat. Or maybe a squeaky toy shaped like a rolled up newspaper.
I got to see a few temper tantrums. I’m always severely disappointed in the tactics employed by children in order to get what they want. In my opinion, lying on the ground, kicking your feet and screaming so loud your skin turns the shade of a red M&M is not the most effective mode of communication. A little girl did that as I was waiting in line for my flight to Africa. Everyone looked at her with alarm and moved as close to the front of the line as possible, as if that would guarantee them not being seated next to the little banshee.
One of the best rides I went on was the new ride at Animal Kingdom, Expedition Everest. The roller coaster includes going backward and downhill in the dark and of all things, a yeti. The attention to detail was impressive, with a hiker’s lodge and a yeti museum to glance at while we wound through the ropes. When you were done with the ride, like all other rides, everyone was funneled out through the gift shop to stock up on souvenirs to be sold at next summer’s garage sale. One of their most prominent souvenirs was a stuffed yeti. It was basically a round white fur ball with feet and eyes. I was not impressed. The yeti appeared too genial. It could at least be growling or be gnawing on a dead deer carcass. The sweet, furry yeti would be like making the Loch Ness monster a character in Finding Nemo. It’s just a distortion of stories that originally, at their best, gave a reason for the production of the nightlight.
My sister and I split up from my parents each day because it just seemed easier to decide where to go when there were only two people chiming in on the decisions. Also, when together my parents tend to choose the presentations, rather than attractions, such as the American Adventure. That title is full of deception because I fell asleep faster than I do in church. I dozed off just as the soldiers were talking about how there was no food at Valley Forge. I fell asleep during the Lights, Motors, Action stunt show that involved live high-speed car chases and explosions. I fell asleep at the Country Bear Jamboree. They don’t deserve the name “Jamboree” because it was possibly the most boring bunch of bears I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Now if they had Cirque du Soleil bears, I definitely would have stayed awake.
While my sister and I wandered separate from our parents during the day, we sat down to a family meal every night. One night, we went out to eat at a place called The Brown Derby, based on the restaurant frequented by Hollywood stars during the golden years of cinema in Los Angeles. A little girl was sitting with her family at a table nearby and had a friendly, neighborhood yeti in her possession. Throughout dinner, she made the yeti dance and sway, occasionally sharing it with her siblings, but only under direct supervision. Before dinner came, I made a trip to the bathroom and the little girl and her siblings were in there too. Probably hopped up on cotton candy and lollipops shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head, the girls were singing to each other, each taking a turn with classic Disney tunes. One of the girls had the best lyric, belting out in her best Little Orphan Annie voice “when you wish upon a yeti!” The rest of the song was hummed but I found myself nodding to the beat while reaching for the soap dispenser.
Later on, after dinner, the singer/owner of the stuffed animal left the table with one of her sisters, leaving another little girl behind with the yeti and direct orders.
Raising her finger and wagging it in the air, she spoke to the younger sister.
“No touchies!”
The little sister stared at the yeti on the table in front of her, her face lingering inches away from his jovial grin. She nodded briefly in response but kept her gaze fixed on the yeti, like a dog staring at a snausage just out of its reach.
DisneyWorld was, overall, one of the top places I’ve ever been to people watch. There are foreigners, senior citizens in line for high-speed roller coasters, line gophers (a technical term we heard used by Disney workers for people who cut in line), overwhelming moms, and straight-up crazies. We even got to chat about what it’s like to work at Disney with a former Snow White while watching the Pixar Block Party Parade. She told us about how the characters, like Snow White, Cinderella and Jasmine, all need to have a reason ready why they need to leave when they have lines of people. For example, maybe Snow White needs to go bail Dopey out of jail for a drug possession charge. Also, Disney characters with heads are never allowed to remove them in the park. Apparently, Minnie Mouse once got pushed into a pond and was drowning, so she took off her head and she was fired as a result. Now it’s these types of things that should be on a backlot tour, not movie props from Lassie. It also would make for some excellent reality television. If you like that kind of thing.
Now, it’s back to reality. I survived the 17-hour flight from New York to Johannesburg, managing to be productive by watching three in-flight movies (Hancock, Mamma Mia and Baba Mama, in case you are curious), reading and cat-napping. It helps that I always pass out during take-off (another example of my mad sleeping skills), probably snoring with my mouth wide open. Maybe it’s the altitude change. I really can’t explain this superpower. It has a mind of its own. I had a couple of good seatmates who respected my personal bubble: a South African college student who discussed with me her love of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington and an American guy heading to Senegal to study the effect of American hip-hop on music in Africa. He is going to teach kids how to break-dance and rap. Now that would be something to see.
I am back inMozambique now. We just had our mid-service conference and oodles of standard mid-service medical check-ups this last week. And later today, it’s back to Nampula for this gal. I had a great time at home during the holidays and I know it helped refuel me for my second year of work. I will miss everyone at home just like last year but word on the street is that the second year flies by even faster than the first one did.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Back in the USA
So I'm back in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, until January 8th. The first day was a bit of a shock to the system. It took a while to get off of Mozambican time and I hadn't managed to catch a wink of sleep on the 18 hour flight. As soon as I reached South Africa and everyone was speaking English, it felt like an alternate universe. People would say something and I would still be thinking of how I would respond in Portuguese. Hopefully I don't lose that in a month and a half. JFK was a good place to transition to American life. I bought myself a peppermint mocha chiller in the airport and thought to myself "welcome to America" while watching children with light-up tennis shoes and business men on cell phones. Only one word can sum it up - weird. I knew I was home though when I couldn't feel my face walking outside into the airport parking garage and I didn't have to sit above a herd of chickens on the drive to Wisconsin.
I had good news before I left Mozambique. I got my library grant proposal passed. This means that when I get back to Monapo in the middle of January, I need to start getting the secondary school library ready for renovation. We will be getting new bookshelves, desks, chairs, books, maps, a bulletin board, a filing cabinet, an HIV/AIDS mural and other security-enhancing features. Hopefully we can set the library up so that it's easier to research topics and have more space for the materials. Right now they have textbooks but not a lot more than that. I'm pretty excited to get that project started. It will be a lot of work but it'll be great to provide students with more resources and a better environment to study in.
I'm pretty excited about next year's projects and have been looking into getting material while I'm here in the U.S. I got a self-defense book to teach to my REDES girls - which is sure to produce quality stories in the future. I think they'll really be into it though and who knows when they'll need it. I am also going to try to get soccer balls, art supplies and just use the internet til my fingertips are sore.
Besides doing a bit of work though, it's amazing to be home for Christmas with friends and family. Both a lot and a few things change in one year. People look different, new buildings and businesses have sprouted in the city, a new president has been elected, new musicians and movies are all the rage. I still don't know what this Twilight and Robert Pattinson deal is all about. I love listening to the Christmas music, decorating the tree, putting up the lights and wrapping gifts. I really missed those things last year and realized how much I took the holidays for granted before. But this year, it's "A Lynum Christmas, Double Time." We are going on a family trip to DisneyWorld (I know) in January. We haven't taken a family trip for about eight or nine years so it should be interesting to see how the four of us coexist in a hotel room - which I'm thinking might be far more entertaining than anything Walt Disney could have thrown at a person. I just want to go on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. The trip promises to be anything but dull - especially since my sister gained my agreement to the trip by promising to tackle the Disney character of my choice.
I had good news before I left Mozambique. I got my library grant proposal passed. This means that when I get back to Monapo in the middle of January, I need to start getting the secondary school library ready for renovation. We will be getting new bookshelves, desks, chairs, books, maps, a bulletin board, a filing cabinet, an HIV/AIDS mural and other security-enhancing features. Hopefully we can set the library up so that it's easier to research topics and have more space for the materials. Right now they have textbooks but not a lot more than that. I'm pretty excited to get that project started. It will be a lot of work but it'll be great to provide students with more resources and a better environment to study in.
I'm pretty excited about next year's projects and have been looking into getting material while I'm here in the U.S. I got a self-defense book to teach to my REDES girls - which is sure to produce quality stories in the future. I think they'll really be into it though and who knows when they'll need it. I am also going to try to get soccer balls, art supplies and just use the internet til my fingertips are sore.
Besides doing a bit of work though, it's amazing to be home for Christmas with friends and family. Both a lot and a few things change in one year. People look different, new buildings and businesses have sprouted in the city, a new president has been elected, new musicians and movies are all the rage. I still don't know what this Twilight and Robert Pattinson deal is all about. I love listening to the Christmas music, decorating the tree, putting up the lights and wrapping gifts. I really missed those things last year and realized how much I took the holidays for granted before. But this year, it's "A Lynum Christmas, Double Time." We are going on a family trip to DisneyWorld (I know) in January. We haven't taken a family trip for about eight or nine years so it should be interesting to see how the four of us coexist in a hotel room - which I'm thinking might be far more entertaining than anything Walt Disney could have thrown at a person. I just want to go on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. The trip promises to be anything but dull - especially since my sister gained my agreement to the trip by promising to tackle the Disney character of my choice.
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