The Workplace-- Three Months In

Three Months In:  The Workplace

Everyone who writes or comments about their Peace Corps experience reveals unexpected personal growth.  Most volunteers confess that they gain far more than they give.  Three months into my service, and I am feeling much the same. 

Each day I sit with my Mozambican colleagues in the hospital observing their work and the daily activities.  I sit in the corner of the office, sweating in a pleather chair, a voyeur, hovering over the counseling sessions offered to patients who have just received their positive HIV test results.  Most of the people seem non-pulsed.   Different reactions attributed to cultural differences? Denial?  Maybe they are all too familiar with this epidemic? Others laugh nervously throughout the session.  

Hospital workers walk in and out of the office, dropping off files, greeting their office-mates while cell phones ring with tones of merry music or recordings of children,  all at peak volume.   The counselors answer these calls in the midst of the counseling sessions.  Loud and long conversations ensue.  I cringe internally, my American sense of propriety, confidentiality and privacy shattered.

Other times, I sort through files, desperately trying to interpret indecipherable notes, trying to track adherence, CD4 counts or other necessary and measureable variables.  I pore though stacks of cumbersome registry books, feeling like a character straight out of a Dickens novel.   A patient’s age is noted on the outside of the folder, when their file is opened, and never updated.  So much for reliable data.   Clinical workers make notations, request lab tests, but there are no dates noted, so it is impossible to determine if there has been follow through or updates.  The files and folders are dirty and tattered.  In an attempt to organize the papers, I use one of the two staplers available in the hospital.  After every fourth staple, I need to adjust the stapler.

Other days I accompany the volunteers, the Buscars, into the community as they search for patients who have abandoned treatment.  Their mission is to encourage the patient to return, seek counseling, and pick up a new supply of medicine. We speak to the village elder for assistance to locate the patients.  As we walk winding dirt paths throughout the barrios, without abandon we ask for directions and more information about the patient.  While we do not divulge the status of the person this practice is so common that everyone is aware of what it means when a Buscar visits.

More often than not we do not find the person.  Either the address is incomplete or false.  When we do find the person, we learn about their obstacles to treatment; the medicine is making them ill and they do not have the food, or the money for the food, to counteract the side effects.  Or, they do not have the transport, or the money for the transport, to get to the hospital.  We have nothing to offer them, no food, no transportation, no money, no solutions; simply encouragement and education as to why they should continue treatment.

For me, the experience is like stepping into a scene from National Geographic.  I take in this new world; the mud houses, the hordes of children playing in the yards, women sitting on straw mats, plaiting one another’s hair.  I note everything that I can, the physical and social. 

But my presence often disrupts the process.  Almost everyone asks my Mozambican colleagues if I have come to give money.  After watching countless movies and novellas about the lives of white people, and particularly Americans, they think that I am the person of their dreams, stepping into their mud homes to suddenly and magically transform their lives.

Sometimes we offer workshops about family planning or domestic violence to the women.  The men are never invited. I make the suggestion along with an explanation of the importance of including men.  I am quickly rebuffed.

Back at the office I make simple recommendations.  Why not put messages on the Dry Erase White Board, our singular and coveted resource, in the hallway?  We could promote the importance of adherence to the HIV medicines, our biggest challenge in Nicoadala District Hospital.  Each day there are crowds of people waiting for service.  This could be a passive form of education, to replace the daily workshops that are no longer occurring.  It would be easy and without cost. 

The counselor, who is a government worker and supervises this office, tells me this is impossible.  Firstly, she would like to keep the board for the staff, all five of us. Odd, I think, I’ve been here for three months and I’ve never seen this board put to use, for anyone.  In her defense, there were no dry erase markers.  She had taken them home for her own use.  Secondly, she tells me this is not necessary as it is her job to make daily announcements and offer workshops on this and other health issues.  As politely as I can, I point out that, in fact, she is not making any announcements or offering workshops.   She shrugs and tells me it is for the local volunteers to do so. 

But most of the volunteer Peer Educators have stopped their activities, dismayed and discouraged that their small stipends have not been paid in months.  Last week I had written up a proposal, in the SMART format, to meet with the remaining volunteers to reignite the program.  This was to be the focus of my volunteer role and the area of my greatest excitement and interest.   I was told the situation is too delicate and that we must leave it.

So, what is it exactly that I am offering my organization, ICAP, or the people in the office?  Surely, I am gaining knowledge as to the workings of the hospital, the medical aspects of HIV, forming relationships with colleagues, and taking field trips that fuel personal short stories and essays.  I am practicing patience beyond what I thought imaginable; sitting for days at a time, witnessing and accepting very different standards of care, assuming a loosely defined role that is neither worker, intern, consultant or advisor.  I am learning about Excel and monitoring and evaluation by doing work that my colleagues should be doing, work that is most likely not to be sustained when I leave.   My language skills are improving slowly but surely. 

This is the Peace Corps approach; building relationships and slowly becoming a part of the community to then be able to facilitate change.  And facilitating that change isn’t about what I will do, but how I will help those I work with to identify what those changes should be and how to make them. 

Each day I review my day with the following questions: 

Was I helpful?

Was my work useful?

What was the impact?

Is it sustainable?

Normally, I can only answer yes to two or three of the questions.  I take that as a small success and put the day into perspective.

Yes, I am certainly gaining more than I am giving.  But for my host organization, what is in it for them?  Am I meeting Peace Corps objectives and goals?  Is this experience enough to keep me here for two years?  It all continues to unfold. Three months into service and my questions abound.

Overwhelm October 26th

It’s 6:30 AM and I am at my desk and on the computer.  I’ve certainly been up and productive by this time of day.  Actually, I am normally leaving for work by this time.  But today, Sunday morning, I’ve been driven here after nine straight hours of music blaring from my neighbor’s large speaker, pointed directly at my house.   My computer is the recipient of my release, the only place I can pour out my feelings.  The neighborhood children are gathered around my porch, calling out to me, banging on the metal grate.  I wonder, are their parents enjoying their morning at home without them?  There is nowhere to go, no way to escape the overwhelming sound, the people, the constant interaction.

Will this be my Peace Corps experience for the next two years? I am trying as hard as I can to find some peace of mind.

Yesterday, my teenage neighbor came to my door asking for shampoo.  She has never come to my door, or spoken to me, without asking for something.  I vow that today I will speak to her to explain my volunteer status, that I am not a commissary, that I cannot supply her, or the neighborhood, with toiletries, medicines and money.  It would be interesting to learn more about her life, to make a friend.  But now, it seems we are in an on-going tug of war, she asking, me denying.

Yesterday afternoon I had the smallest children in my living room to watch a movie.  Later, the older kids and teenagers asked to see the  same movie.  Although I had just sat down to write, I agreed to it.  One teenage girl, thinking I didn’t understand her, asked her friend why they weren’t getting cookies like the little ones.  I resented her sense of entitlement.  I resented giving up my time to write when I was so full of ideas and focus.  I resented them being in my house, invading my only shard of privacy.

Have my neighbors ever invited me to their homes?  Do they invite me to watch movies or join them in the evenings when they are out in their yard, around the fire, singing, dancing and laughing?  Have they ever offered to share a meal?  Yet, it is expected of me to do so.  I know that I am the foreigner, seen as the person with the wealth.  And, my predecessor was famous for making loans, giving money and baking for the neighborhood.  I, on the other hand, am the strange American that lives alone and keeps mostly to myself.  I do not give out money or make loans.  I do not bake cookies and cakes for the neighbors.   Preparing and cooking for myself is a challenge, and most days I go to bed hungry.  Yet, I am judged by what they think a white lady, a “Branca “should be and by the one or two they have known.

I try to stop my mind from rehearsing the next two years, scenes like this one continuing to play out.  I take deep breaths, trying to focus on today, this morning, right now.  And, for some reason, the music has suddenly stopped. I am left in blessed, blessed peace - for the moment.

Forgotten Places of the Heart and Soul

Years ago, I picked up a small painting at an estate or yard sale.  I am not even sure where I found it, or how long ago.   I just know that for many years I found the image of this age-old church soothing.  Rich water colors brought the ruin to life.  I could imagine myself walking down the quiet dirt road under that luxurious lazy blue sky and discovering this place as if it were simply there awaiting my arrival.

Yesterday, I found that church.   The mud walls were crumbling.  The roof was long gone and shafts of sunlight bounced off the ceramic tiled floors and empty walls.   Barely a shell, this church magnificently held its beauty, its understated simplicity.   The interior was mostly open, with pieces of walls marking the location of the former nave, alter, and chapels.  Empty pedestals stood in each corner, ready and waiting to humbly serve again, to bear the weight and honor of cherished religious idols.  Crypts remained in tact, Portuguese and Latin script barely decipherable, causing me to wonder whom it was that was laid to rest in this distinguished location.

I spent a few morning hours inside this church, climbing the worn stone stairs to look out at the ocean.  Three women lay sleeping in the churchyard, where efforts were being made to revive what once was a beautiful garden.   Were these women simply looking for a shady and quiet place to rest or had they designated themselves as protectors or servants to this church?  The lives and stories connected to this place, throughout hundreds of years, intrigued me as much as the church itself.

And my life is one of those connections, small as it may be.  Had I selected this painting, so many years ago, preparing for today’s encounter?  Was I somehow aware that one day I would stumble upon the actual place?  The church in my painting was not as far along in its disrepair as this one, but instantly recognizable.   Quite probable is that this particular style of church was a common design of southern Europe, of a certain historical period, and inspired many a painting.  But having spent years as a patron of this church, through viewing the painting hung on my walls, an intimate relationship had been formed, and now consummated upon my visit.

I feel joy and solace walking about this place, sitting in the courtyard, the same feelings that the painting offered me over the years. Later that afternoon I took a local transport ferry with no particular destination in mind.  Along with bags of cement, rice, a few bicycles and crates of chickens, I wanted only to see the shoreline and enjoy the afternoon breezes.  The church was the only thing of beauty, an anachronism, encroached by warehouses and other nondescript apartment buildings.  There the relic stood, solitary and sure of itself, as it has for hundreds of years.

I am not sure what has become of that painting.  When I was preparing for my life in the Peace Corps, I sold my home and most of my belongings.  An exercise in detachment, I parted with many beloved items.  But, packed away in a shed, hidden somewhere in the hills of New Hampshire, are the remainders of my most cherished items.  Hopefully that painting is there amongst souvenirs, photos and keepsakes.  Either way, I have the actual place to return to over the next two years, providing me with comfort and the reminder of the wonder that is life.

OH RATS!

It’s hard not to feel paranoid when living alone in a foreign setting.  Almost everything is unknown, a puzzle waiting to be solved.  And in the process of deciphering daily survival, it can seem as though one is in a fish bowl, being observed at all times.   Peace Corps advised us that this would occur.  My neighbors banter in the local language at the well, across the compound and in their yards.  It is more than a sense that the comments are often about me.  Unless there is a word that sounds like my name, I am sure that that more likely than not, I am the main course of conversation.

All eyes are upon me, all the time.  Neighbors report back to me and undoubtedly to one another, my every move.  They notice, and comment, if I visit the latrine more times than usual in any given day.  One neighbor peers into my marketing bag, critiques my purchases and tells me the prices I should have paid.  A seasoned shopper, she is all of nine years old.  And, when I bluster and falter, confused about what I should do, or how I should do it, the disapproving looks and tittering laughter is palpable.   Lost and inept, I am reduced to collateral damage, and only a few months into my Peace Corps service.

A gang of children gathers on my porch each evening just as I am sitting down to dinner.  They endlessly call variations of my name, and make demands for chalk, cookies, a backpack, or to have dinner with me. At first I thought they were asking to watch TV with me.  No, it seems they were asking could they watch me.  Seems I had my door partially closed blocking their view.  I huddle inside, furiously trying to maintain a sense of tranquility and privacy.

Their calls turn to jeers.  The group mentality transforms them into a frenzied pack.  The children hang off the grates of my bedroom window, clank the metal screen door open and shut and running to my living room window, they scale a hill of sand that allows them to reach my window.  They push their tiny faces into the screen, looking like would be burglars with nylon stocking masks.

In a sing-song voice, they hurl made up Chinese words through my windows and doors.  They insist that I am from China and when I am not under their attack, they try to coerce me to confess that it is my picture on the soap and lotion packages, a photo of a delicate but non-descript Asian woman.  I repeatedly deny their claims but they are relentless.  A peaceful evening is no longer a reality.

I have tried everything.  I’ve engaged them in games, songs and conversation.  I’ve ignored them.  I’ve gone outside to talk sternly to them.  Heaven knows what I actually tell them, but to me, it sounded like good old- fashioned reprimand.  Nothing works.  They have far more energy than I do and their interest does not seem to dissipate as the evening wears on while I am left exhausted.

Desperate, I asked a colleague if it would be appropriate for him to speak to my landlord.   A strategic and diplomatic conversation, one that my language skills would render impossible, was necessary to present my request for privacy while not offending my neighbors.  All of this heightened by the fact that one of the main perpetrators was the landlord’s granddaughter.

They sat and talked for some time while I waited in the house, fearing for my fate.  Later, in customary Mozambican fashion, my landlord sat with his wife in the yard, sharing the subject of this meeting.  Perched on their small wooden benches, directly facing me, their conversation peaked and waned, peppered with squeals and their heads wagging from side to side accompanied by audible clicking and tisking of their tongues.  I was on the porch reading, or pretending to read and working my hardest to appear very non-chalant, not knowing if my emissary's message was well received or not.  Following the advice of my colleague, I did not continue the conversation with them.

Later in the evening, my landlord’s wife began to burn the garbage pile in the yard.  Now this is not an altogether strange event, but previously, I’ve only seen her do so in the early mornings.  And, a small wind was just starting to pick up.  Maybe not the best time for a fire?  Slowly she made her way around the yard and proceeded to burn more piles, including one directly in back of my house and another on the side.  I may be exaggerating here, but her hair was affright and I am almost certain I saw her gnash her teeth at me.  Was she smoking me out?  And if so, where would I run?  Right into the group of intemperate children?  Then I realized what she was doing.  She was smoking out the rats from the garbage piles who would then take cover in my house!

Only yesterday I had told her that I spotted a small rat in my house.  (Well, a large mouse or small rat, is there really a difference?)  All I remember is that blur, caught by the corner of my eye, scurrying along the wall from the kitchen to the back room.  With each rewind played in my mind’s eye, the rat grows in size and stature.  I now envision a rat the size of a pony, lurking somewhere in the corners of my home.  I am unsure which fate is worse, staying in the house to face my fears of giant rodents, or being thrown to the gang of five year olds.