A Glimpse of My Journey

After three weeks of writing a blog of the entire trip to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro, a thief decided he needed my computer more than I.  Along with the pages of work I produced for this blog, he also took all of my grades for 8^th grade chemistry, a portion of my teaching notes, and my accumulated media from the first 11 months in Mozambique.  I try to forget that I put off creating a system backup copy for the last eight months that could have saved the loss of any of these personal treasures.

However, life moves on, and I’m certain the person who stole my computer will suffer some horrific accident; if not in reality, in my imagination.

Concerning the blog, I was and am proud of what I started writing about my trip.  For me, religion exists in nature.  In nature I feel most alive, most intimate with God.  As much a testament to physical endurance, this trip represented a pilgrimage of sorts, my own Mecca.  I will not, at this point, reattempt rendering all of my notes into prose.  Instead, for this blog, I’ll throw you into the final ascent to Uhuru.

Our camp, Barrafu, rested on a sharp ridge at an altitude of 4,650 m (15, 260 ft).  Earlier that day, when we first arrived at camp around 1500 (3 p.m.), our guide, Kuzlight, pointed to the trail ahead of us and exclaimed, “Look at that f****** s***!”

Day 4.9 – The Hardest Thing I’ve Ever Done

The regular early morning “hello” woke us from sleep.  But instead of the early sunlight entering with Kennedy’s voice, moonlight illuminated our tent.  Moonlight and the biting cold showing its strength now for the first time on our hike.  The others spoke of cold days before this, but Iowa nurtures a person in cold and I refused to call the weather cold, until now.

The plan sequenced a 2200 wake up call following four hours of sleep, a half hour preparation period, a half hour for eating, then departure at 2300.  Gabby, being from Equador and using a thinner-than-comfortable sleeping bag, had slept in her layers and required little preparation for the hike.  I took my time choosing my cloths before our short rest and after ten minutes I donned my twenty year-old Dallas Cowboys stocking cap, gloves, two jackets above two thermals, snow pants above thermals, two pairs of socks, and hiking boots.  We quickly consumed a very welcome bowl of hot chicken broth with bread.  Following the typical yo-yoing that occurs with any hiking group, our small group of four set our minds and our feet to the trail at 2330.

Immediately after crossing the boundary of camp, the attitude of the trail became serious: changing to switchbacks climbing a (relatively) small hill.  After summiting the small hill, the trail quickly descended into and crossed the final valley before arriving at the base of the last, the steepest, and the longest hill of the entire hike.  The trail, and now we, had reached that base of pebbly, ashy flow leading up to a gap in the rim of the volcano.  That gap that almost appeared to say, “Yes, I have laid out this grey carpet just for you, if you dare tread it.”

After a period of hiking up through the pebbles, I took a quit look back to see what we had gained.  Of course, disappointment, the same disappointment that hits every hiker who looks back too soon, hit me.  Our gain appeared minimal in comparison to the hike ahead of us.  Pole pole (a mantra of the guides that means slowly, or bit-by bit in Swahili) evolved to a whole new level at that point in the hike.  Imagining our pace from a different perspective, we likely appeared as a group of arthritic old women passing down the sidewalk between errands at the post office and the bank.  Even so, at that infantile or geriatric pace, I felt my heart rapidly, forcefully beating inside my chest.

At that altitude, the thinner air holds roughly half the oxygen content than sea-level air.  Because the body uses oxygen to produce the energy used for every cellular process, my body compensated in the following noticeable ways: each inhalation was deep in order to transport the maximum amount of air to the lungs; my blood, more thoroughly enriched with the oxygen transporting hemoglobin, thickened; and my heart beat faster to pass more blood through the lungs.  These processes were not instantaneous or even new to me at that point.  I had been monitoring my heart rate for the entirety of the hike.  At base camp, at rest, my hear beat at 108 beats per minute (normally less than 60).  However, until this point, the physiological adjustment my body made remained docile.  Now the intensity of my heartbeat and breathing battled to consume the entirety of my consciousness.

After an hour of hiking, we took our first break.  After the second hour of hiking, we took another break.  Other groups (including on large group of older folk and one pair of Israeli soldiers) departed camp before us, but through our constant pace we overtook them and now lead the pack.  During our breaks, we would look down to see groups of headlamps moving along the trail from camp, but no more looked down to us.

Gabby and I forwent headlamps.  I knew for weeks the full moon would rise during our hike.  Having shown its whole face just two nights before, the waning moon was brilliant and for our purposes, its light made our hike all the more intimate.  The blacks outlined the rocks and people amidst the grey sea that flowed up to the sharp white snow at the top of Kibo.

After the third hour of hiking, the snow moved noticeably closer.  I could no longer drink water during our breaks because the hose from my camel back froze shut.  As I hiked, I recited a chant from Remember the Titans:

                Hoo Hah!

            How you feel?!

            Hoo Hah!

            I feel good!

Hoo Hah!

            How you feel?!

            Hoo Hah!

            I feel good!

Hoo Hah!

            How you feel?!

            Hoo Hah!

            I feel good!

The chant not only reminded me I wasn’t dying, but kept my breathing regular and helped to keep my spirits up.

Around 3:15 our guides told us Stella Point, the first point on the trail to reach the rim, was about an hour away.  The trail took on a new, greater steepness.  I used my entire body to accomplish each step, felt every heartbeat and heard each breath.  Hoo Ha!

Pole pole, one step at a time, we reached Stella Point on the rim, 200 m below Uhuru Peak.  I bent over my walking stick and breathed, heaved deeply.  At this point, aside from the physiological assault my body underwent, my mind fought against a great amount of doubt and strain.  Kuzlight assured us we only had a bit further to go and that we’re strong.  After five minutes, the Israelis arrived and we departed.

The hike around the rim had a more gradual incline, but we remained at pole pole pace.    During the last stretch of the hike, I began to realize the proximity of the terminus of this great struggle; that this will have been the hardest thing I’d ever done.  For days, weeks even, the fear of injury and altitude sickness weighed heavily on my mind, and in that moment I finally cast it all off.  My eyes began to water at the happy thought.

Against the still dark, starlit sky I saw the dark form of the sign of Uhuru Peak.  Hand-in hand, Gabby and I, casting aside pole pole, rapidly strode towards, extended our hands to, and touched the sign.

I howled!  I screamed!  I jubilantly announced to the world that I had conquered Kilimanjaro!  Hugs were had, laughs were shared, and merriment was thick at that moment atop Africa.  Alone we stood, first among hundreds still battling the mountain and their own minds, the summit to ourselves.

Even then, amongst that esoteric celebration, the world took no time in reminding us where we stood.  During the process of taking pictures, gloves came off in order to handle the small camera buttons, and within a minute my hand burned.  After quickly putting the glove back on, I laughed at the familiar uncertainty of whether my hand would ever warm up.  I would put the wind chill at -20 degrees Fahrenheit at the summit.  For this reason, along with the dangerously low amounts of oxygen, the guides only allowed us 20 minutes at the summit before leading us back down.

At the beginning of our descent, a cloud of euphoria surrounded me.  I now had the time (and desire) to look around.  On our right, what I called snow before turned out to be the first glaciers I had ever seen.  Fifteen meter high glaciers of ice glimmering in the moonlight.  To our left, the great crater of Kibo opened for more than a mile across.  Also to our right, far, far below shown the lights of Moshi.

After a half hour, we reached Stella Point again, but this time a crowd waited for us.  A knowing and (I’ll admit) slightly arrogant smile stretched across my face as I looked at people sitting against the rock wall or putting their entire body into the act of breathing with the look in their eyes saying, “Why the hell am I doing this?”  After another short break, we continued down.

Shortly following our departure from Stella, the sky began to grey.  The colors of coats and hats now replaced the bright lights of headlamps still hiking up the mountain and the rocks themselves started to take on a more brownish hue.  The grey, pebbly carpet remained and allowed the feet to sink in with each step.  Kuzlight demonstrated a way to use this property in descending and another smile came across my face.  The method was not new to me.  For years, I played with this same method on the sand and rock piles at home.  If you keep your weight above your knees and twist your feet ever so slightly to make them dig into the rock, you can actually run down the rock pile (in this case the mountain); and this Kuzlight and I did.

Because of our method, we descended quickly.  

During the descent, a bright orange crack split the boundary between the earth and sky not only to the direct east, but across nearly the entire eastern half of the horizon.  Never in my life had I seen such a sharp, broad sunrise.  We reached halfway down the slope before the sun herself began to peek above the edge of the earth.  The sun now continued up, and we, down.

About an hour away from camp, exhaustion fell heavily on me.  Our break on the ways down had been short and sparse.  The frozen water in my camelback remained frozen and no water had passed my lips for nearly 5 hours.  I started to sweat during the descent due to our speed and the rising temperatures.  Dehydration along with sore legs cast me into a gloomy mood.

When we reached camp, my energy utterly spent, we made a quick plan for two hours rest, followed by lunch, followed by another hike towards the gate.  The guides graciously gave us three hours of sleep, and after packing and a quick lunch, we set off to our final camp.

A half hour after leaving Barrafu, we passed out of the alpine desert into the moorland (which has more grasses and bushes).  At this point, we stopped.  Apparently, Gabby had been hiking on a bum toe.  The pain stayed miniscule during the ascent, but almost every step down wedged her big toe into the front of her hiking boot and caused her significant pain.  Being a little ball of duro, she toughed it out, but now she needed to stop.  I let her try on my blue Nikes (which she later called “the most comfortable shoes ever,”), she approved and used them for the rest of the hike.

(The night of the following day, I was able to inspect said toe.  It was not broken, but thoroughly bruised.  The back side of the toenail rose nearly half a centimeter over the end of it.  I told her I thought puncturing the nail was the only way to relieve the pressure and keep the nail itself, but she laughingly elected to tough it out.)

From the moolands, we passes into heath.  Again amongst the lichen bearded trees and rare flowers our hike continued for three more hours.  Finally, once again on the edge of the Kilimanjaro rainforest, we arrived at our last camp, Mweka.

We had descended nearly three vertical kilometers in just over ten hours (including three hours sleep).  After a bucket bath, supper, and dessert of saved Peanut Butter M&M’s, Gabby and I nestled down into our first full nights sleep since night 3.

“There’s no better food than that served with hunger, and no better bed than that comforting exhaustion.”-Gabby

The following day, the mountain shed tears down on us as we marched towards the gate.  We left the park, passes through the coffee fields, and arrived back in Moshi by early afternoon.  After saying goodbye to our group, we went back to our hotel and thoroughly enjoyed a long, hot shower.  We bought our bus tickets back to Dar Es Salaam for the following day and used that night for a celebration worthy of our expedition.  And my, oh my, what a hike it was.

The Night of Much and No Sleep

The road between Mabalane and Chokwe is not heavily traveled.  In fact, only one reliable chapa leaves Mabalane every day at approximately 3:00.  During the week, one can expect to get a ride on the mini-buses.  The weekend, however, presents no such opportunity, as often times 30-40 people will be waiting in town to fill the one or two spaces left on the chapa by the time it arrives.  As Charlie and I teach on Friday nights until 21:30, this would be our only option of leaving on the weekends without the alternative, hitchhiking.

In Portuguese, the term is boleia and is a relatively common practice among volunteers in Moz., especially along the main Moz. highway where civilian traffic is heavy.  Mabalane has significantly less civilian traffic, especially on Friday evenings when we finish teaching and are trying to leave town.  However, carvao (charcoal) trucks travel at all hours and are relatively reliable, although they usually require twice the time to pass the rough dirt road with their immense amount of cargo.

On this fateful Friday evening of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, we managed to leave the school at 21:00 and made our way to the road leaving Mabalane.  Our destination was Macia, where we would find a ride to Bilene Beach for festivities with other volunteers.  We waited for roughly a half-hour before the carvao truck rolled up.  Two gentlemen were inside, the driver and another passenger.  Luckily, they were driving through Macia.  We found space to sit behind the seats and we were off.  Now that we were on the road, I started to do the math and concluded we should reach Chokwe by 1:30, Macia by 2:30-3:00, and with a little luck get to Bilene around 4:00 (it’s not the perfect time to get to the beach, but we were making due).

Through conversation, we found out our driver was from Maputo, had been driving this truck for six years in order to eventually buy his own truck, and was hoping to make it home to his wife and kids around 9:00 after dropping off the carvao.  We reached the halfway tree around 23:30 and everything was going well.  Then the situation changed.  The driver was not going to make it home the following morning.  We were not going to make it to Chokwe by 1:30 or to Macia by 2:30 or to Bilene by 4:00.  No, instead, the driver was stricken in the head…by drowsiness.

Had you going didn’t I?

I started to notice the driver had slowed down and wasn’t missing many of the potholes and asked him if everything was ok.  He explained that he was tired but was going to keep driving.  He then proceeded to do two things I never conceived could be possibly done simultaneously.

He drove the truck while sleeping.

The technique could only have been accomplished because of the absence of other vehicles on the road, but was relatively simple.  By slowing down to a crawl, he was able to sleep for a good ten seconds before he needed to correct the steering and save us from going into the ditch, and then nod back to sleep.  Even so, the correction took, at most, two seconds- much less than the ten seconds of sleep he was getting.  All in all, he was getting the sleep he needed while getting us closer to our destination.  Revolutionary.

Meanwhile, in the back seat…

While the driver was risking crashing our vehicle into the bush in the crusade for a few moments of sleep, Charlie, along with the other passenger, were also sleeping.  This is a prime example of Charlie’s laid-back personality, which I admire.  I was also in the backseat, but I was not sleeping.  I was watching this madness unfold with a strange feeling somewhere between fear, admiration, and utter contempt* towards the driver.

*I say contempt because, while I typically try to have a go with the flow/it’s about the journey attitude, once I have a plan of how something should work out, or a general time frame of when things will happen, I absolutely hate when people mess up that plan, and this man was destroying my plan.  Realistically, waiting and changing plans is the typical experience of PC volunteers in Moz. and I’ll be tested many times over in this during my service—but back to the situation at hand

I know what you’re thinking, “Why didn’t you get out of the vehicle?”  To be honest, this is what was suggested in our training and the thought crossed my mind for about a half a second.  I need to reiterate that this road is through 70 km of African bush and that we saw NO other cars on the road after we left Mabalane.  For me, walking here was not an option.  And besides, I had a plan of when things should work out, and when I can, I stick to the damn plan.

Our drivers system of driving continued for the next three hours until we reached Chinhakanine (a trip that normally takes 45 minutes to an hour from the halfway tree).  It was now 2:30.  We were 2 hours behind schedule.  I was furious, but we at least stopped to stretch out our legs.  During our stop, the driver broke open a watermelon and we had a snack.  This calmed me down quite a bit, the driver appeared to be rejuvenated and I started to redo the math.  From Chinhakanine the road is paved and travel is somewhat less painful and quicker, so it should take us a half hour to reach Chokwe, 3:15; an hour to reach Macia, 4:15; and an hour and a half to reach Bilene Beach from there, 5:45.  Not so bad, we’ll make breakfast.

About 15 minutes into our drive, I noticed the vehicle starting to slow down…and then the serpentine pattern started again…the driver was sleeping again.  And I had such high hopes for us.  The creeping continued for another 20 minutes before the driver stopped and said he was going to take a nap.  I would have slept too, but I was furious and hated my way through a couple levels of sudoku on my phone.   A while later, the driver awoke and we drove through Chokwe at 4:00.

We were now through Chokwe, on our way to Macia, and then the swerving started again…NYYYAAAAHHHHHH!!!

Of course, I didn’t actually scream.  Instead, I just thought about the beer waiting for me in Bilene.  After about an hour more, we pulled over at a gas station.  But the gas station was closed, and I was uncertain what we were doing there.  It turned out that the driver’s brother was also on the road last night and his small truck (think s-10) was broken down.  So we got out, gave him a push, and got him running again.  I switched vehicles to the smaller truck and was happy for the extra leg space.  I was also happy to escape my self-created realm of hatred in the carvao truck.  We we’re still driving slowly, but I felt a little more comfortable.  The sun was rising when we started to reach the outskirts of Macia.  It was a beautiful morning.

A mist exaggerated each beam of sun shining through the groves of trees and a strange sensation washed over me.  I started to look closer at the grass and trees near the road and it was almost as if I had traveled back in time.  I could imagine monkeys and leopards in the trees.  I started to think about what this place could have been like before humans.  The absolute serenity of the moment seemed to clear my mind and remind me how fortunate I am to be living in such a beautiful world.  And then the truck broke down.

I would guess we were about 5 km’s outside of Macia at this point, and the morning traffic was passing by fairly steadily.  Charlie and I likely could have hopped on with another vehicle, but I surely wasn’t giving up on our group now.  The brothers spent a half-hour attempting to repair the truck before we hooked on the carvao truck and made the rest of the journey in-tow.  We arrived in Macia at 7:30.  It took us 10 hours to make a 160 km trip.  A 10 mph average.

Charlie and I watched our fearless chaperones disappear around the corner heading south and ourselves headed east out of town after grabbing some bread for breakfast.  We caught an awesome boleia to Bilene, and walked to our hotel to the greetings of our fellow volunteers who were enjoying breakfast. My St. Paddy’s turned out to be one of the best I’ve had with a crew of incredible people, but that’s another story.  This story is about the journey.

Blog About Malaria Month

April is blog about malaria month, and I thought I'd give it a shot.

For loads of information about malaria and it's effect, visit http://stompoutmalaria.org/

A few factoids:

• Malaria is spread by mosquitos.
• "In the year 2005 alone, World Health Organization estimates indicated that malaria infected between 350 and 500 million people and killed over 1 million, 90% of whom lived in sub-Saharan Africa. Most of those were children"-stompoutmalaria.org
• By 2010, malaria deaths had dropped to 655,000, mostly due to the widespread distribution of mosquito nets

I have no experience with malaria, but I hear that it is a terrible sickness that I could experience during my time in Moz.

I have a friend named Peter who spent some time in Africa a few years back and was unfortunate enough to get malaria.  I've not forgotten his description to this day: "Imagine that you had killed the flu, and that its bigger, badder ex-convict cousin was coming back to exact revenge on you."

PCV's take one of two types of medication for malaria profylaxis.  One is doxy, which is taken orally every day and in one friend of mine has also helped to clear up acne.  The other is lariam.  I take lariam once a week on a full stomach.  One of the more exciting side effects of lariam is lucid dreams.  I can't recall any specific dreams, but I try to take my lariam pill as closely to bed time as I can (I want to get my monies worth).

In all seriousness, malaria is a serious sickness in Africa which effects nearly everyone.  Many PCV's, as well as countless workers from numerous organizations, spend a significant amount of time battling malaria.  I've heard more than one story from PCV's who have had students, friends, or even foster family members die from malaria during their service.  With continued focus on educating against and battling this sickness, the number of deaths will continue to fall in Africa and Mozambique.

Animals of Mabalane

Animals have become a large part of my life in Mabalane.  Partly due to the large graze-fed domestic animal population, and partly due to the open door, open window life-style of Mabalane (see Summer Swelter blog).  I’ll take a few minutes to introduce you to our newest neighbors and house guests.

Cows and Goats

In the district of Mabalane there are approximately 45,000 cattle.  Everyday, roughly 200 wander through our front and back yard.  Many of these cattle have horns.  The females’ horns appear to be the biggest, although when I came to Moz I thought only bulls had horns.  They’re not afraid to come right up to the door and give a hearty hello either.  One can be surprised to glance out the door and see a 1000 lb cow staring at you as it literally floods the path between the house and the bathroom.

I’ve not had much experience with goats in my life.  What I’ve learned so far in Mabalane is that they’re rather silly animals.  For our first few weeks in Mab, the sound of someone screaming would often take to the door, only to lead me to look upon a goat grazing in the yard.  Some goats sounds something like the last middle-aged man to leave the bar on a Thursday evening after he’s fallen in the street and is yelling at apparently no one in single syllables.  If the door to the house is left open, the goats have no problem trotting into the house to check out the food stores.  I have fun with those goats.

Chickens and Ducks

Our neighbors have a family of ducks, one of whom has recently hatched a group of nine little ducklings.  They are very cute to watch run around after food, mostly escaping insects.  However, one of the ducks, who I consider to be the alpha, is not cute to watch.  He often takes the female ducks, and I say takes very intentionally.

Our neighbor also recently bought a hen and a cock.  At sunrise, every day, I hate that chicken more and more.  It was interesting to watch the meeting of alpha and the cock.  The alpha asserted his dominance quickly and there has been no quarreling since.

Insects

One of the hardest things to get used to in Mabalane and the open-door lifestyle is the constant presence of insects in ones life.  The flies come in two varieties.  Your typical housefly who is a constant pest, and a giant fly whose bite actually hurts.  The big flies make for good sport though, as they move quite slowly.  Cockroaches are a constant presence both in the house and the latrine, but are a quick fix with the broom.  The wasps and hornets have put the real problem forth.  Since moving into the house, I would venture to guess we have removed near 20 nests, some the size of a cigarette butt, others the size of a baseball.  No stings have been suffered to date, and it appears that the colonials have more or less retreated.

Mabalane/Our house also showcases an exquisite mantis population.  These cool critters tend to show up at night and vary in color from a leafy green to a sandy brown.  Camouflage is big in the animal world here I’m finding.  Several stick bugs have graced our estate as well.  Just last night Charlie encountered a stick bug that was nearly ten inches in length.  The lower mandible is like something I’ve never seen before and is, to be scientific, gnarly.

Oh, and scorpions.  Don’t forget the scorpions.  They are a scarce sight, but they’re about.

Spiders

As far as spiders go, I expected to find your typical daddy long-legs wherever I ended up.  They aren’t so bad and they do a decent job of maintaining the pesky flies.  We also have a few small spiders living with us who are relatively flat and can scale the walls with ease.  They tend to hide themselves behind and under objects.

On the other hand, one night, upon our return from the village, the biggest spider I’ve ever seen ran out of my room.  I’m uncertain if camel spiders inhabit Mozambique, but this guy was a close cousin if not one himself.  Quickly reaching for the broom I banished this foul creature from our house before it could make an attempt on our lives, as I’m certain was its intention.  Sleep was uneasy that night.

Currently, a large, black spider with long, skinny legs and yellow markings (four, quasi-elongated hexagons) on an apparent plate covering its back inhabits the space below the tin roof above our veranda.  Watching this master of death spring onto the insects (including preying mantes) that get caught in its double-layered web is better than TV.  We’ve grown to appreciate this spider and are hoping it continues to grow and reduce the insect population.  However, if it enters the house, for fear of my own life, I’m going to destroy it immediately.

Frogs and Lizards

The frogs of Mabalane are somewhat skinnier than the frogs one finds near the water logged areas of Iowa.  They also have the ability to change color.  I don’t know if this is completely voluntary or a effect of the heat and light of the daytime hours, but they tend to be docile and of white/grey hue during the day and are more active and of darker greens and blacks during the night.  I don’t recall often seeing frogs during the daytime in Iowa, but maybe this is true of them too?

The lizards have a generally speckled appearance, with a coarse texture, but have the ability to vary in the color with which they present themselves.   For instance, the large lizard that has made his residence behind my trunk/nightstand has a dark hue to him because he lives in the dark most of the time.  Whereas the lizards who spend the majority of their waking hours (our sleeping hours) crawling our walls in search of insects drawn to our lights tend to have a lighter color to match the cream color of our walls.  I don’t know how many lizards live with us, but I’ve counted as many as seven visible at one time (plus the big mother living behind my trunk).  Another type of lizard (who lives on and around our house, but scarcely finds it necessary to grace our home) is black with two stripes down the sides of its back and has the appearance of a snake with legs.  Unlike the other amphibians of our home, these lizards seem to be more active during the daytime than during the night.

Bats

I’m not certain of where the bats lived in Mabalane before the construction of the secondary school, but I know where a great number of them live now.  As the sun begins to set in the west, one can have a seat and be absolutely astonished at number of bats that fly out of the concrete/tin roof structures.  Try to remember the “Fly my pretties!  Fly!  Fly!” scene from the Wizard of Oz.  Upon the settling of darkness, the bats hunt recklessly.  We’ve taught more than one night class with a bat circulating the classroom to collect the insects drawn towards the lights.  During the daytime the bats return to their “caves” (read: our house and other school buildings) to sleep through the day.  The family living with us is relatively quiet during the day (we hardly ever see them except when they leave the house), but will sometimes get riled and have a minute or two of annoying bickering.  The same is true in the classrooms. 

The main drawback of the bats is…the feces.  It’s enough having to walk through the stuff on the classroom floors, but the time when they’re dropping their droppings is primarily when you’re teaching.  The chalkboards are on the walls under where the bats are residing.  Check your hair. 

Sheeba

Sheeba.

Ohhh Sheeba.

Upon our arrival in Mabalane, we found out that we inherited a dog named Sheeba.  He appears to be some type of breed between a yellow lab and a greyhound.  These types of dogs are prevalent in our area, and often are used to herd cattle and goats.  Sheeba can be rather playful at times, and rather stupid at times.

“If you’re a child, you’re a threat.”  That’s a direct quote from Sheeba; at least I imagine it would be judging by the way he reacts to any sort of adolescent who wanders into the proximity of our home.  You can imagine the problem stemming from this as we live roughly 200 meters from a secondary school.  The trick is not to run, but to stay calm and just stare him down.  However, the kids in Mabalane (and from what I understand much of Mozambique) are scared to death of dogs, so they run.  I’ve seen a kid leap into a bush to get away from Sheeba.  I’ve seen a kid freeze on the spot and start crying.  I’ve seen a kid drop everything he had and run away.  I wont deny that I laughed really hard each time, but it’s annoying when kids come to ask for water or for me to teach and they can’t get within 10 meters of the house without me having to reign in Sheeba.  He’s also very protective against any sort of cow that tries to get close to the house.  Altogether, Sheeba seems to be very loyal to us and, most of the time, we’re happy he’s here.

The Questions

“Life is not about the destination, it is about the journey.”-Uknown

“There is no way to peace, peace is the way.”-AJ Muste

This is a blog about having questions that might not have answers, but looking for the answers anyway.  At times I don’t even know if I can completely define the question.  I only know that there is something compelling me in a certain direction, something that can only be began with the words, “I wonder…”  “I wonder if there is a god?”  “I wonder if I know what is true love?”  “I wonder if I should be doing something else with my life?”

I feel trying to definitively answer these questions would drive me mad.  However, I feel they are essential to my growth by giving me a frame of reference.  In science, the observer can often construe observations of a given phenomenon because he/she was looking for something specific and was blinded to all of what was occurring.  In other words, you find what you are looking for.  I feel the questions I have give me direction.  Not necessarily to a given point, but along a path that allows me many viewpoints to consider within my conceptual frameworks of god, love, and purpose.

What I try to avoid, are answers.  In the sciences, we recognize that no theory can ever be proven, because for a theory to have been proven means that it will have to have predicted the outcome of a phenomenon in any circumstance.  At this point, no human, or collection of humans, can claim to have tested all known circumstances, because to test all known circumstances requires to have found all knowledge.  This is part of the beauty I find in science.  By never claiming to have an absolute answer, there is room for constant growth and increased precision.

Answers often set boundaries, boundaries of thought and discussion, which can become the basis for dispute.  So many people feel they have the answers.  I wonder if they have ever stopped long enough to define the question and decide if it is a question that can be answered.  If a question can be answered definitively, is it really worth asking or is it by extension redundant?

Of course, a teacher suggesting that all answers are redundant would be utterly blasphemous.  To suggest to an 8^th grade classroom that there is no right answer would likely be the start of an uprising and get me fired.  For students at that developmental level, a certain amount of stability and structure is required for effective thinking.  However, I think that as educators and as a society, we need to start worrying about the questions our students have, or worse, the questions they don’t have.  An obstacle that I’m seeing on many days in my classroom in Mabalane is that my students do not have questions.

To my students, school has become a house of answers.  Each day they take pages of notes, which ultimately derive from a textbook, and are rarely asked to do work of their own.  My students are typically not expected to contribute their ideas or their questions in the every day educational setting.  This has led me to wonder, what do my students wonder about?  I’ve been in Mozambique for over six months and I still don’t know the word wonder in Portuguese or Changana because you never hear it in everyday conversation.  As my students are walking home from school, pilando amendoim (crushing peanuts), or falling asleep, what are they thinking about?  I wonder if they’ve ever been asked to express these ideas in school?

I think I will try to find out what my students are wondering about.  I’m also going to continue to pressure them to wonder about things in the classroom.  It’s been an up hill battle thus far, but I’m starting to find ways to get my students to think and make their ideas visible.  I plan to continue to integrate thinking-out loud in my instruction to demonstrate the importance of questions in thinking and how to go about responding to questions to further understanding.  My classes will continue to demonstrate that the product of learning pales in comparison to the process.

From Scratch

I don’t recall ever having fresh squeezed juice before, let alone making the juice myself.  However, I’ve been sitting here for about 30 minutes peeling the shells from the canoe, which will be mashed, strained and left to sit for a day before we will drink the juice.  The canoe fruit is one of the few fruits that grow in Mabalane, and it is just coming into season.  The juice only surfaces once a year, but it is a staple in Mozambican culture.  The history teacher at the school informed me that selling the canoe juice is illegal because of it’s significance to the people.  The canoe has a skin that I might put somewhere between the consistency of an orange and the texture of a peach without the fur.  It’s about the size of a golf-ball and has a large pit that the majority of the “meat” of the fruit is connected to, but it has a decent amount of juice and that’s why we’re working.

After I finish peeling another canoe, I pop it in my mouth to suck on as I work.  As I’m working, Francisco rides up on his bike to let us know that there is a lady in town who is still selling chickens.  The energy and the railway have been out for nearly two weeks at this point (due to rains and flooding) so I don’t hesitate to retrieve the 150 metecais for the chicken.

A short time later, Francisco returns with the chickens, one for Charlie and I and one for senora directora (Chefe).  This is the first live chicken I’ve ever owned.  The sky has turned dark now and the plan is to cook it tomorrow, but I am clueless as to what to do with this chicken overnight.  Chefe says to put the chicken in a basilla (a 10-inch deep, 18-inch diameter tub that’s used for anything you might use a sink for in the States) overnight so it doesn’t run all over the house.  I carry the chicken in the house in the basilla.  Charlie is busy cooking supper and I mention the chicken has arrived.  I put the basilla under the table Charlie is working at and cover it with another, larger basilla (which I note fits very snugly) to keep the chicken from causing a ruckus during the night.

The following day around 10, my stomach is thinking about making lunch and my brain begins to prepare itself to cut the chicken’s throat, when I realize I haven’t heard the chicken moving or clucking today.  Then my eyes catch the rim of the upside-down, larger basilla that is an inch away from the floor.  I then remember how snugly the basilla seemed to fit together upon placement.

“Surely it couldn’t have been air-tight,” I assure myself.

It was.

My hand lifts the top basilla and before my eyes can see it, my nose verifies my suspicion.  Both basillas are plastered with crap.  The chicken is laying motionless, dead.

Wasting no time, I wash the chicken and the basillas.  A tinge of remorse hits me when I realize how much longer the chicken’s death was due to my mistake.  In any scenario, the chicken would’ve died, and I tell myself I won’t make the same mistake again.

After plucking, I remove the head, feet, and entrails, just like my language group practiced in Namaacha.  One super-market chicken, thawed and ready.  After Charlie returns from classes, we create a marinade/baste consisting of garlic cloves, vinegar, oil, and a Texan seasoning concoction left by the previous Mab volunteers (thanks guys).  The moment the chicken hits the grill, the smell is intoxicating and my mouth is salivating.  Charlie and I devour the legs, wings, and thighs, but save the breasts for later.

Around 4, I place the head and feet into a pot of boiling water to create the broth for our chicken noodle soup.  While that’s boiling, I throw together flour, egg, and salt to create the noodles (I had no idea noodles were that easy), and roll it out to let sit a while.  As the noodles are setting, I walk to the schoolyard and collect a couple handfuls of leaves and flowers from the moringa trees.  The leaves, flowers, cut noodles, an onion, the grilled chicken breasts, and a little bit of caldo (chicken bouillon) all go into the boiling pot for about 20 minutes.

Sitting down to eat our chicken noodle soup, Charlie tells me a story:

“So remember when you were telling me the story of how the chicken must have suffocated during the night.  Well, last night when I went to bed I had no idea we had a chicken in the house.”

*At this point, I should note that Charlie sleeps in the main room because his room is on the west side of the house, and is unbearably hot when we’re trying to fall asleep.  The main room, however, has a nice cross-breeze during the evenings; and, also, on this particular evening, a slowly suffocating chicken.

“So around 2 or 3 last night, all of the sudden I hear this really load crashing and thrashing noise 3 feet from my head.  I had no idea what it was at the time and it scared the s*** out of me.  When you told me about how the chicken suffocated today I realized it must have been the chicken’s death rattle.”

The Rain Blog

Within 10 minutes of the start of the downpour, the few drains there are in Chokwe have reached their limit and the level of water begins to rise in the street.  As Charlie and I sit back to watch the rain fall with a couple Fanta Laranjas, I can’t help but think that if it rains like this for very long, we’re not going to be able to pass the 80 kms of dirt road that lies between Chinakanini and Mabalane.  This Friday trip was our last to Chokwe before the start of the school year, so the implications of us not being able to make the return journey are weighing heavily on my mind.  Luckily after 45 min. the rain stops and we’re able to puddle hop to the market and grab the first chapa (mini-bus) to Chinhakanini.

By the time we cross the Limpopo River and reach the small village, the rain has stopped.  Spirits are high as we quickly run into some friends who know a guy taking a truckload of stuff to Mabalane.  The goods are tarped over, but I know my seat is a sixer of glass bottles.  Ten minutes into the trip, the rain starts.

Normally, the trip over the dirt road takes two hours, is hot, and leaves pain shooting through your joints (which were contorted to fit as many people as possible on or in the vehicle) and butt (large, flat-bed trucks are typically your only option going to Mabalane).  This trip was different.  This trip took four hours due to the care the driver had to take to prevent us from getting us stuck.  Because of the slow speed, the sensation of being vaulted off a quarter inch thick sheet of steel was replaced by slow rocking on and off my six-pack whenever we hit a pothole.  Instead of being pelted by the Moz. Sun, I was enveloped in a wet, grey cocoon.

One hour in to the trip and I’m vowing never to forget my rain jacket again.  Around two hours into the trip I notice the halfway tree, I am starting to notice shriveling in my fingers, and don’t know if I am going to be able to take two more hours of this cruel punishment.  Three hours in, I’m near hysterical and realize that I’ve never sat this long in the rain before. Closing in on the fourth hour we finally see Mabalane.  I let out a relieved sigh and the rain slowly comes to a stop.  After four hours in the rain, we reach our destination, and the rain stops!  I have to laugh to keep from crying.  Upon reaching the house, I get into some dry cloths and make some hot chocolate, which we just bought in Chokwe.  What a trip.

Saturday and Sunday were both relatively dry days.  Monday, the day of the parent, student and teacher reunion, came around and it was an overcast morning.  Just as we were finishing “Patria Amada” the rain started coming down and continued all day Monday.  And Tuesday.  And Wednesday.  And Thursday.  Friday and Saturday were more or less dry days, but by then the school week had been abandoned due to the rain (many students have to walk considerable distance to get to the school).  On Sunday, the rain returned with a vengeance.  The only comparison to the noise created by the rain on our roof is the sound created when an end-loader bucket is dropped into the bare bed of a truck.  This continued through Sunday night and into Monday. 

By the time the rain stopped, the swollen Limpopo was reaping havoc across the river valley; Chokwe, Guija, and many other smaller towns inhabiting the valley, which from my best estimates is near 5 miles wide in some areas.  I found out later that South Africa had opened up several damns upstream, which served to augment the water level greatly.  On that Monday our energy went out and remained out for nearly two weeks until repairs could be made.  The rocks under the railway we’re wiped out in some areas, in others the line had actually been parted.  The paved road was completely displaced in some areas and heavily damaged in many more.

Luckily, Mabalane is above the flood plain.  Life here continued as normal without energy or the Thursday (quinta-fera) market that brings in vendors from Maputo via train.  Some people were worried about what would happen if more flooding occurred and we weren’t able to get more rice, flour, pasta, and other essentials, but life is slowly returning to normal.  Onions, garlic, plant leaves and bread were never in short supply and now tomatoes and fruits are returning at a somewhat elevated price.  However, we haven’t seen much more than a drizzle since that last Monday and in this heat, I could sure use a little rain right now.

Summer Swelter

Laying down to sleep, I knew my consciousness wouldn’t be subsiding for a while.  Even after the sun has gone down, it takes 2-3 hours before a person might dare to say the air has “cooled down.”  The mosquito net around my bed is a lifesaver, but it seems only to trap the heat produced by the Mozambican sun hitting our tin roof.  I could feel my sweat being soaked up by my pillow and bed sheets.  Every breeze seemed a gentle nudge towards comfort and sleep.

It’s part of Moz culture that most people eat and rest from 12-14, and it doesn’t take much imagination to understand why.  In our first weeks of living in Mabalane, Charlie and I would make the mistake of making trips to town or the penitentiary in the late morning/early afternoon.  Within the first five minutes of leaving the shade of the house, we would be sweating and more than aware of the way the sun seems to be dodging the clouds in the sky.  There is one or no trees on the road to the market, depending which path I decide to walk.  By the time we reach the market a solid layer of sweat has soaked through my shirt and my mouth is dry.  We’ve “inconveniently” forgot our water bottles; guess we’ll have to spring for the chilled bottles of water they sell at the barraca or Portuguese store.  The return journey is always hotter, it seems.  The cold water helps, but the sun is relentless and by the time we reach home I just want to sit in the shade for a while to cool off.  If there’s a breeze, it’s a godsend.

However, those days are typical.  On the bad days, I’ll sit in the shade reading, writing or planning a lesson, but I’ll still be hot.  There’s been more than one day when my sweat starts beading shortly after I get out of bed and continues through the day until after I’ve fallen asleep.  On days like this a sheen of sweat covers my arms and legs, and I wish for rain or a breeze.  Because we don’t have a refrigerator, the warm water we have hardly seems to quench the thirst brought on by ceaseless sweat and we easily drink 2-3 liters of water each.

I tell you what though.  I’m currently writing this on the shaded east side of the house as the sun sets on what was a mild day.  A steady breeze is coming out of the south and in front of me lay dancing bushes and trees as far as the horizon.  Yeah, I was sweating constantly from 12-15 today, but I’ve come to appreciate the simple shade and breeze.  Sweat is a cheap price to pay for the way I feel right now.

The Site

The site preference sheet consisted of 4 questions.

If you had to choose, which sort of site would you have:

Rural or Urban-  Rural

Near other volunteers or Isolated- Near other volunteers

Name up to two people who you couldn’t work with.

            None

If you had a magic wand and could have one thing at your site, what would it be?

            Easy integration

After dropping off the last volunteer at their site, Charlie and I started the trip on the road to our site.  After 20 minutes or so ,we reached the bridge that crosses over the Limpopo River and passed over the last concrete of our voyage.  Bumpier roads than the road from Chokwe to Mabalane exist, but they are few.  After an hour of dirt-road driving, I was used to the bouncing around in my seat, the air coming in from the windows was a relief from the heat, and the excitement of the trip grew when our school director told us we were at the halfway point (a very unique tree between the road and train tracks).  After a while longer, we suddenly see a water tower, and the whites, yellows and greens of concrete houses with tin roofs.  Mabalane appears to be an oasis amidst the sea of sand and shrubbery.

Our house is a small, two-bedroom and one large room concrete structure with a tin roof.  My favorite part is the latrine/bathhouse: a squat toilet with raised foot-pads, kingly; clean concrete with no roof so you can see the stars if you make the venture at night (don’t forget the broom, there’s other patrons in the latrine at night).   The stars at here are breathtaking, and new (if anyone is feeling generous, a southern hemisphere star chart would earn you honorable mention and perhaps a gift in return).  We’ve been putting a lot of work into the house, and it’s starting to feel like home.

If Mabalane is bigger than Plainfield, Iowa, it’s not by much.  I love it.  The walk from my house to the villa takes around twenty minutes, and another ten minutes to walk to the mercado and paderia (bakery) other side of town.  We make the walk almost everyday for fresh produce; it’s different living sem (without) refrigerator.  There’s always someone happy to talk with us, usually a future student who assumes the two new malongos (white people) in town are the new teachers.  We definitely get some stares, but most of the time it’s out of curiosity.  The kids always crack a smile if you wave at them.  The majority of the professors at the school are in their 20’s and 30’s, are welcoming to Charlie and I.  Boa ambiente.

 Tem um bom dia,

dylan

P.S. sorry it's taken so long for me to write, but we've been having a bit of a crisis here with energy and flooding.  I'll be adding more blogs in the near future hopefully.