Reflections on Reporting

A week after the accident and my thoughts and emotions are still jumbled.  Writing a story about it helped me to calmly relay most of the details, the retelling a part of a healing process.  It also allowed me to offer a glimpse of life in Mozambique, told through the eyes of a foreigner.  To say it is difficult to understand life here, let alone explain it, is like saying it is difficult to split an atom.  And, I think that understanding different cultures and the significance of doing so is as important as splitting an atom.

It’s a tricky thing, inviting oneself to document and story-tell about a place and people.  My account is my own, filtered through my own prejudices, fears, beliefs, imagination and experiences.  Yet, I feel compelled to share this place and these experiences.  I do it as much for me, to define my own world, as I do to offer others the opportunity to visit these places with me.  And, if the reader so chooses, to consider themes that impact and shape our days, if not our lives.

So, in trying to put last week’s accident into story form, I committed a mistake.  I wrote the scene without providing the backdrop.  It was bound to happen.  As I become habituated to this place, ever so slowly and slightly, the unusual transforms to  the usual, the uncommon to the common.  The milieu seems a given and I assume the reader and I are beginning from the same place.  Well, we all know what they say about assumptions.

My story about the accident elicited some strong responses.  Truly, it was a horrific and tragic event.  And, while I am not defending the responses of the hit and run driver, or the vigilante crowd, it is important to understand the context.  And, I think it also important to accept that the culture here is simply different.  And, with a deep exhale, remove the judgement which leads to blame.  Better or worse?  Sure there are aspects of life here that could be improved.  And, certainly agencies, organizations, and people are trying.  Do I believe in and appreciate democracy and the benefits of our progressive society?  You betcha.  And I also respect that it took our country a couple of hundred years to get it established.  And, we still don’t have it quite right as seen with the recent events in St. Louis.  But it is a slippery slope to decide for others what is best.  And it is even trickier to do it for others.  Good intentions can result in terribly complex results.

The remnants of colonial and tribal life are easy to see and feel here.  A couple of hundred years of colonial oppression and conditioning doesn’t just melt away.  And, thousands of years of tribal life is in the very earth itself and part of the fabric of the people.  What is left is a strange mix, it seems to me.  It is like an unsolvable equation; the posit of the colonialists met with the solution of the tribe.  Or maybe it is the other way around.

The tribes here in Africa were self-contained units.  People shared territory, language and customs.  Members didn’t have identity issues; they knew who they were, where they belonged, what their roles were and how to act.  They also clearly knew the consequences of their actions.  The colonialists came in, and to oversimplify, applied their own rules.  The game changed and while the rules might not have always been clear for the native inhabitants, what was clear is that they were often at the brunt end of it all.  It wasn’t a system that worked in their favor.

Now, colonialism is formally gone and the country and people are redefining themselves, having been at war with each other for over twenty years.   The country often fumbles with confusion and unknowing as the nation learns to govern and grow itself.  Colonialist descendants still remain, clearly separated from the native Mozambicans.  And, for those living in the hinterlands, life has, in some regards, reverted, (and in some cases, remained), with the tribal system; the system they know best, with all its clarity and simplicity, for better or for worse.

Where there isn’t infrastructure and secure and trusted systems, such as courts of law and policing, the tribes take justice into their own hands.  And, while it may seem uncivilized, to do nothing, or to turn to the nothingness of law enforcement that does not exist, this is truly uncivilized. 

I wish there had been opportunity to provide care, or at least respect for the body, the man in the accident.  I wish that the driver had the opportunity for a fair review by his peers.  I wish that the people in the van saw themselves as vital participants in their society, and acted accordingly.  But in a place where so few have so much and so little is left for so many, life becomes a recipe for harsh living.  There isn’t the luxury of shades of gray.  Black and white seems the attire here.  At least for now.

Holding On For Lettuce Seeds and Hula Hoops

Note:  This story has graphic descriptions... not for the faint of heart.

Holding On For Lettuce Seeds and Hula Hoops

If asked, most Peace Corps Volunteers would probably admit they consider quitting on a fairly regular basis.  There are a number of reasons to be frustrated; dissatisfaction with work and projects, or lack thereof, language barriers, the never ending enigma of cultural differences and the general difficulty of living situations.  The lack of privacy, noise level and general state of uncleanliness often sends my mind back home.

My desire to flee this place was heightened after being in a road accident last week.  When I signed up for the Peace Corps, I was well aware of the dangers involved.  Developing countries are notorious for a high incident of road accidents due to the poorly maintained vehicles, untrained drivers, and inadequate roads. Knowing this and experiencing it, however, are two different levels of understanding.

The trip out of town, for a Peace Corps Thanksgiving celebration, was relatively delightful.  For the first three hours a ride in a private truck offered the opportunity to enjoy the lush green landscape.  I felt the freedom of the road, leaving my loud and dusty town for the countryside.  At the juncture to my friend’s village, I waited for a public van to fill with passengers which would then take me to my final destination, another two hours away.  The van surfed down the hard-packed  rutted dirt road as if on the waves of a giant-sized washboard. 

The scenery was tribal.  Mud houses with straw roofs were few and far between.  Banana and palm trees populated the land. Half naked children ran alongside the roads, herding animals and waving their wares at the few passing vehicles, hoping to make a last sale of the day.  Small cooking fires lit up the landscape as the daylight was traded for dusk, which would quickly be converted into nightfall, sudden and dark, as happens in this part of the world.  Even the goats felt the urgency of the ending day, scurrying across the road to the safety of their fenced pens. 

Sitting in the front passenger seat, I stiffened, thinking we were much too close, and moving far too quickly to avoid hitting an animal.  Just as the thought was completed, we hit the last goat, a beautiful and large animal, valiantly waiting for the younger animals to cross.  The sounds remain with me more so than the images; the slosh of body fluids upon impact, the crunching of bones under the tire, the bleating cries of the goat and most disturbing, the sounds of laughter from the children.

As I boarded a van on the return trip, the driver was tying a live goat to the roof.  While this is common practice here, the inhumane treatment is difficult to view.  Legs bound, the animal lying on its side helplessly, the cries sound very much like a child.  Once secured on the roof, the goat quieted, settling in for the trip.  But, returning on the same bumpy road, the ropes became loose.  The goat dangled on the side of the van, his face looking at me through my window, crying out.

In a twisted and surreal way, it was almost funny.  I thought of all those stupid television shows where people fall down or trip and stumble and the audience laughs, and the event is replayed, in slow motion, the crowds never getting enough.  I wondered if there was a connection, or even the same primal human reaction to our laughing at people falling down and children here laughing at animals being hit by vans.

The driver pulled over to once more secure the goat.  Having lost valuable time, he increased his speed toward our destination.  Within a half hour, the goat was crying out again, undoubtedly becoming untethered.  I turned away from the window, not wanting to meet his gaze, in the event that he would once again slide off the roof. 

Sometimes it seems an entire event can somehow be inserted in between two connecting minutes in an almost unnoticeable way.  A sudden disruption caused the van to bump and swerve out of control, careening down the other side of the road. It felt as if the entire vehicle shuddered as we came to a halt.  My mind tried to grasp for those few lost moments of time, essential for me to understand the moment now, but they were dust particles floating out of reach.

The passengers looked around and at one another, soundlessly.  And though the previous moment seemed strangely vacant and erased, time now felt like it was trapped in one of those carnival House of Mirrors, heavy minutes stretched in strange and grotesque form, not releasing us from its grip. 

The goat continued to cry out, awakening me to the fact that it wasn’t the cause of the accident.  Everyone in the van was still.  Grabbing my water bottle and a towel from my backpack I jumped out of the van to see if I might administer first aid to the person we had hit.  What happened next is all a jumble that I am still trying to understand.  While searching for a pulse in the neck, not finding a pulse on the wrist, the driver pulled me away from the mutilated man and pushed me back into the van, screaming that we had to leave.  We pulled back onto the highway, the windshield smashed and lying on the passengers in the front seat.  Bits of glass showered upon me, while the noise level from the wind deafened me.  The thought of leaving this man on the scorching highway sickened me.

The driver, most likely in shock, hurtled down the road, stopping over an hour later, in my town.  Confused and dazed, I grabbed my pack and headed for home.  I learned later that drivers are instructed to leave the scene of an accident to avoid being beaten by witnesses.  Law and justice is usually handled by friends and family, on their terms.  Yet, the driver is supposed to stop at the next nearest place to secure help and report the accident.  But out here, there is no “next nearest place”. 

As I was trying to ascertain the condition of this man, I had considered the next possible steps.  There were none.  There was no room in the vehicle and it was unlikely that any passengers would exit in this very rural location.  Local suspicions and taboos, and issues with blood and body fluids was a real concern.  Where would the nearest clinic or hospital be, and what level of care could they provide, if there were any available at all.  And surely no clinic or hospital would be staffed on a Sunday.

Life is tragic and hard and real here.  When I told my Mozambican friends and colleagues about the accident, there was only an almost imperceptible pause and then the conversation moved on.  The teenage girls in my compound laughed.  My boss was surprised that I would opt not to travel for the next few weeks, as I wanted to avoid public transportation.

My mind is replaying this event and trying to understand the many levels.  There is so much that I will never comprehend, being an interloper here.  But I have to wonder if what I interpret as non-compassion is actually an acceptance of death as a reality of life.  There is no sanitization of death here, as there is in the western world.  Our culture masks sickness and accidents and death.  We can easily distance ourselves from the veracity while here it is unavoidable and visceral. 

For the first few days after the accident, I thought of people and places that I haven’t considered in almost forty years.  I wanted to be as far away from here as possible in time and place.  And, then, I found myself purchasing lettuce and tomato seeds, and of all things, hula hoops.  In my mind, I’ve planned out my garden.  I’ll take the next few months to prepare the soil and start to compost.  And, in the meantime I’ll hula-hoop with the local kids to pass the time and realize sometimes there are no answers.

Why I Volunteer For the Peace Corps

 Why We Volunteer for the Peace Corps: Ode to Joao

At our recent Peace Corps gathering, a fellow volunteer read a story he had written about his first three months of integration.  He relayed a scene of a tortured night, trying to sleep in excruciating temperatures in a house where the few windows allowed in only hot and heavy air.  He sought relief by placing a wet towel over his body only to awake in the morning wet and miserable.   

Trying to escape the searing heat today, lying on the cold cement floor in a most appropriate crucifix position, I think of Joao.  The only thing I can do is let the air from the fan move over me.  But at least I have a fan.  He is without electricity or options other than his wet towel.  The things we do in the name of Peace Corps.

So what is it that drives volunteers to such extremes?  My friends ask why I do this.  “Why don’t I find worthwhile community service in the US?”  “What is it that keeps me from enjoying the comforts of home?”  These questions are particularly acute at this time of my life when I should be enjoying the fruits of my labors from the past thirty-some odd years of working.

It isn’t easy to describe this internal force that navigates as my co-pilot.  And, I’m not talking about hearing voices or a choir of angels that point their harps towards these developing countries and peoples.  There is an inner desire to be a part of these places, not simply to travel through.  There is a yearning to try to understand, first hand, what it really means to live in a dusty village in Africa, or upon a forested mountainside in China, or any other place that is not what I had previously known as home.  An ache dwells deep within to experience the everyday that is the life of others.  And there are strangers awaiting to become friends. 

I share my insights, experiences and knowledge along the way.  It might be teaching a few English phrases, that while they may never be put into use, they build ties of friendship and confidence.  More often than not, my queries provoke more than a simple question and answer dialogue. Contemplation and consideration ensue.  Maybe somewhere down the line, behavior is changed, the proverbial seed now planted.  And the questions are posed to me also, allowing the opportunity to present our country in three dimensions, dispelling their mythical images based only from television and films.

And, I have opportunity to pause also, viewing life from this other vantage point.  Like piecing together a puzzle; the picture slowly revealed, the image brought into focus, sharpened after some adjustments,  this is my experience with the Peace Corps.  The thing is, the puzzle pieces are many, maybe countless, so while the image is outlined, there are always more bits or layers to discover, explore and work on joining together.

A Kaleidoscope of Kids

A Kaleidoscope of Kids

Joel always looks scared.  He thinks he looks tough but to me he looks scared.  He flinches whenever anyone comes near.  He is the first child in the group to strike out with a punch or a kick to the others.  I’ve caught him off guard a few times, surprised him with kindness.  His face is long and hollow.  His arms and legs are bony.  His clothes are tattered and dirty. I’ve only seen him wearing cut-off sweat pants that are ripped down the right side of his right leg.  There is a big hole in the crotch.  When the kids laugh at this, he sheepishly closes his legs, unaware that he had been exposing himself to the group.  Embarrassment shows on his face, soon turned into anger that will fuel his fights with the others.  Initially I pegged this kid as a trouble- maker but quickly saw through his thin veneer.  Everyone else blames Joel for everything.  Unfortunately, labels come easily here and they stick. 

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Amalee is a bundle of energy.  Five or six years old, no one seems to know, he is a mighty might.  He starts his day as early as 4:30 AM, on high speed, and deems the day over only when he stumbles, literally falling asleep while moving.  He plays throughout the day with one hand only, using the other to hold up his trousers that are without an elastic band.  I thought myself ingenious by fashioning a belt made of garbage bags but I soon noticed the bags hanging on fence posts, now serving as flags for his warring army in his on-going game with his small friends.  No doubt his mother purposely dresses him in breeches that fall down.  There is no telling what this little guy could do if he had use of his two hands all day!   Missing his two front teeth, Amalee is all smiles, all day long and I can’t resist smiling back.

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Mia is a beautiful girl with a wide smile, probably around six years old. Her small and perfect white teeth are accented by the many colorful beads that hang from her head.  Her mother and older sister go off to the market each day to sell vegetables from their garden.  Mia is solo for at least eight hours most days.  I have no idea who serves her lunch or what the arrangement is should she need help.  She simply wanders around the compound and is my biggest tormenter, staring into my windows, climbing on my metal screen door and endlessly calling out my name, or what she thinks is my name, Mama Hobin.

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There are three brothers that live directly behind me, the first kids who welcomed me upon arrival.  They are Nicque, Inoque, and Betuel.  Polite and mild mannered, they always offer to help me at the well.   I explain that I enjoy this bit of physical activity and as I live alone, my chores are simple.  They apologize each time.  I think they are apologizing that I live alone as this concept is strange to people here.  Their bible is on them at all times and after dinner, I hear them singing around the fire, bible verses in Portuguese and  bits of English.  We started meeting at my house every Saturday morning to practice English and for them to assist me with Portuguese.  They are eager and well mannered.  After about an hour of practicing simple sentences, I brought out a picture book of holiday food.  In hindsight, poor form on my part to show photos of food to hungry kids.  While they have a solid family, like most of the people here, they are normally hungry and the images of Christmas turkey, pies and cookies literally had them drooling.  I told them we wouldn’t use the book next time.  Honestly, the book made me hungry and homesick too!

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Natalia, like many other fifteen-year old girls, is difficult to reach.  Her moods are hot and cold and I imagine she thinks the same of me.  The eldest girl in her family, she is in charge of all of the meals, caring for her five younger brothers and sisters and the laundry.  Her beautiful face is worn beyond her years.  She tells me she did not learn to read in school and hasn’t gone in years.  I imagine she was always tired and hungry in class, not a condition conducive to learning.  We are practicing our alphabet together and learning to read in Portuguese.   I emphasize over and over the importance of learning to read and the opportunity she has to become more independent.  Most times Natalia doesn’t want to practice her alphabet or reading at all.  She likes to look at all of my things and paints her fingernails and toes with my magic markers.  But as she does, I repeat the alphabet and simple pairings of rhyming consonant and vowels, hoping she is listening.  Now that we have started to sit together and read, it has become apparent that most of the kids, even the ones in school, do not know how to read.

Meli is my very favorite.  She is a sturdily built girl with orange tinted hair.  This is a sign of malnutrition.  She has large brown eyes and a face that expresses so much. She is energetic and happy though her life isn’t easy.  Her mother left the family for another man.  In Mozambican culture, the children stay with the father should the mother decide to leave.   I am told her father drinks and beats the children.  The eldest and only girl, ten-year old Meli is always in the front yard washing dishes and starting the fire to cook the meals.  She tells me she sees her mom a few times a year.  She is inquisitive and the fastest learner of the group and has stolen my heart.  She is kind and thoughtful and respectful.  She talks about her dreams, the only one in the group has done so.  I hope to do what I can to encourage her to continue to dream – and to work towards making some of those dreams come true.

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These kids, and about fifteen others, run around the compound night and day.  They laugh and squeal and fight and yell.  They seem more violent than kids back home, biting and hitting and kicking.  Even the very little ones, mimicking the older ones, take part.  It seems every other word or phrase contains the word batar – “to hit” and threats continually spewed from the older to the younger ones.  And, very unlike the USA, these kids all play together, ages ranging from 18 months to 16 years.  The older ones look after the younger ones and wouldn’t think to exclude them from activities.

Most of them are dressed in rags, wearing the same one or two outfits.  Yesterday one of the girls, ten- year old Tina, who is wise beyond her years, appeared in a brand new pink t-shirt and skirt.  She was unusually quiet and with a haircut as well.  I haven’t been able to ask about her new look.  I have a hunch that it is symbolic of her becoming a woman, as her mom is about to deliver the fifth child of the family.  When this happens, Tina will take on even more work than she already does now. They live in a house without a roof and often go without food.

As is true with most all families here, having more children is a matter of economics.  Mothers depend on their children to care for them in their aged years as there is no social security system of any kind.  The more children one has, the higher the odds that a higher percentage of them will grow to be productive adults and thus aid their parents.  While we would focus on having fewer children to provide them with more focus and options, that isn’t the way here.  Even if a woman had fewer children, there are no promises that there will be opportunities for these kids.  So, the more children one has, the more likely it is, by simple mathematics, that parents will have someone to aid them in their later years.

I’ve been overwhelmed by these kids with their loud play, their relentless calling at my door and window at all hours, their curiosity to go through even my bathroom trash and litter the yard with the unhygienic contents.   Mostly I am overwhelmed with their lack of respect for any privacy.  But, I think too, I am overwhelmed knowing what I can’t do for them, how I might impact their life in some small way but that each night they will still go to bed hungry and dirty.  And, now, I am getting to know them.  They are no different really then any other kids except for the sad, sad fate of being born here in Mozambique, Africa.