No longer locked in the house in Chimoio, I was finally able to leave for Machanga. I don’t know why, but every time I am poised to return to Machanga, there is a part of me that actually looks forward to it. I know that I will be itching to leave almost as soon as I arrive, but still, it’s nice knowing that I’m actually coming “home.” Or maybe, I’m just ready to be in one place for more than four days.
Bryan, who was heading in the same direction as me, and I headed out at just the right time: early enough to get a car heading south, late enough to get to an open market. We each bought up some goods for our sites – his situation is pretty equal to mine – and we were on the road. Our chapa for Inchope, the main crossroads, left promptly; the travel day was off to a good start.
We made it to the crossroads in about an hour, and then no less than half an hour later, we had a slow moving truck heading south. In that half hour, though, things took a small turn for the worse. Usually, I manage to avoid going to bathroom on these long journeys. A combination of starvation and dehydration usually do the job. But on this day, I had no such luck. My stomach was reeling. There was no bathroom in site. So I did what anybody here would do: I left my stomach, as well as a fair portion of my dignity, in a field next to a road. I hope I never have to do that again.
I figured I would take it to Muxungue, the next big truck stop, and then try to catch something going south. Once we got to Muxungue, I asked the driver how far he was going. He said Machanga. I wanted to say “Get the fuck out of here!” but not only do I not know how to say that in Portuguese, I don’t think it would translate well. No one ever goes to Machanga. In spite of the small take I made with the driver, I still had to fork over the 230 Meticais for the ride.
The road into Machanga, although still dirt, is considerably better. It has been smoothed out pretty nicely. The lack of rain has helped, but it looks like that the road repair people are actually working on it. They say it will be done by mid June. I don’t know if that means pavement, but it sure would be nice.
Exhausted from the day – or days – of travel, I tried to nap, but my body wouldn’t let me. My stomach was still killing me. I cooked dinner, but couldn’t eat more than a couple bites. It’s a shame because the sauce I made for the spaghetti was actually pretty good. I went to bed, feeling full despite not eating.
Monday wasn’t so much better. I managed to sleep in until about 8, a nice treat for sure. But I still felt full and my stomach wasn’t any better. Maybe this was more than just a little stomach bug. I figured it would pass; I would just need to get back on my regular eating cycle. After all, what we did to our bodies over the past couple of weeks was nothing close to healthy.
Before my classes were scheduled to start, I walked over to the administration building to see if any packages or mail had arrived. Lucky me, four packages from three sources – my parents, my grandparents, and my best friends and their parents – arrived with a bounty of food and reading material. We appreciate these packages more than anyone can understand.
I was scheduled to have a full load of classes on Monday, but when I showed up at the school, the vast majority of my students were not at school. I somewhat expected this, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. Resigned to my fate, I canceled classes for the day and hoped that tomorrow would be better.
Richie came back late in the afternoon looking defeated. He had narrowly missed the chapa heading directly to Machanga, but managed to catch up to it using another chapa – very impressive. The energy came on and, with both of us not feeling great, made less food than usual. We finished watching “Team America: World Police” with a couple of our neighbors. We didn’t even try to explain what was happening.
Whatever hope that I had of teaching on Tuesday disappeared very early Tuesday afternoon. I walked over to school, prepared to go over the final exam from the first trimester. In a class of 55 people, ten people sat in class. Is this really worth their time – and mine? Of course not. I passed through the other classes, some with twelve people, some with zero. They all said that next week would be better. I knew this to be true, but I didn’t want to believe it. Reluctantly, I canceled classes for the week.
My afternoon wasn’t a complete waste though. After teaching basic English for the first trimester, I am committing myself to teach the curriculum that the government actually wants me to teach. I spent some time going through the twelfth grade curriculum, picking out the parts that are teachable – given my lack of resources – and what the students would be most interested in learning. I was able to map out about half of the upcoming trimester for my twelfth graders, which is good news.
For dinner, Richie and I made ourselves a little treat – macaroni and cheese that my best friends and their parents had sent to me. We were still pretty beat down, feeling particularly lazy, and I still couldn’t eat as much as usual. After eating, a couple students joined us to watch a couple episodes of “House.” I don’t know how much they get out of it, but they may be picking up words here and there.
I was happy not to have class Wednesday, as it was probably my worst day – medically speaking – since arriving to site. My stomach was in knots. I felt terrible. I am glad I didn’t have to go anywhere because most of my day was spent walking the six feet between my patio and the bathroom. I was not at all happy. I was hoping that this stomach ailment was just from the travelling: after all, people often have stomach problems right after they travel.
This, though, was more substantial. Our neighbor told me that he had spent three days in the hospital during the school break because of bad water. This immediately raised concerns for me. Cholera is not unheard of here, and while we do a decent job of keeping ourselves protected – cleaning our water, washing our vegetables – we could probably do a better job. I think, more than anything, paranoia set in, and I started thinking that I actually had cholera.
My thoughts were only reinforced during the evening. After a stir fry dinner which I barely finished, and a couple episodes of “House,” I settled in for bed. Sleeping, though, was a challenge. No matter how I turned, my stomach hurt. By midnight, I had surrendered. The bathroom called, and I had to answer. Twice. I was not happy, but Richie – who also happened to be awake – was slightly humored. Three peaceful hours of sleep and two Peptol-Bismols later, I was up and running to the bathroom again. This was not going to be a good day.
I woke up feeling terrible, again. This is not fun. I stayed in bed until 9 AM, feeling lethargic. I hate being sick. It makes me feel useless. I only got out of bed when the bathroom demanded it of me.
I decided to stick to basics throughout the day: bread and butter, potatoes, and water. By the afternoon, my bathroom trips had become less frequent, my stomach not writhing as it had been for the last few days. I guess when one has reached the bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.
The day, once my stomach was settled, was relaxing. I read a couple of magazines, catching up on news from Obama’s first hundred (okay, in reality, first thirty) days. I napped extensively. And by complete surprise, our energy came on a full hour early. Richie, feeling good, took care of dinner. We watched a couple of episodes of “House,” with our neighbor, which has become custom as much for him as it has for us.
By Friday morning, things were getting back to normal. Whatever I did, or didn’t do, yesterday helped my stomach a lot. I knew as soon as I woke up that the day couldn’t be worse than the last few. It was nice to feel like a functioning person again. And by functioning, I mean sitting on my porch, doing Su Doku and reading magazines.
After lunch, Richie and I made a joint trip to the market, a rarity these days. Even though the market is just a few kilometers away, it isn’t worth it for us to shop together. But for the better part of the week, the weather has actually been mild. In fact, the nights have been cold to the point that I have needed a sweatshirt and sweatpants to sleep. And on this afternoon, the sun actually felt good. We stopped in a bar for a beer before buying some groceries and an esteira (eh-SHTAY-ra), a large mat made of something like straw. For sitting under a tree, they are perfect.
Once we were home, we were close enough to energy. We started prepping our food when we had an unexpected visitor – our school director. Our director never talks to us. This can’t be good. After all, we did cancel classes for the week. After pleasantries, he dropped this bomb on me “Estou a pedir fimes para meu iPod” – “I am asking for movies for my iPod.” Crisis averted, stress relieved. While Richie cooked dinner, I loaded up our director’s iPod. I cooked a killer cake while watching some television. After watching “House,” we were greeted by a creature we never want to see again, but we are sure that we will: a tarantula, in our bathroom. Not what we needed right before sleeping.
Or at least, trying to sleep. I don’t know if I passed on whatever I had to Richie, but he got something good. Three rounds of vomit in a squatty potty is not pleasant. He looked terrible. Our house has become a MASH unit. I knew I had to take care of everything today. What goes around comes around: he had been shouldering the load for the better part of the week.
While Richie slept off the pain, I did work both inside and outside the house. Our garden, which we planted before leaving Malawi and which has been tended to by our neighbor, has germinated beautifully. Six tomato plants, corn, cucumbers, green beans, cantaloupe and watermelon are growing well. Only the carrots failed to sprout. Along with replanting carrots and some corn, we transplanted our tomatoes into better ground.
I ate lunch by myself, which was strange. I don’t blame Richie for not eating: if he can’t hold down water, he’s not going to hold down food. Even though he wasn’t eating, he did seem to be in better spirits. With him down and out, I kept on with the household responsibilities, prepping a decent dinner, which he actually ate. We watched “House” and crashed.
If only House were in Africa, he could figure out what is wrong with us.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Year 1 - Week 18: Malawi Part 2 - Hypothermia In Africa
Easter Sunday started grey, from the lake to the sky. It made getting out of bed a little difficult. But once the sun broke through the clouds, one can’t help but start moving. My Sunday played out as any good vacation days should: I did a whole lot of nothing. I was in and out of the lake in between beers, soaking in the day.
The restaurant that served Thai food last week hosted a pizza night tonight. Getting pizza in Africa, as I know both from Ghana and Mozambique, is usually not good. There are few places that can even get close to something we would recognize as pizza. And Malawi is no different. The pizza they gave us was cheese on a glorified tortilla. We would have to wait until later in the week, when we could get actually get good pizza in Chimoio.
With the Easter weekend over, many people staying at our lodge were on their way out of Nkhata Bay. Tonight was the last good party night to be had. Unfortunately, one of our friends from Zambia got pretty sick, so she couldn’t really participate in the festivities. All in all, it was a pretty fun night. The staff at the lodge is pretty cool. They know everyone by first name and because of this, you almost feel obligated to learn their names. It makes it a little easier when they have names like – and I’m not joking here – “Special” and “Mercy”. They all have beers in hand and love having a good time as much as we do.
Monday was our last full day in Malawi. Just when we started getting comfortable, it was already time to start thinking about traveling back to Mozambique. Sad. It was a lot of travel, but I think it was worth it. Monday looked a lot like Sunday, except the weather was good right from the get-go. Down to our last few Kwacha (Malawian currency), the Mozambique crew skipped out on lunch to hold on to some cash for dinner.
We did have one option for lunch: we could try to take one of the log canoes out to the boat that we swam to, navigate around the boat, and earn free lunch. Most people don’t make it more than a couple strokes before tipping over. We were told that it had been accomplished six times in ten years. Fuck it, let’s make it seven. Richie and I didn’t even make it in the boat.
After relaxing for the better part of the afternoon, Richie, Bryan, and I went into the town to get some local food. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with them – I spent most of the trip with the Zambia crew – so it was nice to have some private time with them. Eating in the village was about a third of the price of eating at the lodge. For 300 Kwacha (60 Meticais or less than three dollars), we had a pretty good beef and chicken meal. We stocked up absolutely terrible gin and proceeded to black-out drunkenness. Mission accomplished for the week.
I woke up surprisingly not hung over, but sobered by the fact that we actually had to leave. This place was just too beautiful. I threw on my bathing suit and headed toward the lake. Before I could go swimming, I had two pieces of business to take care of. First I had to close out my tab – very sad. After that, I went to talk to a Volunteer from Malawi who was about to finish his service. He had a ticket out of South Africa and was going to spend some time in Mozambique. We planned out an itinerary for him, complete with Volunteers with whom he could stay for a night or two.
I mooched some breakfast from a couple of the Zambia Volunteers who had extra cash to blow. After a final dip in the lake, I headed down into the artist’s village to check out their goods. I ended up trading a pair of shorts eight inches too big for me for some pretty cool bracelets. I’ll keep some of them; the others will make nice gifts.
Our bags packed, our tabs paid, our goodbyes said, we made our way out to the crossroads to catch the overnight bus from Nkhata Bay to Blantyre. We thought the bus would show up around 5:30 or 6:00, which would have been perfect. Unfortunately, we caught the one bus in Africa that runs early. By 4:30, we were on the road. It would mean arriving in Blantyre very, very early.
I managed to get some sleep on the bus, which was nothing short of miraculous. We arrived in Blantyre around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. There would be no mini-bus for the border until 6:00 or 6:30, so we rested on the bus.
The transportation situation on Wednesday was pretty seamless. We got our mini-bus to the border, skipped a monster line at customs because of our Portuguese skills, and got in a chapa from Zóbuè right away. We were in what might have been the slowest chapa in all of Northern Mozambique, but we arrived in Tete nonetheless. We picked up some food to go, and then waited for any mode of transportation heading south. After a few hours, around 3:00, we got into the back of a Mack truck headed for Chimoio. Some guy told us we would be in town by 9:00. Bullshit. The road is terrible and we knew it would take longer than that.
The break from Portuguese was nice, but I’ll be honest: it was really nice to get back into it. Even though we still have our struggles, whether it be with verb conjugation or a lack of vocabulary, we were all still comfortable enough to fall right back into it. One of the customs agents asked if we were from Brazil. If only. They were only a little shocked when we told them we were from the United States.
It was kind of cool being in the back of the truck. The sun wasn’t too hot. All we had was the open road, the trees, and the mountains to ourselves. We chatted up our driver dinner, negotiated a decent price for the ride, and we were back on the road, leaving Catandica – the half way point – at around 8:30. By then, it was pitch black except for the moon and the stars. With no light pollution, every star was crystal clear. It was beautiful to the point that it makes one believe something or someone greater is at work, yelling “Look what I can do!”
By midnight, the road had smoothed out and the weather had dropped to a level of coldness I didn’t think possible in Sub-Saharan Africa. Of course, I had no warm-weather clothing with me. I bundled up in every piece of clothing I had and still shivered. Eventually I fell asleep, although I think it was more of my body temporarily shutting down. I didn’t think it was possible to get hypothermia in Africa.
We arrived in Chimoio between 2:00 and 3:00 AM on Thursday, desperate to find a place for the night. Bryan found a place called the Pink Papaya, which only sounds like a strip club. I have never been so happy to find a warm blanket waiting for me. Exhausted after a ridiculous 33 consecutive hours of travel, I passed out immediately.
I woke up sore. All of us work up sore. That ride took a lot out of us. We made our way over to a Volunteers house, where we did nothing but relax. All of us napped for some point of the day. None of us wanted to do anything. None of us really could do anything except sit and read.
Much of the same was true for Friday. Although a little more rested, we were still aching from the ride. There was no way we could leave today, so we planned on getting our Saturday. We were rested up enough, though, to go to a restaurant to see a Mozambican band – Positivo – play a show. They put on a great show, very high energy. The Peace Corps crew probably pissed off the rest of the patrons because we pretty much took over the place.
I walked back to the house a little early to try to catch some sleep before leaving in the morning. That was not meant to be. The band, which was hired to play a Peace Corps event on Saturday, came back to the house. Of course, where there is a band, there is a party. And that party went until 4 AM.
I was still committed to getting back to Machanga, even if it meant traveling on three hours of sleep. I’ve travelled on less. There was just one other barrier: someone had locked us into the house. The house was padlocked, the key nowhere in site. By 8:00 AM, my window for getting back to Machanga had passed. I was resigned to staying in Chimoio for one more day.
It was probably for the better. I had one more day to relax, one more day to check my email, one more opportunity to get to that killer pizza that Chimoio has to offer, by far the best pizza in Mozambique. After pizza, the three of us crashed the Peace Corps event to see Positivo again, although we weren’t that into it tonight.
Back in Mozambique, and supposedly, back to work next week.
The restaurant that served Thai food last week hosted a pizza night tonight. Getting pizza in Africa, as I know both from Ghana and Mozambique, is usually not good. There are few places that can even get close to something we would recognize as pizza. And Malawi is no different. The pizza they gave us was cheese on a glorified tortilla. We would have to wait until later in the week, when we could get actually get good pizza in Chimoio.
With the Easter weekend over, many people staying at our lodge were on their way out of Nkhata Bay. Tonight was the last good party night to be had. Unfortunately, one of our friends from Zambia got pretty sick, so she couldn’t really participate in the festivities. All in all, it was a pretty fun night. The staff at the lodge is pretty cool. They know everyone by first name and because of this, you almost feel obligated to learn their names. It makes it a little easier when they have names like – and I’m not joking here – “Special” and “Mercy”. They all have beers in hand and love having a good time as much as we do.
Monday was our last full day in Malawi. Just when we started getting comfortable, it was already time to start thinking about traveling back to Mozambique. Sad. It was a lot of travel, but I think it was worth it. Monday looked a lot like Sunday, except the weather was good right from the get-go. Down to our last few Kwacha (Malawian currency), the Mozambique crew skipped out on lunch to hold on to some cash for dinner.
We did have one option for lunch: we could try to take one of the log canoes out to the boat that we swam to, navigate around the boat, and earn free lunch. Most people don’t make it more than a couple strokes before tipping over. We were told that it had been accomplished six times in ten years. Fuck it, let’s make it seven. Richie and I didn’t even make it in the boat.
After relaxing for the better part of the afternoon, Richie, Bryan, and I went into the town to get some local food. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with them – I spent most of the trip with the Zambia crew – so it was nice to have some private time with them. Eating in the village was about a third of the price of eating at the lodge. For 300 Kwacha (60 Meticais or less than three dollars), we had a pretty good beef and chicken meal. We stocked up absolutely terrible gin and proceeded to black-out drunkenness. Mission accomplished for the week.
I woke up surprisingly not hung over, but sobered by the fact that we actually had to leave. This place was just too beautiful. I threw on my bathing suit and headed toward the lake. Before I could go swimming, I had two pieces of business to take care of. First I had to close out my tab – very sad. After that, I went to talk to a Volunteer from Malawi who was about to finish his service. He had a ticket out of South Africa and was going to spend some time in Mozambique. We planned out an itinerary for him, complete with Volunteers with whom he could stay for a night or two.
I mooched some breakfast from a couple of the Zambia Volunteers who had extra cash to blow. After a final dip in the lake, I headed down into the artist’s village to check out their goods. I ended up trading a pair of shorts eight inches too big for me for some pretty cool bracelets. I’ll keep some of them; the others will make nice gifts.
Our bags packed, our tabs paid, our goodbyes said, we made our way out to the crossroads to catch the overnight bus from Nkhata Bay to Blantyre. We thought the bus would show up around 5:30 or 6:00, which would have been perfect. Unfortunately, we caught the one bus in Africa that runs early. By 4:30, we were on the road. It would mean arriving in Blantyre very, very early.
I managed to get some sleep on the bus, which was nothing short of miraculous. We arrived in Blantyre around 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. There would be no mini-bus for the border until 6:00 or 6:30, so we rested on the bus.
The transportation situation on Wednesday was pretty seamless. We got our mini-bus to the border, skipped a monster line at customs because of our Portuguese skills, and got in a chapa from Zóbuè right away. We were in what might have been the slowest chapa in all of Northern Mozambique, but we arrived in Tete nonetheless. We picked up some food to go, and then waited for any mode of transportation heading south. After a few hours, around 3:00, we got into the back of a Mack truck headed for Chimoio. Some guy told us we would be in town by 9:00. Bullshit. The road is terrible and we knew it would take longer than that.
The break from Portuguese was nice, but I’ll be honest: it was really nice to get back into it. Even though we still have our struggles, whether it be with verb conjugation or a lack of vocabulary, we were all still comfortable enough to fall right back into it. One of the customs agents asked if we were from Brazil. If only. They were only a little shocked when we told them we were from the United States.
It was kind of cool being in the back of the truck. The sun wasn’t too hot. All we had was the open road, the trees, and the mountains to ourselves. We chatted up our driver dinner, negotiated a decent price for the ride, and we were back on the road, leaving Catandica – the half way point – at around 8:30. By then, it was pitch black except for the moon and the stars. With no light pollution, every star was crystal clear. It was beautiful to the point that it makes one believe something or someone greater is at work, yelling “Look what I can do!”
By midnight, the road had smoothed out and the weather had dropped to a level of coldness I didn’t think possible in Sub-Saharan Africa. Of course, I had no warm-weather clothing with me. I bundled up in every piece of clothing I had and still shivered. Eventually I fell asleep, although I think it was more of my body temporarily shutting down. I didn’t think it was possible to get hypothermia in Africa.
We arrived in Chimoio between 2:00 and 3:00 AM on Thursday, desperate to find a place for the night. Bryan found a place called the Pink Papaya, which only sounds like a strip club. I have never been so happy to find a warm blanket waiting for me. Exhausted after a ridiculous 33 consecutive hours of travel, I passed out immediately.
I woke up sore. All of us work up sore. That ride took a lot out of us. We made our way over to a Volunteers house, where we did nothing but relax. All of us napped for some point of the day. None of us wanted to do anything. None of us really could do anything except sit and read.
Much of the same was true for Friday. Although a little more rested, we were still aching from the ride. There was no way we could leave today, so we planned on getting our Saturday. We were rested up enough, though, to go to a restaurant to see a Mozambican band – Positivo – play a show. They put on a great show, very high energy. The Peace Corps crew probably pissed off the rest of the patrons because we pretty much took over the place.
I walked back to the house a little early to try to catch some sleep before leaving in the morning. That was not meant to be. The band, which was hired to play a Peace Corps event on Saturday, came back to the house. Of course, where there is a band, there is a party. And that party went until 4 AM.
I was still committed to getting back to Machanga, even if it meant traveling on three hours of sleep. I’ve travelled on less. There was just one other barrier: someone had locked us into the house. The house was padlocked, the key nowhere in site. By 8:00 AM, my window for getting back to Machanga had passed. I was resigned to staying in Chimoio for one more day.
It was probably for the better. I had one more day to relax, one more day to check my email, one more opportunity to get to that killer pizza that Chimoio has to offer, by far the best pizza in Mozambique. After pizza, the three of us crashed the Peace Corps event to see Positivo again, although we weren’t that into it tonight.
Back in Mozambique, and supposedly, back to work next week.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Year 1 - Week 17: Malawi Part 1 - No Car on the Horizon
Coming back from Mambone to Machanga was eerie. Usually, when we come back from anywhere, regardless of whether we are gone for one day or two weeks, we are greeted by the smiling faces of our students. With school out for Easter break, the students have left for home. Most of the 1400 students made their way out of Machanga as soon as they finished exams, leaving a ghost town behind. Machanga is a tiny place; if 1000 students leave, that’s about one-fourth of the entire village. Instead of students, we were greeted by silence.
Soon enough, we would be gone too. We sent in our travel plans for Malawi late in the week, hoping that we would get approval for trip over the weekend or early in the week. The call never came, so we are hoping for a Monday phone call.
With no one around and not a lot to do, Richie and I did what we usually do: sit on our porch, staring blankly, throwing the Frisbee, anything to occupy our time. It felt like January all over again.
We ate our regular spaghetti dinner and indulged in a movie that Greg lent to us – “Team America: World Police.” That movie is sick. Once Kim Jong Il starts singing “I’m ronery,” a line that Richie and I often randomly sing, we just totally lost it.
The call that we were itching for came on Monday. Our program director called us, asking for the details of our trip. And oh yea, we needed to send in a formal request to leave, which we forgot about. Shit. Fuck. We got approval for the trip, all the calls were made to the right people in Malawi. All we had to do was get that approval in. With no fax machine, this was going to take some ingenuity.
I filled out the necessary info. We just needed a signature from our school director. He’s sick? What?! Shit. I would have taken just about anyone’s signature at that point. Our assistant director took the request, went to the director’s house – where he was bedridden – and had it signed and stamped. I then took a picture of the request and tried to email it to our director. We were so close, and then the gods started laughing at us. Just as I was about to click “send” on my computer, my battery died. Okay, Richie had battery, no problem. Just as I was about to click send, the network crapped out. Terrible. I called back our program director and told him we would fax over the request as soon as we got to a fax machine – that meant Chimoio, on Tuesday or Wednesday. Program director was cool with it, and we were good to go.
We packed our bags, and by mid-afternoon, we were crossing the river, again, to Mambone. Getting out of site from our side of the river sucks. It’s much easier to cross and head slightly southwest to the main road, even though it is slightly out of our way for going north. We met Greg and his friend Nilton at Greg’s house to make onion rings. He hadn’t experienced the glory that is our weekend treat, so we brought it to him. We also made a very sorry attempt to make corn dogs from our batter and canned mini-dogs. Bad idea. We went to bed early, preparing for travel the next day.
Neither Richie nor I slept particularly well. It didn’t matter. The travel was going to take the wind out of us anyway. We waited outside Nilton’s house for a chapa to the main road, but nothing came. So we just started walking. Of course, we knew we weren’t going to make it to the crossroads, but we had nothing else to do. Just as we passed a little shop, the heavens gave way and a light rain fell. We scampered for shelter and waited the rain out. Within minutes of the rain ending, a car came. Okay, we’re in business.
Phase one complete; now the trickier part of getting a ride north to Inchope. We sat waiting, listening to our iPods, hoping for a car to come. We looked south – no car on the horizon. We looked north – no car on the horizon. So again, we started walking. We figured that if we walked away from the crossroads, someone would pick us up just out of sympathy. We walked for two and half hours down that narrow strip of asphalt. The occasional car or truck passed, but for the most part, there was nothing. There are few things that are more discouraging than being absolutely alone on the road that connects Mozambique’s two biggest cities.
Finally, a very nice South African couple picked us up. Richie busted out “the praying move”; clearly, we found a believer. We got into the couple’s very nice, leather-seated, air-conditioned XTerra, and we were rolling. We were just happy to be in a car; we didn’t expect to get pampered. The wife offered us an ice-cold bottle of water and chocolate marshmallow Easter eggs. Score! The car hauled ass and we made it to Inchope in no time flat. We walked for time than we were in the car.
From Inchope, the rest of the trip was easy. We met Bryan, our partner in crime in Mangunde, at a restaurant, and headed into Chimoio by chapa. We did our regular thing in Chimoio – made dinner, drank beer, recklessly threw darts – all good fun. Sufficiently drunk, we passed out, prepared for another day of travel.
This leg – from Chimoio to Tete – was one that we did not look forward to. The road to Tete is terrible. It is paved for a good chunk of it, but so much of it is potholed dirt. We made our way out of the house by 8:00. A very nice Mozambican woman picked up three sketchy-looking, white dudes and took us to the next major crossroads. It’s usually impossible to get a lift from women, but she did not hesitate.
Once at the crossroads, we waited less than thirty minutes to get our next ride. A Portuguese man stopped his truck for us. This truck was sweet. The back had a two-seater cushion; this car was meant for boleias. The driver asked which of us spoke Portuguese. Um, we all do…Bryan and Richie chose to stay in the back, while I went to the front seat.
I knew I was in for an afternoon of conversation when he asked who spoke Portuguese. But I certainly did not think we would be touching on elementary subjects such as: the war in Iraq, prisoner release in Guantanamo Bay, the economic crash, relative poverty between America and Mozambique, and the G20 economic forum in Europe. Amazingly, my Portuguese held up beautifully. I surprised myself with my ability to keep up, and surprised our driver even further when I told him we learned Portuguese but seven months ago here in Mozambique.
Our driver took us all the way to Catandica, more or less a halfway point. We stopped for lunch and hoped to catch a car going toward Tete. But the luck we had in the morning had vanished. We sat for four hours, waiting for anything that would take us. Eventually, a car stopped for lunch and we had our ride. We forked over some cash and then we went flying, close to 140 kilometers per hour the entire away. Again, we spent less time in the car than we did waiting. Tis is travel in Mozambique.
The ride from Catandica to Tete, albeit rough on the body, is stunning to the eyes. I have seen few places with more greenery – only St. Lucia in the Caribbean comes to mind. Mountains pop out of nowhere. The only thing this place is missing is animals. It’s a shame that there is a completely lack of wildlife in most of the country. It is so easy to close your eyes and imagine lions or elephants or monkeys patrolling these areas of nothing.
We arrived in Tete just before dark. Bryan put a call in to the Volunteer who lives just outside of Tete and we had a place to stay for the night. After a quick chicken dinner – of course it’s chicken if we are traveling – we called it a night.
The first car that came our way Thursday morning stopped for us. Good luck is once again on our side. We jumped in back and made our way to Zóbuè (Zo-bway), the border town to Malawi. Finally, after days of travel, Malawi was in site. We slid through immigration with no problem, took a taxi to the Malawi side of the border after being hassled by money changers, and entered Malawi.
The only noticeable change between Malawi and Mozambique was the language. We were back to using our mother tongue of English, although most Malawians spoke Chichewa to each other. I bought a SIM card for Malawi, hoping to get in touch with our Peace Corps people, but the card wouldn’t connect. I was told later that the card had expired.
We took a mini-bus – the exact same thing as a chapa – from Mwanza to Blantyre, where we found a restaurant more glorious than anything in Mozambique: Chinese food. Not only did the food taste like Chinese food, but it came out with the speed that Chinese food usually arrives. It was beautiful.
With one leg of trip remaining, we weren’t quite sure what to do. We had to go way north into Malawi. Just our luck, there was a 4 PM bus leaving for Nhkata Bay, our final destination. We bought a bit of snack food and boarded.
The ride north was smooth, but not smooth enough to sleep. Inconveniently, we arrived in Nhkata Bay at 3 AM with no room reserved. After sitting for a couple minutes, we walked over to the nearest backpackers, paid to use their showers, and rested on their couches. We arrived, but weary.
Richie and Bryan had to get money in town, about 45 kilometers away. While they got their cash, I went on the hunt for our Peace Corps Zambia friends. These are the same people we met in Vilanculos over Christmas, so we looked forward to seeing old friends. We had an idea of where they were staying, but when we showed up, there was no reservation. Oh, no. So out I went on the hunt, bouncing from lodge to lodge, hoping to find both their reservation and a room for us. After walking through the lakeside hills of Nhkata Bay for nearly two hours, I returned to my starting point and found them! I only wanted to kill them a little bit. And again, fortune shone on us: a couple people in their group bailed, so we had a place to stay. Great success!
With the knowledge of having a place to stay, I walked back into the village to meet Bryan and Richie. As I waited, I tried yet another SIM card for my phone, but it too failed. I started to wonder if it was my phone that was the issue. Just after noon, the boys arrived. We headed back to Mayoka Village, our accommodation for the week.
Once we settled in, none of us wanted to do anything. We threw on our bathing suits and jumped into the crystal-clear, cool Lake Malawi. There were some concerns of acquiring schistosomiasis, a microscopic parasite that lives in fresh water and enters one’s bloodstream. Our fears were quickly quelled when workers told us there had been no reported cases of schisto from Nhkata Bay in years. And even if there were, we were still going in. That lake is just too tempting.
Bryan and Richie wisely bought some food in Mzuzu – the town with the closest bank – to help keep our costs down. We ate some strangely textured peanut butter sandwiches for dinner and the partying began. Even though we were absolutely exhausted, we made it well into the night.
Saturday was the first day we had to just do nothing an enjoy ourselves. Everyone had money, we were well stocked on beer, and the lake sat there, asking us to go in. Some of the Volunteers from Zambia made our way south toward a beach with some good waves. The water was a little dirtier but still beautiful.
After a quick lunch – and not waiting the standard thirty minutes – we got back into the water. A good distance away from the lodge sat a docked boat, occupied by birds. We thought it would be a good idea to swim to it. It would have been easier to relax on this little boat if it weren’t covered in bird shit.
Keeping a decent budget in tact, I was able to indulge on dinner. A restaurant in the town was cooking up Thai food. I love Thai food. I miss it dearly. There was no way I could pass it up. The food was amazing. I ate way too much, but it was worth it. Who knows when I will have Thai food again?
We have another three days to sit and relax in Malawi. It was a lot of travel for a short period of relaxation. And even though the destination is beautiful, it’s the journey there that stands out for me.
Soon enough, we would be gone too. We sent in our travel plans for Malawi late in the week, hoping that we would get approval for trip over the weekend or early in the week. The call never came, so we are hoping for a Monday phone call.
With no one around and not a lot to do, Richie and I did what we usually do: sit on our porch, staring blankly, throwing the Frisbee, anything to occupy our time. It felt like January all over again.
We ate our regular spaghetti dinner and indulged in a movie that Greg lent to us – “Team America: World Police.” That movie is sick. Once Kim Jong Il starts singing “I’m ronery,” a line that Richie and I often randomly sing, we just totally lost it.
The call that we were itching for came on Monday. Our program director called us, asking for the details of our trip. And oh yea, we needed to send in a formal request to leave, which we forgot about. Shit. Fuck. We got approval for the trip, all the calls were made to the right people in Malawi. All we had to do was get that approval in. With no fax machine, this was going to take some ingenuity.
I filled out the necessary info. We just needed a signature from our school director. He’s sick? What?! Shit. I would have taken just about anyone’s signature at that point. Our assistant director took the request, went to the director’s house – where he was bedridden – and had it signed and stamped. I then took a picture of the request and tried to email it to our director. We were so close, and then the gods started laughing at us. Just as I was about to click “send” on my computer, my battery died. Okay, Richie had battery, no problem. Just as I was about to click send, the network crapped out. Terrible. I called back our program director and told him we would fax over the request as soon as we got to a fax machine – that meant Chimoio, on Tuesday or Wednesday. Program director was cool with it, and we were good to go.
We packed our bags, and by mid-afternoon, we were crossing the river, again, to Mambone. Getting out of site from our side of the river sucks. It’s much easier to cross and head slightly southwest to the main road, even though it is slightly out of our way for going north. We met Greg and his friend Nilton at Greg’s house to make onion rings. He hadn’t experienced the glory that is our weekend treat, so we brought it to him. We also made a very sorry attempt to make corn dogs from our batter and canned mini-dogs. Bad idea. We went to bed early, preparing for travel the next day.
Neither Richie nor I slept particularly well. It didn’t matter. The travel was going to take the wind out of us anyway. We waited outside Nilton’s house for a chapa to the main road, but nothing came. So we just started walking. Of course, we knew we weren’t going to make it to the crossroads, but we had nothing else to do. Just as we passed a little shop, the heavens gave way and a light rain fell. We scampered for shelter and waited the rain out. Within minutes of the rain ending, a car came. Okay, we’re in business.
Phase one complete; now the trickier part of getting a ride north to Inchope. We sat waiting, listening to our iPods, hoping for a car to come. We looked south – no car on the horizon. We looked north – no car on the horizon. So again, we started walking. We figured that if we walked away from the crossroads, someone would pick us up just out of sympathy. We walked for two and half hours down that narrow strip of asphalt. The occasional car or truck passed, but for the most part, there was nothing. There are few things that are more discouraging than being absolutely alone on the road that connects Mozambique’s two biggest cities.
Finally, a very nice South African couple picked us up. Richie busted out “the praying move”; clearly, we found a believer. We got into the couple’s very nice, leather-seated, air-conditioned XTerra, and we were rolling. We were just happy to be in a car; we didn’t expect to get pampered. The wife offered us an ice-cold bottle of water and chocolate marshmallow Easter eggs. Score! The car hauled ass and we made it to Inchope in no time flat. We walked for time than we were in the car.
From Inchope, the rest of the trip was easy. We met Bryan, our partner in crime in Mangunde, at a restaurant, and headed into Chimoio by chapa. We did our regular thing in Chimoio – made dinner, drank beer, recklessly threw darts – all good fun. Sufficiently drunk, we passed out, prepared for another day of travel.
This leg – from Chimoio to Tete – was one that we did not look forward to. The road to Tete is terrible. It is paved for a good chunk of it, but so much of it is potholed dirt. We made our way out of the house by 8:00. A very nice Mozambican woman picked up three sketchy-looking, white dudes and took us to the next major crossroads. It’s usually impossible to get a lift from women, but she did not hesitate.
Once at the crossroads, we waited less than thirty minutes to get our next ride. A Portuguese man stopped his truck for us. This truck was sweet. The back had a two-seater cushion; this car was meant for boleias. The driver asked which of us spoke Portuguese. Um, we all do…Bryan and Richie chose to stay in the back, while I went to the front seat.
I knew I was in for an afternoon of conversation when he asked who spoke Portuguese. But I certainly did not think we would be touching on elementary subjects such as: the war in Iraq, prisoner release in Guantanamo Bay, the economic crash, relative poverty between America and Mozambique, and the G20 economic forum in Europe. Amazingly, my Portuguese held up beautifully. I surprised myself with my ability to keep up, and surprised our driver even further when I told him we learned Portuguese but seven months ago here in Mozambique.
Our driver took us all the way to Catandica, more or less a halfway point. We stopped for lunch and hoped to catch a car going toward Tete. But the luck we had in the morning had vanished. We sat for four hours, waiting for anything that would take us. Eventually, a car stopped for lunch and we had our ride. We forked over some cash and then we went flying, close to 140 kilometers per hour the entire away. Again, we spent less time in the car than we did waiting. Tis is travel in Mozambique.
The ride from Catandica to Tete, albeit rough on the body, is stunning to the eyes. I have seen few places with more greenery – only St. Lucia in the Caribbean comes to mind. Mountains pop out of nowhere. The only thing this place is missing is animals. It’s a shame that there is a completely lack of wildlife in most of the country. It is so easy to close your eyes and imagine lions or elephants or monkeys patrolling these areas of nothing.
We arrived in Tete just before dark. Bryan put a call in to the Volunteer who lives just outside of Tete and we had a place to stay for the night. After a quick chicken dinner – of course it’s chicken if we are traveling – we called it a night.
The first car that came our way Thursday morning stopped for us. Good luck is once again on our side. We jumped in back and made our way to Zóbuè (Zo-bway), the border town to Malawi. Finally, after days of travel, Malawi was in site. We slid through immigration with no problem, took a taxi to the Malawi side of the border after being hassled by money changers, and entered Malawi.
The only noticeable change between Malawi and Mozambique was the language. We were back to using our mother tongue of English, although most Malawians spoke Chichewa to each other. I bought a SIM card for Malawi, hoping to get in touch with our Peace Corps people, but the card wouldn’t connect. I was told later that the card had expired.
We took a mini-bus – the exact same thing as a chapa – from Mwanza to Blantyre, where we found a restaurant more glorious than anything in Mozambique: Chinese food. Not only did the food taste like Chinese food, but it came out with the speed that Chinese food usually arrives. It was beautiful.
With one leg of trip remaining, we weren’t quite sure what to do. We had to go way north into Malawi. Just our luck, there was a 4 PM bus leaving for Nhkata Bay, our final destination. We bought a bit of snack food and boarded.
The ride north was smooth, but not smooth enough to sleep. Inconveniently, we arrived in Nhkata Bay at 3 AM with no room reserved. After sitting for a couple minutes, we walked over to the nearest backpackers, paid to use their showers, and rested on their couches. We arrived, but weary.
Richie and Bryan had to get money in town, about 45 kilometers away. While they got their cash, I went on the hunt for our Peace Corps Zambia friends. These are the same people we met in Vilanculos over Christmas, so we looked forward to seeing old friends. We had an idea of where they were staying, but when we showed up, there was no reservation. Oh, no. So out I went on the hunt, bouncing from lodge to lodge, hoping to find both their reservation and a room for us. After walking through the lakeside hills of Nhkata Bay for nearly two hours, I returned to my starting point and found them! I only wanted to kill them a little bit. And again, fortune shone on us: a couple people in their group bailed, so we had a place to stay. Great success!
With the knowledge of having a place to stay, I walked back into the village to meet Bryan and Richie. As I waited, I tried yet another SIM card for my phone, but it too failed. I started to wonder if it was my phone that was the issue. Just after noon, the boys arrived. We headed back to Mayoka Village, our accommodation for the week.
Once we settled in, none of us wanted to do anything. We threw on our bathing suits and jumped into the crystal-clear, cool Lake Malawi. There were some concerns of acquiring schistosomiasis, a microscopic parasite that lives in fresh water and enters one’s bloodstream. Our fears were quickly quelled when workers told us there had been no reported cases of schisto from Nhkata Bay in years. And even if there were, we were still going in. That lake is just too tempting.
Bryan and Richie wisely bought some food in Mzuzu – the town with the closest bank – to help keep our costs down. We ate some strangely textured peanut butter sandwiches for dinner and the partying began. Even though we were absolutely exhausted, we made it well into the night.
Saturday was the first day we had to just do nothing an enjoy ourselves. Everyone had money, we were well stocked on beer, and the lake sat there, asking us to go in. Some of the Volunteers from Zambia made our way south toward a beach with some good waves. The water was a little dirtier but still beautiful.
After a quick lunch – and not waiting the standard thirty minutes – we got back into the water. A good distance away from the lodge sat a docked boat, occupied by birds. We thought it would be a good idea to swim to it. It would have been easier to relax on this little boat if it weren’t covered in bird shit.
Keeping a decent budget in tact, I was able to indulge on dinner. A restaurant in the town was cooking up Thai food. I love Thai food. I miss it dearly. There was no way I could pass it up. The food was amazing. I ate way too much, but it was worth it. Who knows when I will have Thai food again?
We have another three days to sit and relax in Malawi. It was a lot of travel for a short period of relaxation. And even though the destination is beautiful, it’s the journey there that stands out for me.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Year 1 - Week 16: Three Cups of Beer
Saturday night should not have happened. Up all night and all day, it would have been easy to eat dinner and pass out. But what fun would that be? We’re stuck here anyway and there’s no way we’re heading back tomorrow, so we might as well live it up. A couple caixas of beer and we had ourselves a little – okay, a not so little – party. Cold beer flowed into early Sunday morning. After forty-two hours of being awake, I finally fell asleep.
But not for long. Everyone was up, hung over, by 8:30. Now we definitely weren’t going anywhere. We did almost nothing in the morning. Some people napped, others watched movies, but no one was moving quickly. The only moving that was done was lifting pancakes from plate to mouth.
By lunch, we were all hungry, no longer hung over, and moving at a decent speed. We were hoping for pizza, but alas, the pizza joint was closed. What kind of restaurant shuts down during the lunch hour?! We returned to the restaurant where we ate yesterday, and once again, I got my half chicken. We had the added excitement on a Mozambique-Nigeria World Cup qualifier on TV. When Mozambique scored, the place erupted. When the goal was revoked because a player was offside, the elation turned to silence. We stuck around for the first half, and then went to the pizza place. When in Rome, eat pizza. So that’s what we did, in spite of having just eaten.
It rained for the better part of the afternoon, and it seemed to pick up as we walked from one place to another. The rain picked up in the evening. The irony of evacuating due to a now-dissipated cyclone to a place with tons of rain and wind is just rich. Our party remained a solid six, and with nothing else to do, we found our way to cervejas once again.
We got a late start to Monday. Between not wanting to move and the pancakes that were made for us, there was just no reason to hurry back. By late morning, we were on the road. We wanted to get as far north as possible in an effort to get back to Machanga as quickly as possible. With a good run of chapas, we made it to Chidenguele. Stopped on the side of the road, we drew the attention of children. I told them that Richie likes to eat children, which only seemed to provoke them closer. But once we took steps toward them, they scattered, laughing, only to come back after we smiled.
We got a car heading north toward then Maxixe, and with a little sunlight left, we decided to make a run to Mapinhane, where two Volunteers live. By the end of our ride, we were under a black sky speckled with stars.
Tired from the previous day’s travel, we once again were on the move late. Three cars filled with South Africans passed us before we caught a chapa into Vilanculos. The ride to Vilanculos was fast, but not fast enough to catch the 10:30 chapa to Mambone. And the chances of us getting a boleia up north were slim. It’s not so easy as guys to get free rides.
We relaxed for the better part of the day once we got to Vilanculos. We sat at a café alongside the main road. While waiting for food to come out, I decided to find some sunglasses. I spoke Portuguese to the vendor and he replied in English. This was frustrating. At one point, he asked me if I spoke Spanish. Mm, no, I speak Portuguese. “Well,” he replied “your Portuguese is not so good.” Thanks jackass, I won’t be buying sunglasses from you today.
Richie and I each ate a half-chicken – when we’re not at site, it’s about all we eat – before splitting off. I had hoped to catch some internet time at a backpackers’ lodge, but once again, their internet was down. I met up again with Richie to buy some items foreign to Machanga, like Balsamic vinegar. We stayed at a Volunteers house in Vilanculos. We very much appreciated the fact that we could call in the morning and, on less than a day’s notice, have a place to stay that night. The three of us gorged ourselves with delicious pizza. The two of us who are English teachers played a game of Scrabble. And after another day of travel, we were done for the day.
We didn’t have to rush out on Wednesday morning. The Mambone chapa leaves daily between 10:30 and 11, and with just a little shopping to do beforehand, we could take our sweet time getting down to the villa. As we usually do before heading back to Machanga, we stocked up vegetables we just can’t get – namely avocado and bell pepper. Some kid tried to charge me 75 Meticais for one avocado and I almost had a seizure. Instead, I just yelled at him in Portuguese. I am happy to be at point with my language skills that can frustratingly yell at people. It made me even happier when they bring the price back down to its regular ten Meticais. And what might have made me the most happy was when a different sunglasses vendor said “Fala bem Portuguese” – “he speaks good Portuguese.” Damn right I do.
The ride from Vilanculos to Mambone is usually a simple ride. I wouldn’t call it fun, but it isn’t a pain in the ass. Usually. On this ride, the chapa was playing the same terrible twelve songs that Mozambicans love, with the same terrible bass line and drum rhythms, at a volume so high that listening to my iPod was useless. Despite sitting in the first row behind the driver, a girl of about ten sat in front of me, facing me, crammed between my knees and the middle seat next to the driver. Her feet layered on mine, my foot fell asleep; her head on my knee, she fell asleep (how, I have no idea). Slowly going deaf and quickly going numb from the knees down, I resigned myself to reading Greg Mortenson’s humanitarian story “Three Cups of Tea.”
The chapa arrived in Mambone late, around 2 PM. Usually, we are back across the river by 2 or 2:30. We had just a few things to do in Mambone: check out the little jersey shop; by bread, tomatoes, and onions; maybe enjoy one last cold drink. We did the last thing first: our newly-made South African friend caught our attention. We joined him and his family for a beer before scurrying off. I bought a sweet Argentina soccer jersey while Richie bought an even sweeter Shaquille O’Neal Orlando Magic jersey. We got our delicious Mambone bread, some sad-looking tomatoes and onions, and crossed the river to Machanga.
We rolled into the school beaten down. Neither of us wanted to do much of anything, but for a change, there was work to do. Our final exams were given for us and now we had to turn them around as quickly as possible. There was no way to get them done by tomorrow, so we alphabetized the exams – a key to getting them corrected and having the grades written down – and made grading keys. As we got organized, our energy came on. I started cooking dinner while he finished organizing; he finished cooking dinner so I could start organizing. The night ended as it usually does – sweating, mildly full, watching “House.”
I slept about as well I have slept here. I had a fan blowing on my face, which always helps, although I think the exhaustion from the last few days of travel is more likely cause. Sleeping until almost 9:00, a task considered easy and regular before coming here, was quite amazing. I ate a little bit of bread before getting my grading done. I would call the results mixed. There was no shortage of perfect scores, and there are some embarrassingly low scores. I even managed to catch three cheaters, who stupidly all had the same answers and scratch-outs. I confirmed with the person who gave the test that they were all sitting together. How stupid do they think I am?
I would have liked to have given the exams back today, but without energy, I couldn’t put grades into the computer. After our stir fry lunch, Richie and I had a relaxing afternoon. At one point, our neighbor asked us “what means this: ‘oh shit, it’s the fuckin’ boy?’” I almost gagged. We asked him to repeat it two more times, both for a laugh and to make sure of what we heard. We did our best to explain, but we just don’t know how to say “Fuck” and “Shit” in Portuguese. They are not exactly words found in your everyday Portuguese-English dictionary.
Once the energy came on, I was able to get my grades into the computer. We are supposed to hand-write our grades, which means doing math. I have no problem doing math, but I do have a problem with handwriting. And if I can type something up and have the computer do the math for me, well hell, I’m going to. Most of the grades are pretty good. We cooked up dinner, watched house, and after a not so difficult day, we turned in.
Neither of us had many obligations for Friday. I spent the morning with “Three cups of Tea.” All we had to do was hand back our exams, which would only take a couple of minutes. After one trimester, we have mastered how to minimize our workload. We don’t have to give the exams back to the students – we can give that job to the class “chefe” (the class boss). They take care of the work for us. It’s great. I did, however, take the time to return the tests of the three cheaters, telling them in Portuguese “If you are going to share the answers, you are going to share the points.” I think it’s fair.
My only major obligation for Friday was to print the grades out. This would be easy if just one of the computers in the lab wasn’t infected by a virus. So I did something logical – loaded the printer software to my computer, hooked in my laptop directly, and boom! I had my grades. For this day, I defeated Machanga. I cherish these rare victories.
Any feeling of victory from the day before dissipated Saturday morning. Richie and I finally were able to get our garden going. We had a student dig out the land for us. As we started planting, our neighbors kept telling us how to do the planting. So I had to weigh this decision – listen to them, or follow directions. I did the very unmanly thing and followed directions. Of course, this led to more talking by the teachers, and I almost lost it. I just stood there in silence. Richie recognized my frustration but the locals didn’t, so they just kept talking. I wanted to do like Frank Costanza from “Seinfeld” and yell “SERENITY NOW!” But even that wouldn’t be appreciated.
The nice thing about having a shitty morning is it can only get better, and boy did it. Greg, our South African friend living in Mambone, called Richie to tell him he was on our side of the river. We figured we were just getting drinks. We were wrong. With some of our market mamas, we dined on shrimp, absolutely perfectly cooked fish, rice, potatoes and salad. It was the fastest 180 degree turn ever. And yes, there were many cups of beer. This was our own little “Three Cups of Tea” moment. Usually, we just do business with the market mamas, but after a couple cups of beer, we were like family. They told us we didn’t have to pay for any of the food, but we still felt obligated to contribute.
We did not look forward to the long walk to the river – oh yea, we got invited to cross the river to continue the festivities with our Peace Corps colleague Greg. Brilliantly, our friends arranged an oxen-pulled cart to take us down to the river. It’s a terrible walk sober; I can’t imagine stumbling down that road.
Once across the river, we made our way toward Peace Corps Greg. His girlfriend’s family was cooking up dinner and we were invited. And what was served? Duck! This might have been the best food day here. The duck was some of the best bird I have ever eaten. I was in heaven.
After dinner, we wandered over to a discothèque to do a little bit of drinking. While sipping on a delicious cold beer, I noticed a man wearing a unique piece of clothing – a Team Finland hockey jersey. Intrigued, I told him I would buy the shirt off of his back. And for 150 Meticais – six dollars – it was mine. The guy later came back with a Czech Republic Jaromir Jagr jersey. Broke, I couldn’t buy it, but I convinced Richie to purchase it. By 10:30, we were ready to hit the ice. Now where is that ice rink?
Our night of drinking over, we had a seven kilometer walk in front of us. Luckily we caught a boleia down the road to Greg’s house. Considering the terrible start to the day, this turned out pretty well.
But not for long. Everyone was up, hung over, by 8:30. Now we definitely weren’t going anywhere. We did almost nothing in the morning. Some people napped, others watched movies, but no one was moving quickly. The only moving that was done was lifting pancakes from plate to mouth.
By lunch, we were all hungry, no longer hung over, and moving at a decent speed. We were hoping for pizza, but alas, the pizza joint was closed. What kind of restaurant shuts down during the lunch hour?! We returned to the restaurant where we ate yesterday, and once again, I got my half chicken. We had the added excitement on a Mozambique-Nigeria World Cup qualifier on TV. When Mozambique scored, the place erupted. When the goal was revoked because a player was offside, the elation turned to silence. We stuck around for the first half, and then went to the pizza place. When in Rome, eat pizza. So that’s what we did, in spite of having just eaten.
It rained for the better part of the afternoon, and it seemed to pick up as we walked from one place to another. The rain picked up in the evening. The irony of evacuating due to a now-dissipated cyclone to a place with tons of rain and wind is just rich. Our party remained a solid six, and with nothing else to do, we found our way to cervejas once again.
We got a late start to Monday. Between not wanting to move and the pancakes that were made for us, there was just no reason to hurry back. By late morning, we were on the road. We wanted to get as far north as possible in an effort to get back to Machanga as quickly as possible. With a good run of chapas, we made it to Chidenguele. Stopped on the side of the road, we drew the attention of children. I told them that Richie likes to eat children, which only seemed to provoke them closer. But once we took steps toward them, they scattered, laughing, only to come back after we smiled.
We got a car heading north toward then Maxixe, and with a little sunlight left, we decided to make a run to Mapinhane, where two Volunteers live. By the end of our ride, we were under a black sky speckled with stars.
Tired from the previous day’s travel, we once again were on the move late. Three cars filled with South Africans passed us before we caught a chapa into Vilanculos. The ride to Vilanculos was fast, but not fast enough to catch the 10:30 chapa to Mambone. And the chances of us getting a boleia up north were slim. It’s not so easy as guys to get free rides.
We relaxed for the better part of the day once we got to Vilanculos. We sat at a café alongside the main road. While waiting for food to come out, I decided to find some sunglasses. I spoke Portuguese to the vendor and he replied in English. This was frustrating. At one point, he asked me if I spoke Spanish. Mm, no, I speak Portuguese. “Well,” he replied “your Portuguese is not so good.” Thanks jackass, I won’t be buying sunglasses from you today.
Richie and I each ate a half-chicken – when we’re not at site, it’s about all we eat – before splitting off. I had hoped to catch some internet time at a backpackers’ lodge, but once again, their internet was down. I met up again with Richie to buy some items foreign to Machanga, like Balsamic vinegar. We stayed at a Volunteers house in Vilanculos. We very much appreciated the fact that we could call in the morning and, on less than a day’s notice, have a place to stay that night. The three of us gorged ourselves with delicious pizza. The two of us who are English teachers played a game of Scrabble. And after another day of travel, we were done for the day.
We didn’t have to rush out on Wednesday morning. The Mambone chapa leaves daily between 10:30 and 11, and with just a little shopping to do beforehand, we could take our sweet time getting down to the villa. As we usually do before heading back to Machanga, we stocked up vegetables we just can’t get – namely avocado and bell pepper. Some kid tried to charge me 75 Meticais for one avocado and I almost had a seizure. Instead, I just yelled at him in Portuguese. I am happy to be at point with my language skills that can frustratingly yell at people. It made me even happier when they bring the price back down to its regular ten Meticais. And what might have made me the most happy was when a different sunglasses vendor said “Fala bem Portuguese” – “he speaks good Portuguese.” Damn right I do.
The ride from Vilanculos to Mambone is usually a simple ride. I wouldn’t call it fun, but it isn’t a pain in the ass. Usually. On this ride, the chapa was playing the same terrible twelve songs that Mozambicans love, with the same terrible bass line and drum rhythms, at a volume so high that listening to my iPod was useless. Despite sitting in the first row behind the driver, a girl of about ten sat in front of me, facing me, crammed between my knees and the middle seat next to the driver. Her feet layered on mine, my foot fell asleep; her head on my knee, she fell asleep (how, I have no idea). Slowly going deaf and quickly going numb from the knees down, I resigned myself to reading Greg Mortenson’s humanitarian story “Three Cups of Tea.”
The chapa arrived in Mambone late, around 2 PM. Usually, we are back across the river by 2 or 2:30. We had just a few things to do in Mambone: check out the little jersey shop; by bread, tomatoes, and onions; maybe enjoy one last cold drink. We did the last thing first: our newly-made South African friend caught our attention. We joined him and his family for a beer before scurrying off. I bought a sweet Argentina soccer jersey while Richie bought an even sweeter Shaquille O’Neal Orlando Magic jersey. We got our delicious Mambone bread, some sad-looking tomatoes and onions, and crossed the river to Machanga.
We rolled into the school beaten down. Neither of us wanted to do much of anything, but for a change, there was work to do. Our final exams were given for us and now we had to turn them around as quickly as possible. There was no way to get them done by tomorrow, so we alphabetized the exams – a key to getting them corrected and having the grades written down – and made grading keys. As we got organized, our energy came on. I started cooking dinner while he finished organizing; he finished cooking dinner so I could start organizing. The night ended as it usually does – sweating, mildly full, watching “House.”
I slept about as well I have slept here. I had a fan blowing on my face, which always helps, although I think the exhaustion from the last few days of travel is more likely cause. Sleeping until almost 9:00, a task considered easy and regular before coming here, was quite amazing. I ate a little bit of bread before getting my grading done. I would call the results mixed. There was no shortage of perfect scores, and there are some embarrassingly low scores. I even managed to catch three cheaters, who stupidly all had the same answers and scratch-outs. I confirmed with the person who gave the test that they were all sitting together. How stupid do they think I am?
I would have liked to have given the exams back today, but without energy, I couldn’t put grades into the computer. After our stir fry lunch, Richie and I had a relaxing afternoon. At one point, our neighbor asked us “what means this: ‘oh shit, it’s the fuckin’ boy?’” I almost gagged. We asked him to repeat it two more times, both for a laugh and to make sure of what we heard. We did our best to explain, but we just don’t know how to say “Fuck” and “Shit” in Portuguese. They are not exactly words found in your everyday Portuguese-English dictionary.
Once the energy came on, I was able to get my grades into the computer. We are supposed to hand-write our grades, which means doing math. I have no problem doing math, but I do have a problem with handwriting. And if I can type something up and have the computer do the math for me, well hell, I’m going to. Most of the grades are pretty good. We cooked up dinner, watched house, and after a not so difficult day, we turned in.
Neither of us had many obligations for Friday. I spent the morning with “Three cups of Tea.” All we had to do was hand back our exams, which would only take a couple of minutes. After one trimester, we have mastered how to minimize our workload. We don’t have to give the exams back to the students – we can give that job to the class “chefe” (the class boss). They take care of the work for us. It’s great. I did, however, take the time to return the tests of the three cheaters, telling them in Portuguese “If you are going to share the answers, you are going to share the points.” I think it’s fair.
My only major obligation for Friday was to print the grades out. This would be easy if just one of the computers in the lab wasn’t infected by a virus. So I did something logical – loaded the printer software to my computer, hooked in my laptop directly, and boom! I had my grades. For this day, I defeated Machanga. I cherish these rare victories.
Any feeling of victory from the day before dissipated Saturday morning. Richie and I finally were able to get our garden going. We had a student dig out the land for us. As we started planting, our neighbors kept telling us how to do the planting. So I had to weigh this decision – listen to them, or follow directions. I did the very unmanly thing and followed directions. Of course, this led to more talking by the teachers, and I almost lost it. I just stood there in silence. Richie recognized my frustration but the locals didn’t, so they just kept talking. I wanted to do like Frank Costanza from “Seinfeld” and yell “SERENITY NOW!” But even that wouldn’t be appreciated.
The nice thing about having a shitty morning is it can only get better, and boy did it. Greg, our South African friend living in Mambone, called Richie to tell him he was on our side of the river. We figured we were just getting drinks. We were wrong. With some of our market mamas, we dined on shrimp, absolutely perfectly cooked fish, rice, potatoes and salad. It was the fastest 180 degree turn ever. And yes, there were many cups of beer. This was our own little “Three Cups of Tea” moment. Usually, we just do business with the market mamas, but after a couple cups of beer, we were like family. They told us we didn’t have to pay for any of the food, but we still felt obligated to contribute.
We did not look forward to the long walk to the river – oh yea, we got invited to cross the river to continue the festivities with our Peace Corps colleague Greg. Brilliantly, our friends arranged an oxen-pulled cart to take us down to the river. It’s a terrible walk sober; I can’t imagine stumbling down that road.
Once across the river, we made our way toward Peace Corps Greg. His girlfriend’s family was cooking up dinner and we were invited. And what was served? Duck! This might have been the best food day here. The duck was some of the best bird I have ever eaten. I was in heaven.
After dinner, we wandered over to a discothèque to do a little bit of drinking. While sipping on a delicious cold beer, I noticed a man wearing a unique piece of clothing – a Team Finland hockey jersey. Intrigued, I told him I would buy the shirt off of his back. And for 150 Meticais – six dollars – it was mine. The guy later came back with a Czech Republic Jaromir Jagr jersey. Broke, I couldn’t buy it, but I convinced Richie to purchase it. By 10:30, we were ready to hit the ice. Now where is that ice rink?
Our night of drinking over, we had a seven kilometer walk in front of us. Luckily we caught a boleia down the road to Greg’s house. Considering the terrible start to the day, this turned out pretty well.
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