The Best Things and The Worst Things of Manjacaze, Part I

I have been at site—Manjacaze, Gaza, aka my home for two years—for three weeks. (Technically it has been three weeks and three days, but who’s counting?)

I will start by saying that when I got here and saw this medium-sized town, I was pleasantly surprised. It’s a town of about 30,000 people, which seems tiny relative to the States, but is on the larger side for Mozambique (and, let me remind you, I spent four years at a university 15x smaller than Manjacaze…this is large). In the center of town, there is a pretty green space, with swings, a green house, and a small concrete soccer pitch. Lots of trees, many of whose trunks are painted white, overlaid with the HIV/AIDS awareness red ribbon. We have a bank, many lojes, which are stores in buildings—as opposed to stands in the market— where you can get foods that need to be refrigerated and other non-vegetable goods. We have a nun house, lots of churches, places to grab a beer (or two or three), pre schools, primary schools, and two secondary schools. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that if I didn’t leave Manjacaze for the next two years, I could physically survive. I would really miss yogurt, and I would be going stir crazy as hell, but all of my basic physical needs would be met.

Center of town, approaching the market.

Over the past three weeks, I have developed a couple of Sarahisms that I don’t think will go away anytime soon. They are “the best thing” and the “worst thing”. I’ll give some example uses before I move on: 

“The orphans that live at the nuns’ house come over to feed the pigs. They also climb the papaya trees to get the ripe ones before they fall on their own and bruise. They usually leave one for us. It’s the best thing.” 

“The chapa drivers tried to charge us 60MT for the ride instead of the 30MT it should cost because we are white and they think all white people are rich. It was the worst thing.”

I understand that neither of those situations are, in the literal sense, the best or the worst, but I say it that way anyways because it gets the point across. So—if you couldn’t guess already—I’m going to use this brand new, brilliant and  “so Brades” ism to highlight the highs and lows of the last three weeks. (This is Part I. Part II will come soon.)

Before coming to site, Alex, my roommate, and I learned that we would be living in a two-bedroom house with an indoor bathroom, living room and kitchen. It is about 2km away from the school so we would need to buy bikes once we got there. It has a fenced in yard for privacy and the rent was 3,000MT per month. The health volunteer, Bbeca, that has been living in Manjacaze for 1.5 years found the house and made the deal with the landlord. Sounds great, right? Right. Well, on our way to site, I get the following message from Bbeca: 

Bbeca:

Okay, so your landlord went psycho*...

And now you guys don't have a house

So Sergio is going to call you to let you guys know that you'll be staying at my house for a couple of days.

Sarah:

Oh Jesus.

Bbeca:

So a truck came by and took out my power line...

I'm sorry but I don't know when we'll have energy again.

Sarah:

Okay, our guy says we are going to live in a house by the school temporarily and not with you.

Bbeca:

Are you sure? I have an extra room and 2 beds

Sarah:

I'm sure those were the words he said but no way of knowing if they are true or not.

Bbeca:

No I meant like do you guys want to stay there?

Sarah:

I don't think it's a matter of what we want to do. We re doing what we are told.

Bbeca:

Okay. I'll call Sergio. Last time he called he asked me if you guys can stay and I had told yeah
What a stressful morning. The argument with the landlord was not fun at all.
Sarah:
I just talked to him and he said we need to go to your house.

*Psycho: The landlord increased rent by 2,000MT per month, and demanded thee months' rent (15,000MT) in advance. Peace Corps did not want us living underneath a landlord that goes back on his word/changes is mind so quickly. So that house was not an option.

It was the worst thing. We are about two hours away from our site and we don’t have a place to live. Shortly after Bbeca’s message, I get a phone call from our Education Country Director, Sergio, who confirms that we don’t have a house. His quote, “We will not let this bring us down. You will find a house.” was the best thing and the worst thing at the same time. Thanks for the encouragement, buddy, but what do you mean “you will find a house”? Does that mean I will find a house? How the hell do you expect me to do that? 

Note: The house that the school offered us to live in was the SCIENCE LAB. #umwhat. It smelled like chemicals and shit (literally, poop) and nobody had actually lived in it for over 5 years. No. Thank. You. The worst thing.

In case you weren’t so sure, there is no such thing as Craigslist or Apartment Finder in Moz. The way you find a house is by asking people on the street if they know of anyone who is renting a house. If someone says yes, you ask, “com boas condiçoes?” (with good conditions?) and if they say yes you say that you’re interested and then hope that they follow up with the owner and somehow follow up with you. You also hope that their idea of “good conditions” aligns with yours. The standard for good conditions here is way different than in the States, and many times very different than Peace Corps house requirements as well, so pretty much there’s no reason to ask about good conditions because even if they say yes, we will need to see for ourselves and the house would likely fall short in some way or another. (For example, may families share one outside latrine and Peace Corps requires that all volunteers have their own private bathroom.) Considering we needed a house ASAP, this slow and uncertain process was the worst thing. 

Temporarily, we were staying with Bbeca, because she lives in a house (owned by nuns) with three bedrooms and three bathrooms. We had access to one bedroom that had two twin beds in it and a bathroom attached, so it worked just fine. Bbeca’s house was perfect:

It has running water. The best thing.

It has many papaya trees, mango trees, banana trees, passion fruit trees, and pineapple bushes. The best thing.

A wash board and many laundry lines. The best thing.

Each bedroom has it’s own indoor bathroom with shower and flushing toilet. The best thing. 

Fully stocked kitchen, including fridge, stove and no-stick frying pan. The best thing.

Puppies. Six of them. The best thing.

A large living room/dining room space that has accumulated decorations over the past few years from other volunteers. The best thing.

Kitchen/living Space on the left, three rooms to the right.

We wanted to live there. Bbeca, who had been in Manjacaze as the only American for a year and a half also welcomed the idea of two roommates. Peace Corps didn’t explore this idea in the first place because they thought that having three volunteers living together would stifle community integration because we would stay at home and hang out with each other instead of venturing out and meeting our Mozambican neighbors. Considering the fact that we were now in Manjacaze and not finding anything promising through our house search attempts, we thought maybe Peace Corps would reconsider this idea. It had been two weeks, we still didn’t have a permanent place to live, and I’m sure Sergio wanted this issue resolved ASAP. So we asked. And he told us to find out the price. And after a week and a half we finally got an answer from the nuns, who were willing to rent the extra rooms to us and told us the price. Within 24 hours, Peace Corps agreed to the arrangements and a contract was written up and signed by both parties. It was a day to celebrate. A few days later we got the keys to the third room and moved our stuff into our respective rooms and we were home. Three weeks later. We were home. It was the best thing. 

Some pictures of Manjacaze follow:

Soccer Field #nograssnoproblem

Garden in the center of town

Swing in the center of town

View of our house from outside the gate. (Water pump on the left)

A peek into a cemetery.

Escola Secundaria de Manjacaze
The school I will be teaching at: classrooms on the left, professor's office to the right.

A view of a street. #coolsky

Never have I ever...Until I did.

Five things I’ve done here in Mozambique that I never thought I’d ever do. Like ever. Ever ever. Ever ever ever. You ready?

Licked Bread:

One morning, my host nephew, Lukey, was wandering around the house aimlessly, repeating words of things he knew: agua agua agua (water); bolo bolo bolo (cake); xima xima xima (grits); acabou acabou acabou (finish); Sarah Sarah Sarah; etc. Then we saw me making breakfast of bread and peanut butter and he decided, as children do, that right at that moment he needed peanut butter bread more than anything else ever in the world and if he didn’t get it right then his world might end. It was intense. So naturally, to encourage the behavior, I made him his own piece of peanut butter bread. My Mãe doesn’t like peanut butter—she only buys it for me—and I think it may have been the first time that Lukey ever had it. Instead of taking bites of the bread like a normal human, he instead decided to lick the peanut butter off the bread, without actually eating the bread. After there wasn’t an ounce of peanut butter left on the bread, all of it replaced with the spit of an almost-two-year-old, Lukey handed the bread back to me and said “mana Sarah come”…”Sarah, eat it”. And I did. Don’t ask me why because to this day, many weeks later, I have no idea why I did it. He was cute and demanding and I love him and in that moment I just couldn’t say no. Judge all you want, it’s whatever. #toocute #disgusting #eatspit

I think it's impossible to say no to that. Right?

Muita Força:

One day I was heading out of the house to passear (wander around), and Pai was standing outside in front of the house next to the car. He esta pedir-ed (asked, as Mozambicans do) me to help him push his car from our front yard into the street (the street is on a downhill slant and the car will only start after it’s put into neutral and rolls down a hill for a bit. At which time Pai turns the key and voila! the car starts). Sometimes, Mãe helps him do this, so it was kind of weird but not really. So, I say okay (because what am I going to say, no?) and go around to the back of the car. At which time, Pai goes and stands on the front porch and crosses his arms and said “com muita força” (with a lot of force). He was not intending to help me, so I said “não posso sozinho” (I can’t do it alone). He said, “yes you can, use a lot of force” and continued to stand there and watch me. There was no backing out now; he was not about to take no for an answer. So I pushed. And nothing happened. And he said muita força. And I pushed again. And nothing happened again. And he said mais força and I pushed and nothing happened. Then he told me to take a running start. #areyoukiddingme So I did. And it moved. YES IT MOVED. I pushed that freaking almost-not-functional car into the street! Pai ran up next to it, jumped in, put it in neutral and rolled with it down the hill. See ya later Pai, you’re welcome.

Pigs dying, Brades crying:

Being sick sucks. Being sick when you’re away from your mom sucks worse. And being sick in Mozambique sucks the worst. I promise you.  On the way back from visiting two current volunteers in the province of Gaza, another volunteer, Tyler, and I stopped in Maputo and ate pizza #cheeseplease. We got the vegetarian variety #duh and pineapple Fanta out of the bottle and life was prime. The restaurant even had a flushing toilet and liquid soap—we were living like royalty. Well that restaurant can suck my dick because that pizza got me the sickest I have ever been. The barfing started around 8pm and continued every 20 minutes until about noon the next day. It was the definition of miserable. My Mãe noticed that I was running to the bathroom and puking after the second time, and she brought me vinegar. She told me to drink it to stop the vomiting. Straight vinegar. Half a glass of it. My stomach was extremely queasy and I told Mãe I couldn’t do it. She told me I had to in order to get better. I did. Three giant gulps and vomited on the spot. Mãe said sorry and let me go to my room. Then, about an hour later I hear this atrocious screaming—not from a human. I open my door and peek out just long enough to see Måe, Pai and a giant pig all in the front yard. The pig was about to die. I went in my room, shut the door, vomited again and laid down. The pig screamed again and didn’t stop screaming until it was completely dead about thirty minutes later. Thirty minutes. Throughout those thirty minutes, I lay in bed thinking “I don’t think this can get worse”, while I violently dry heaven multiple times. Nothing can make this moment worse. 

Vomit. I hate this. Lay. I hate this. Pig scream. I hate this. Vomit. I hate this. Lay. I hate this. Pig Scream. I hate this. Vomit. Vomit. Vomit. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. Pig dead. Dead. Dead. I hate this. So sad. I hate this.

Then around 9:30pm Mãe brings in chicken soup and tells me to ignore the chicken and eat it because it will make me better. Ignore the chicken, Mãe, really? No. Heck no. HELL NO. I feel like I’m going to die. I think you tried to kill me with vinegar. A pig actually just died. And now you’re making Sarah the vegetarian eat chicken? This has got to be a sick joke. I hid the soup under the bed until the next morning, when I snuck to the bathroom and poured it down the toilet.

To recap: Got sick from pizza. Drank straight vinegar. Laid in bed puking my guts out while listening to a pig die. Fed chicken when Mãe knows I’m a veggie girl. Nope, didn’t see that one coming.

15 hours later the vomiting stopped. The rest is history.

A Lesson in Tooth Brushing:

My first night in Mozambique, I asked my Mãe where I should spit the toothpaste after I was done brushing my teeth. That sounds like a weird question, but I noticed that she was very adamant about keeping the bath tub clean, and I didn’t want to spit in there without asking first. Spit in a tub might be offensive to Mozambicans—you never know. Instead of just telling me to spit in the tub, which I eventually learned was okay, she gave me an entire lesson on brushing my teeth. Brushing my teeth. Let remind you that I am 27 years old, and have been brushing my teeth at least twice a day for as long as I can remember. 

She went into the bathroom and grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste and walked me through the entire process—from putting the toothpaste on the brush all the way trhough: scrubbing, spitting, swishing and finally rinsing off my toothbrush with treated water. Assi, Sarah. (Like this, Sarah). I didn’t want to offend her by telling her “I know Mãe”, or what I was really thinking: Do you think I’m a flippin’ idiot? Do you see these pearly whites? They don’t get this way because I never learned how to brush my teeth! 

Instead I did as she did and we completed the teeth brushing lesson. When we both had fresh breath and ready for bed, she hugged me, kissed me on each cheek and told me parabéns. That means congratulations.

Thanks, Mae. I waited 27 years to learn how to brush my teeth, and I couldn’t have done it without you.

Pythagorean Theorem (Saving the coolest for last):

Part of our training in Namaacha included teaching a couple of real turmas (classrooms of students) at the Escola Secundaria de Namaacha (Namaacha Secondary School). All classes except for English are taught in Portuguese—English class is taught in, well, English. #duh The Peace Corps Math education guy worked with the school to figure out what topics we should prepare to teach based on how far the kids got in the curriculum. I was scheduled to teach two double-classes, which is a 90-minute block; one class on triangle congruency (Side-Angle-Side, anyone?), and the other on the Pythagorean Theorem. In Portuguese. To real live students. Who are in 8th grade (aka sassy AF). Who are used to being taught by someone who can actually speak Portuguese. And who is, most likely—although I never met him—an older male. And likely not white either. If a Martain showed up to teach these kiddos the Teorema de Pitágoras, it may have seemed less weird for them than having me walk through the door. 

Walking to the school takes about 25 minutes, and about halfway there on that first day I taught, I actually remember thinking, “am I really about to do this?”. Teach a math class in Portuguese to Mozambican students? Yes. This is my life. And I got joyful butterflies. The kind when you’re like “holy shit how am I this lucky?” butterflies. I got those. And for good reason: After 9 weeks of intensive Portuguese and Math training, I was about to get a taste of what it was like to do the thing I came here to do. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it or not, but I sure as hell was ready to try with all my might. And that I did.

The first 90-minute block (aka “a double”) went well—the kids caught onto the material way faster than I realized, so I ended about 20 minutes early. My second double was better because I used up the entire time—taught for 90 minutes in Portuguese and they actually understood the concepts. #win While there were some words that I could not find in my Portuguese vocabulary during the class, the students were very willing to help me with the language.

The best part, I would say, is at the end of the class we played a game where I divided them up into teams and had them race to complete 4 “very difficult” problems. They had to leave the answer in square root form because they didn’t come out to perfect squares. They had to show their work. They had to solve for variables. They had to demonstrate an understanding of the formula. And whichever team solved all four problems correctly first won lollipops. And let me tell you: one team won—completed all four correctly—which I wasn’t sure would happen at all. And each of the other teams got at least two problems right, with work shown correctly and everything. I truly felt like they learned, and they were excited about it. As a teacher, my class was structured so that I ensured they had all the knowledge they needed to dive into Pythagorean and understand it. I did my job. I saw their eyes light up. And they demonstrated their newly gained knowledge in the form of a fun game. #win #win #win

The best part, was after the game, with five minutes left. They asked me to make a video of a Mozambican dance they do as a group. They asked me to watch it over many times and learn it so that I could dance with them. To me, the idea that they wanted me to participate in something that brings them much joy was flattering and humbling. 

That day, I felt like a teacher. A good teacher. A teacher that can effect change in the lives of my students. Thus far, nothing has felt better. This is what I came here to do.

My first class ever. <3