The Abiku

The spirit-child is an unwilling adventurer into chaos and sunlight, into dreams of the living and the dead. Things that are not quite ready, not willing to be born or to become, things for which adequate preparations have not been made to sustain their momentous births, things that are not resolved, things bound up with failure and with fear of being, they all keep recurring, keep coming back, and in themselves partake of the spirit-child’s condition. The keep coming and going till their time is right. History itself fully demonstrates how things of the world partake of the condition of the spirit-child.

There are many who are of this condition and do not know it. There are many nations, civilizations, ideas, half-discoveries, revolutions, loves, art forms, experiments, and historical events that are of this condition and do not know it. There are many people too. They do not all have the mark of their recurrence. Often they seem normal. Often they are perceived as new. Often they are serene with the familiarity of death’s embrace. They all carry strange gifts in their soul. They are all part-time dwellers in their own secret moonlight. They all yearn to make of themselves a beautiful sacrifice, a difficult sacrifice, to bring transformation, and to die shedding light within this life, setting the matter ready for their true beginnings to cry into being, scorched by the strange ecstasy of the will ascending to say yes to destiny and illumination.

The Famished Road - Ben Okri

Drummings

“In Africa, you do not view death from the auditorium of life, as a spectator, but from the edge of the stage, waiting for your cue. You feels perishable, temporary, transient. You feel mortal.” Peter Godwin

It is 2am and I can hear nothing except the beating of drums and the ululation of women in the distance. The sound resonates throughout the night air and is carried for what seems like miles. The beats switch back and forth between quick erratic pulsations and calm steady drumming. If I close my eyes, I picture a pulsating heart in distress; a heart that no longer beats within a body and thus must be continued within the drums themselves.

This Missa (mee-sah) ceremony is the only sound in the night to which my mind has not yet become accustomed. Families perform this ritualistic drumming on the anniversary of the death of a close relative. In the beginning it is performed every year on the date of their death, but eventually the family will gather together every 3 or 5 years, staying up all night drumming and dancing. It is a unique connection people have here with the dead.

This sound continues to keep me awake at night because unlike the clanging of rain on my tin roof or the rooster crowing way before its time, this noise has feeling and passion. This drumming tells a story far too familiar in this country; one of loss and grief. I lie awake reflecting on all the questions I’m not supposed to know. Who was this person? How did they die? Who did they leave behind? Are the relatives doing this ritual out of respect and remembrance or fear of upsetting a dead ancestor, or both?

Two weeks later I am given the opportunity to answer some of these questions first-hand when a woman that works in my organization tells me that she is participating in a Missa ceremony that evening in remembrance of her grandmother who passed away last year. I asked to participate and was told to show up at around 11pm.

Upon arrival I noticed that most of the people there participating were women, each sitting on their capulanas or astera mats. There were about five water jugs being beaten by sticks to a steady beat that alternated depending on the song being sung by the group. Cups of Canhu, a traditional drink made this time of year, are being circulated amongst the participants. Because I am a man, I am immediately given a chair and handed a cup of Canhu by a young girl. As per tradition, I drink the brew in it's entirety in one long gulp then hand it back to the girl for more. The drink is strong but still retains a hint of its original sweetness.

Eventually I am handed a water jug and a stick and join the other women in the collective drumming. I find it easy to get creative with my beats by interchanging them on occasion, acting as leader of the group and watching as the others rush to match my rhythm. For the first time, I realize what a calming effect drumming has on me. Eventually I cease to pay attention to what I am doing and just let my hands do the work. The other drummers follow my lead and before long one of the older women gets up and dances to match my rhythm.

My thoughts turn to death and its very real presence within the community. Back home, death was always an abstract concept, befalling the elderly and the occasional random accident. Here it is a fixture in the daily lives of my neighbors and friends; a constant reminder of the frailty of life. Death touches young and old, so it is common to see people wearing a black patch of cloth on their shirts to signify the loss of a loved one. Burials are quick ordeals, and emotional public mourning or crying lasts only about three days. Wives of the dead will dress in black for a year, and siblings or parents will wear some kind of black clothing for six months. People have had to adapt to losing loved ones before their time.

At daybreak, everyone moves to the grave site, flowers are placed and more songs are sung. All together, it is a remarkable way to bring together family and friends to remember those who have died. Since that night, I find the drumming keeps me up less and less, as things which were once strange become slightly more familiar.

Just one of those things...

I've learned to roll with the punches. That is to say that for the past year, I have come to understand that sometimes awkward things happen and you just have to try to laugh and move on. In fact, I've learned there are a great deal of these “moments” in which my patience is tried and my commitment to the Peace Corps is questioned. So after a year's worth of practice, I have trained myself to try and see the comical side of any frustrating situation.

I bring this up because I have had requests from friends and family to tell these embarrassing stories. Those who know me best recognize that it is not always in my nature to wax poetically about the rolling hills or golden sunsets, but instead to get myself into ridiculous situations and haphazardly find my way out.

That being said, I can finally admit I bathed in pee water last month.

It was a hot afternoon, and I had just taken my dog Chissy for a walk through the various paths in my village. Hot and sweaty, I decided it was time for my afternoon bucket bath. I filled my bucket with cool water, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked outside to my casa de banho (an open-roofed, reed enclosure where I bathe) which is about 20 feet from my house. Once inside, I took off my towel, placed the bucket of water on a platform about thigh-high, wet my face and hair and grabbed the soap. I lathered up the soap and washed my hair and face, naturally closing my eyes so as to not get soap in them.

It was around this time that I realized that I had to urinate. I hadn't peed since getting back from the walk and figured that now was as good a time as any. We all pee in the shower, and I couldn't see how this situation was any different. So as I aimed for the corner and relaxed, I could hear my stream of urine hitting the concrete slab that I was standing on and continued to go about washing my face.

While I was scrubbing my face, having turned slightly to put the soap up on the wooden plank I fashioned into a shelf, something changed. The pitter patter of urine hitting concrete changed to a deep gurgle. I'm not sure how much time had passed but as I finished soaping up my face I realized I had forgotten to keep aiming for the corner and was indeed peeing in my bathwater.

This, in case you were wondering, is one of those situations that seem only to happen to me.

So....what's a boy to do? I'm naked, my hair and face is soapy and thus my eyes shut, and getting fresh water would require more effort and burning soapy eyes than I was ready for. So, realizing my lack of options, I decided to chalk it up to one of “those moments” try to grin and proceeded to wash my face and hair with the pee water.

Not being one for any type of watersport, I was less than amused. However, what struck me most afterwards was how little the situation bothered me. A year ago when I first joined Peace Corps, I would get into a huffy anytime that I was faced with a less-than-hygienic situation. Now, things just don't seem to bother me as much any more.

I told this story to other volunteers and they all agreed, although most found my story disturbingly funny. Living here we realize that we will never be as clean or smell as nice, our safety will never be as protected or ensured and our food will never be as properly prepared as it had back home. Our life here gives up a certain level of comfort in exchange for the ability to see, to some degree, the world as it is for billions of other people. And while it is possible to take certain precautions regarding health and safety, you soon realize that as Americans we can sometimes be too careful, to the point of being obsessive, over how we protect ourselves from unseen germs or potential threats.

Sometimes you eat the food from a kitchen that doesn't look “up to code” putting your fears momentarily aside. Sometimes you ride in the back of a pickup truck due to lack of other options despite there not being proper seat belts or safety standards. And sometime you are forced to bathe in pee water, knowing that the thought of what you are doing is probably tougher on you than the act itself.

My Rain...

“My rain is different than your rain. It has texture and volume. It has spirit and force.”

Giada said this with such passion and conviction that I was drawn even deeper into our conversation together.

Three hours earlier I had been standing on the side of the road in my provincial capital trying to hail a chapa to take me back to my village. It was the day after Christmas and most transport was either full or going in a different direction. It had been raining all day and continued to shower, although not nearly as intense as earlier. I was busy looking for a ride when a man in his thirties came over and started talking to me. It seems he had been watching me from his house for a while and wanted to help. Thinking I was a foreigner he began to offer me advice, and was surprised to find that I lived in a village nearby.

He proceeded to invite me into his home to put down my bags and rest my feet a bit. Seeing as I was beginning to get soaked and was tired from carrying my gear, I took him up on the offer. After a drink and some good conversation, he insisted I stay for lunch with his wife, his aunt and his mother, Giada, who were all together for the holidays.

As soon as I met Giada I could tell she was special. She was a strong, independent and informed African woman who had a global consciousness and a consistent core set of values that molded her thinking. She was knowledgeable of international current events and was a refreshing partner with which to discuss and debate.

After lunch she and I were still talking, when she mentioned that she always wishes on others “health and water.” She said that people should work for what they want or need, but that health and water should always be provided; that they both seem to encompass two great forces that are sometimes out of your control. Other needs usually could be acquired through hard work and ingenuity. I kept thinking, “she wishes a blessing of health and water.” It was such a simple, yet profoundly insightful statement that I kept probing her for more information. That was when she began to speak about the rain.

When she spoke, you could see her eyes light up with a mixture of excitement and endearment. I had never heard anyone talk about something as common as rain before with such vehemence and sincerity. She kept referring to it as “my rain” as if she and she alone held ownership over a very force of nature.

She said that when her rain begins to fall, it comes in large drops; marble-sized balls of water that hit the ground with a great “SPLASH” and leave a crater of dust as they are absorbed into the earth. Then she spoke of the unique smell that is released after the rain drops collide with the ground. She was careful to explain that this happened best in the most rural of areas, the bush, and not really in cities or at the beach. Then she spoke of her rain’s strength, and how you can go outside and bathe in the rain letting it cleanse your body and your mind.

This is a woman who has traveled around the globe and been through two wars in her country. At the very least she has seen rain elsewhere, but in her mind and in her heart nothing compares to the rain, her rain, back home.

A blessing of health and water. We should all be so lucky.

What I've learned...

The following is a collection of submissions provided by fellow volunteers in answering the question:

WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED OVER YOUR FIRST YEAR IN PEACE CORPS?

Anything that doesn’t taste bitter is edible. Otherwise it’s probably either medicine or poison (or both).

The sign, “15 passengers, no standing room” is a challenge for a chapa driver, not a limit.

That pretty much anything is better with coconut.

That erasing the stigma of diarrhea is an excellent secondary project… hello, my name is Sarah and I have a problem.

I learned that the teacher is the natural ally of the proletariat and the peasant… really, I didn’t know that before.

If the ants don’t eat it, neither should you.

It gets damn COLD in Africa!

No, someone’s house did not erupt into a blazing inferno. It’s just burning trash.

When your tomato lady tells you you’re fatter than yesterday, it’s a compliment.

Males who hold hands while jamming to Celine Dion are probably not homosexual.

Holding hands with another man is the ultimate triple threat. 1) It makes you an immediate badass. 2) It ups your street cred exponentially. 3) It is a goddamn beautiful thing.

After a couple weeks at site with no meat, the prospect of eating some goat or chicken head can really make your mouth water.

As much as you may resent the fact that you will always, always have people staring at you wondering, “what is that foreigner is doing here,” when you see another foreigner at your site you will always, always stare at them and wonder what are they are doing here.

You can be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

You can be completely alone and still be very pleased with the company.

Start throwing a Frisbee or kicking a soccer ball and throngs of children you’ve never seen before will appear as if by magic.

“Must be refrigerated” is nothing more than a polite suggestion.

That doesn’t mean your food won’t turn odd colors after sitting in your hot kitchen for a week.

THAT doesn’t mean you might not eat it anyway.

A sincere hug from a friend after a couple weeks at site feels absolutely amazing.

Staring at the wall and just thinking is a good way to kill a couple hours.

And finally… Life is short. Embrace it with both hands and every orifice.

A big Thank-You to all the volunteers who contributed to this post.

Dirty Kitty...

During training the volunteers made a game of declaring what would have to happen for you to voluntarily call it quits; canceling your service and running back to America to stay.

For some, it was contracting Malaria. For others it was a somber prospect like the death of a loved one, cancer or other medical malady. For me, there was only one thing that would spell disaster enough for me to take as an omen from God and leave Peace Corps early; falling into a latrine.

We all heard stories of volunteers who had fallen into badly constructed latrines only to be rescued several hours later, pulled from a collection of piss, shit and maggots the likes of which few can imagine. The sheer idea of coming into contact with that mess gave me the heebie-jeebies enough to vow that that would be my breaking point.

That being said, the last two months I have been keeping track of my cat’s newest litter of 3 kittens as well as my dog’s new 8 puppies. Yes, I had 13 animals running around my house, making it resemble an SPCA to a much larger degree than I was comfortable. The kittens were giving me the most trouble as they were older than the puppies and spent most of their time playing and sprinting across the house and yard. As cute as they are, I’m still not convinced that I’m a cat person.

So one night just before turning in, another volunteer who was staying with me went outside to go use the bathroom. It was only a moment later that she poked her head inside the house to call for me saying only, “I think we might have a problem.”

It turns out that one of the kittens had indeed fallen into my latrine and was definitely alive and whining to get out. Faced with a version of my greatest fear in Peace Corps, I have to admit that the idea of just leaving it down there crossed my mind. Eventually it wasn’t my humanity or love of animals that led me to decide to get it out, but rather the lack of suitable alternatives.

So, with the help of my neighbor we jerry-rigged a basket out of a stick and trigs. Thankfully it was a kitten down there which was suited for clinging to objects. If it had been one of the puppies, I don’t know what we would have done. Eventually we got her to cling on to the basket and we pulled her up. Now we have a shit-covered kitty and it clearly falls on me to be the one to bathe her.

So, four baths later that same night the kitten was able to rejoin her siblings, this time a little wetter and wiser, but not nearly as putrid as she had been an hour earlier. I still stand by my vow to call it quits if anything like that was to happen to me directly, but it’s nice to know that I can at least witness it without tapping the mat.

I just don’t understand why these things always seem to happen to me.

1 Year Down, 1 To Go...

Hello All,

I figured I would finally sit down and try to knock out an e-mail update for the holidays before things get busy again. I am still writing the bi-weekly online articles about my experience and have switched from writing for GayWired.com to Advocate.com. These articles have been a great outlet for me which is why I have sadly neglected the blog.

As I wrap up my first full year in Mozambique, I can help but look how far I have come from when I was first stepped off the plane in Maputo or was delivered to my village 3 months later. When I began training in October of 2007 with sixty-nine other PCVs-to-be, I was generally frustrated. I was mostly upset with myself for leaving friends and family in the states and was wondering if joining the Peace Corps was the right decision (yea, I realize it was a little late to be thinking that, but still...).

The first two weeks were rough, but after sitting down with the head of training, she knocked some sense into me and made me realize that I wanted to be here and to make the experience count. However it was the first few months in my community that really put me to the test. I faced the same frustrations I did before, but this time I also directed my anger towards Peace Corps, my organization and members of my community. I was the first mulungo (white person) to live in the community since the Portuguese left and most people didn't know what to make of me. I would get ignored when I said hello to people, be turned down or left alone when I invited friends over for dinner, and was made fun of at work for the way I dressed, talked, acted, you name it. No one wanted to start projects with me or have anything to do with me.

Having spoken to former volunteers, they all said this was bound to happen and just to wait it out. Low and behold, one evening I was sitting on my veranda reading a book and all of a sudden, out of the blue, it hit me. Like a light switch, all my frustrations went away and I was filled with this whole new perspective on my new life here in Mozambique. It really was strange how it all happened so suddenly and without any real trigger. I continued to take calls from other volunteers who were also frustrated and I told them to just wait till the light switch went off. One by one, they all called me and described a similar revelation that I had experienced.

Anyways, since that evening I have truly enjoyed my time here and have viewed myself as a very minor character in a much bigger picture. I took the weight off my shoulders of being “The Mulungo” and instead just tried to be a member of the community. I continue to have frustrations with life here and the various situations that seem to only happen in Mozambique, but rather than let these moments trip me up, I learned to laugh them off and keep going. I have also learned to find joy in simple things that I see day to day, like groups of women singing or children playing. I've learned to slow down and appreciate sitting under a mango tree on an astera mat just enjoying the breeze. I have learned that I don't need to be doing something all the time, but can simply enjoy my life here and the simpler pleasures around me.

Because of my proximity of Maputo, I am able to make it into the city once every month or two for pleasure or on Peace Corps business. I have made a fantastic group of friends in there, consisting of gay and straight development workers from around the globe. One is a gay Puerto Rican who moved here from Seattle and has been like a mother to me. He, along with an adorable Argentinian HIV doctor and the always entertaining Ambassador to the Netherlands, have quickly become my posse and have kept me laughing. Several other development friends are former PC volunteers, so they have taken me in and made me feel at home. I spent Thanksgiving with them an about 40 other development workers at the house of my friend Mindy. I will try and put up pictures soon.

I recommended my village for an education volunteer and one was sent earlier this month. She seems nice and it will be good to have another person close by (about 20 minutes) to help settle in and exchange ideas. She is a chemistry teacher at the secondary school where I have my theater group and she might be interested in helping out with the kids. I have also started teaching the basics of yoga to some of the interested students and they really like it.

2008 has been a long and somewhat lonely road, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. Being alone has forced me to become comfortable with silence and with myself. It has made me appreciate the world around me and grow as an individual. And all in just one year! ;-)

No, I have a long way to go in life, even though my time in Mozambique is halfway over. But I am looking forward to the 2^nd half, in the hopes that I will continue to come across new experiences and learn new things.

I hope everyone has a great holiday season surrounded with their friends and loved ones. I give a big thank-you to my family who has worked to keep my spirits up this first year, which is the toughest. Also to my friends around the country, from the girls at AAFA to the WeHo Chamber folks to Jeffrey and Pey, my RPCV pals, for their care packages, letters and great e-mails. Despite not having everyone around, I cannot help but be reminded how very lucky I am to have each of you in my life.

Stay in touch and have a safe holiday season.

Love Always,

Z

GayWired.com articles

I have not been blogging as much lately because the GayWired.com articles have been a great outlet for me. Will try and get back in the swing on things, but until then, if you are interested, you can read what I wrote on the site. Here are a couple of my favorites:

http://gaywired.com/Article.cfm?ID=19969
http://gaywired.com/Article.cfm?ID=19781
http://gaywired.com/Article.cfm?ID=19645
http://gaywired.com/Article.cfm?ID=19469

Pictures from Jeff's visit

Um, this should work...

http://www1.snapfish.com/shareereg/p=273301220107470551/l=418891049/g=13481298/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB/pns/share/p=273301220107470551/l=418891049/g=13481298/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

Jeffrey's Visit

An entry by my buddy Jeff, who was my first visitor in Mozambique. We traveled for two weeks and had a blast experiencing Moz and Swaziland. I asked him to give a third-party perspective of the experience, especially since he had been through Peace Corps. Hope you enjoy!

"After 46 hours of traveling I finally arrived in Mozambique. The trip there was EXHAUSTING - and at one of my FOUR layovers - I swore to never travel again - but as soon as I landed in Maputo - the adrenaline kicked in and I was totally fine and with almost zero jet lag.
Since I was recently a Peace Corps Volunteer in Ukraine, I can easily say that Zachery has been in Mozambique long enough to feel settled and I know he will be there until the end of his 2 years. His language skills are very good and he can totally take care of things. And he is clearly very happy with his life there. He has a large group of friends and support network and has done a great job of adjusting to his new environment.

The capital, Maputo, has a very interesting feeling and is totally different than the rest of Mozambique. It feels very Spanish / Latin in culture - and yet African at the same time. It looks a lot like the photos I have seen of Cuba. There are some older cars - but most of them are modern small European cars. The official language is Portuguese so I was able to read most of the signs and understand them...even with my poor Spanish. The streets are in terrible shape as are the sidewalks with potholes and dirt and garbage all over the place. It is not clean and yet I didn’t feel as a dirty as I did when I was in Delhi or Kathmandu. And there are lots of abandoned buildings all over the place. There are very few white faces on the streets and they are typically either tourists (very few) or mostly aid workers. The EU sends more money there than almost any other country as Mozambique is one of the poorest countries in Africa.
Throughout Mozambique I saw LOTS of Unicef, World Vision, Save the Children, etc. vans and met quite a few people who work for these organizations. You can pretty much assume that most any white face is with one of those organizations. They are the majority of foreigners I saw there. So when people there look at us - they do not see “rich Americans” but more - people there to help them. This makes it easier for Zachery as people don’t see him as a spy (like they did me in Ukraine) and yet - he it is much harder for him to blend in and make friends like I did in Ukraine.

The entire vacation we took only local transportation (chapas) and I have never seen so many people cram into a tiny mini bus. It was almost like clowns at a circus. People were all over each other and just when you thought they couldn’t get one more person in - they would stop and pick up 3 more people. And let’s just say - it smelled quite ripe in there. And this is their winter so I can not begin to imagine how unbearably hot and smelly they are in the summer. My hat’s off to Zachery for dealing with them on a regular basis!

After 2 days in Maputo, we took a 3 hour chapa to Xai Xai – the provincial capital near his village of Chongoene, had lunch there, and then went on to his village. We then got off the hot and dirty chapa and I looked at him and said “Oh my god – we’re in Africa!” Most of the homes in his village are mud huts. Some of them have thatch walls and tin roofs. His home has a concrete floor and electricity. Yet no running water - so the “bathroom” (read hole in the ground) and “shower” (read bucket baths) are actually quite comfortable and clean. Since it is now winter (highs around 85 and lows around 55) it's comfortable taking a shower - later in the day. He is doing well health wise – yet has lost weight. We had numerous talks about ways for him to gain weight and I think it’s safe to say he will be more focused on this being a priority. I was 100% healthy the entire time I was there. His food options are incredibly limited. He has an empregada (maid) who cooks most of his food, cleans his house 3 days a week, takes care of his dog and cats, goes grocery shopping for him, and does ALL of his laundry. He pays her $20 a month. She is very sweet and she clearly is very attached to Zachery.

Everywhere we went - people smiled on the streets and said hello to each other. There is a warmth and sincerity in total strangers. I was not constantly in fear of my knapsack being stolen. Or his house being broken in. Or someone mugging us on the street. There is not the constant oppressive feeling I felt daily in Ukraine. Mozambique has one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS and yet I didn’t really feel it. The only way I noticed is that you don’t see many people older than 40. Every once in a while you will see a woman dressed all in black who is in mourning. It is actually quite a beautiful country and I felt totally safe. He has beautiful places to go on "vacation". My life in Ukraine felt very familiar and similar to my life in the US - only on a different continent. His life is totally different than anything anyone would ever live in the US. And that is both exciting and exhausting.

We then spent a few days further north than his village. Spent one day with his friend Akisha in Inhambane and then we went to Bara Lodge. Bara is along the beach and is gorgeous. It’s a resort area and incredibly beautiful, relaxing, great food, and was a perfect two days. We shared a small room (bunk beds) with one of his Peace Corps friends - Anne. The bathroom was in the next building over. It was very comfortable - minus the TONS of mosquitoes at night. (Luckily we had mosquito nets to sleep under). My only complaint is that most of the other people there were tourists from South Africa. Rich, white, South Africans. I developed an incredible dislike for them. Zach started these feelings within me - but many of the people I met there reinforced these feelings. We saw almost no other tourist there except whites from South Africa. They were incredibly obnoxious every time they spoke with someone on staff there. Racism is alive and well.

After two days of relaxing we had to leave. And it took us EIGHT hours on various chapas to get back to his village of Chongoene. At one point we were trying to transfer at a bus station. We literally were on 5 different chapas at this one station! The first one tried to leave and they couldn’t get it started. The next one decided it didn’t want to take us all where we wanted to go. I lost track of what all the issues where - but all I remember is that we kept taking our bags and transferring to another chapa. We both had nothing to eat and minimal to drink as we didn’t want to have to go to the bathroom as they don’t make bathroom breaks. Finally around 4:00 pm we bought some cookies / crackers and ate them. By the time we arrived back to his village it was dark. We were hot, tired, dehydrated, dirty, and walked in the pitch dark the 2 miles back to his home. His empregada had dinner waiting for us. It was a mush of beans, fresh coconut milk, and a root vegetable. It was actually quite tasty but not terribly filling. It was too dark and cold to take showers. We played cards for a little bit and then it started to rain. And then pour. And since he has a tin roof - it sounds like the house if being shot at by gun fire. It was an amazing sound. And then the power went out. About 15 minutes later, at 10:15 pm we realized that it was probably time to call it a day. I decided to go to the outhouse one last time before I went to sleep. I was greeted by a frog sitting right by the hole in the ground. I squatted, did my business and went back in the house. I looked at Zachery and said “This was a LONG hard day. I don’t know how you do it. I am not sure I could do this. And this was the best day of our trip - I had so much fun.”

Zachery and I then took various chapas to Swaziland. Everyone told us it would be 3-4 hours MAX. So - we left at 9:00 a.m. figuring we would get there in time for lunch.
I was amazed at how different Swaziland is from Mozambique. It's cleaner, richer, and the people are even friendlier. And the food was terrific. Everyone speaks English in Swaziland which makes it a lot easier than Mozambique where Portuguese is the official language. And Swazi also has the highest rate of HIV / AIDS in the world - at 26-40% (depending on what statistic you use!) There were billboards everywhere and it's clear that AIDS has had it’s impact on the country.

We learned, when someone told us the length of a chapa ride - we needed to double the estimate. Well - we were wrong - it took us EIGHT and a half hours to get to our destination on 4 different chapas and one taxi. We got used to being able to go all day without eating lunch - and minimal bathroom breaks. About 5 hours into this journey, I was hot, tired, hungry, and getting crabby. There was this 8 month old baby in the seat ahead of mine who eyes were transfixed on me. I found myself having this conversation in my head with his baby. I came to the realization that who am I to complain?! Thank god I am lucky to be healthy enough to be able to travel. Thank god I am lucky to be able to even afford this trip. This poor child will have a life of hell. He will be lucky if he lives past 40. He will probably not get past a 4th grade education, or ever even leave his country. He is sitting on this hot, uncomfortable bus and seems to be perfectly content. Who am I to complain? And for the rest of the ride and every other chapa I was on - I was totally fine. I think I just needed to put it all into perspective.

We finally arrived - at one of the most gorgeous places I have ever been – Phonphonyne Lodge. It is nestled in the middle of the mountains and is gorgeous. They only have rooms available for about 20 guests. And there is nothing to do there but hike, relax, eat, sleep, and read. It was much colder (down to 54 degrees inside our tent one night) and had amazing views. The main building is this beautifully decorated lodge - with Andrea Bocelli blaring on their stereo.

Two days later we took a 5 hours chapa to our next stop. Also a resort type place (Malendela’s) which had LOTS of people - especially tourist. We read, relaxed and went white water rafting.
After 2 days there – we took a 6 hour chapa back to Maputo. Zachery recently met the Dutch Ambassador, and he offered for us to stay as his residence since he has 6 bedrooms. So we took him up his offer and stayed there our last 2 nights. Our last morning there, the Ambassador had left for work by the time we woke up. Zachery and I were watching TV and one of Ambassador’s maids walked in and asked if we were ready to be served our breakfast. We both looked at each other and smiled. We walked into the dining room with a beautifully set table. It was one of the most elegant breakfasts I have ever been served! We both laughed and I asked him if really is in the Peace Corps?!

I consider myself to be a quite well traveled – as I have now been to 44 countries. This was one of the physically hardest trips I have ever taken. Everything from the long plane rides there, and the hot and dirty chapas, to the limited food options and physical energy needed to make it through the days. It was a true pleasure and honor to spend time with Zachery. We traveled extremely well together and there was never a second of tension between us. He is a remarkable person - and ever more special is that he is 25 years old. He is a very mature old soul - who yet also has the playfulness of a 25 year old. Many people in Mozambique asked me if I was his father...... .oh well - I guess I may be middle aged - but I sure don't feel it!"

Jeffrey Janis

I've been a bad blogger....

It’s been quite some time since I have posted an update to the blog and informed the general public of my well-being. I was asked to write a bi-weekly column for GayWired.com about my travels and experiences and for a while that was a good substitute outlet for my thoughts, frustrations and failed attempts at humor. But like a man with two cross mistresses, I am able to hop between them when one becomes too much to handle. However, if interested, you can search for past articles I have written by going to GayWired.com and just typing my name in the search.

Much has been going on since my last update. I have experienced both a Mozambican and American Independence Day. I survived a Mozambican Cultural Festival that was true to its name. I also got my diver’s certification so that I can finally enjoy the Mozambican coast that is famous for their underwater sights.

Mozambican Independence Day came and went without too much fanfare. I decided to invite Melissa over and we cooked, played cards, watched The Office on her computer and walked around the community. The weekend of July 4th, however, turned out to be a much more festive occasion. Melissa and I went with our Maputo development friends to Tofo Beach in Inhambane Province about 3.5 hours north of me. We were saying goodbye to the Emily, a visiting cousin of a member of the group, and to Russell, a Rocking Aussie who was in country working with the Clinton Foundation and was returning to the States. We stayed at a hostile on the beach (Fatima’s), played cards, drank a little beer, watched the sun rise on the water and set against the dunes and generally relaxed in the sand. Games of Bocci and horseback riding were enjoyed and overall everyone left feeling much closer and more relaxed than when we had started. Although, despite the occasion that brought us together, I doubt any of us felt more patriotic…

The following weekdn Xai Xai held the annual Mozambican Cultural Festival and decided to alert the public about a week in advance. With a late start and a rushed promotion, the festival was already living up to its name. However the music, dancing, theatre, food and exhibitions were impressive and worthy of a festival representing so many diverse people of one “culture”. I stayed with David, a 2nd year volunteer buddy, and a group of us went to the Gastronomia where we were able to buy food that were specialties in each of the 11 Provinces. The Chicken Zambeziana made with lime and coconut was nice, as was the okra dish made with shrimp and coconut milk. However, I went a little wild when I got to the crafts exhibition from artists around the country. It was so refreshing to see not just the variety of materials used in crafts from various parts of Moz, but also that art was being celebrated at all! Mozambique is just finally coming around to recognizing, resuscitating and honing traditional crafts and marketing them to the public. I bought a painting from Niassa Province, a hanging woven cloth from Manica Province, a Botik from Maputo Province and put in a request for a traditional bed/sofa made by the wife of the Gaza Governor. I walked out feeling better than if I had maxxed out my credit card at a sale in Bloomingdale’s. The bareness of my walls at home were starting to grate on me.

During the festival, I also got the chance to meet Matt, a family friend of another volunteer, Megan. He was visiting Mozambique for over a week before his trip to Tanzania where he planned to climb Mount Kilamanjaro. He had come out to his family about a year and a half ago, and it was nice to be in the presence of and to laugh with another gay guy. When I heard that Matt was in town to sample some of the amazing diving that Moz is known for, I couldn’t resist going up to Barra Beach and getting scuba certified with Megan, our friend Anne, and her friend Emily. While Matt went on the more “adventurous” dives at 25 meters, the four of us hopped between classes in the pool and dives at about 11 meters to test our newly learned underwater skills. Our Swedish instructor, Nick, and his Swedish apprentice were amazing. We soon found ourselves exchanging information and wanting to keep up with everyone at the dive center. It was great to get certified as a group and we didn’t stop cracking ourselves up the whole time. Starting in September, I want to head back to swim with the whale sharks and manta rays. Hopefully this will turn into an interesting and promising hobby; and at roughly $40 per dive, it is a relatively manageable one.

However, after days of diving, laughing and enjoying the friendship of each other, it was time to return to reality and head back to site and our organizations. Megan and I were lucky to hitch hike back to Xai Xai in a comfortable car driven by a man working for the Highways Administration. After getting food for the animals and checking my mail, I jumped on the first chapa back to site, where I was seated next to a schizophrenic man speaking on his invisible cell phone as he ate a wooden stick he found. I paid for his chapa ride, went home to play with Chissy and realized how much I love this country.

ZS

Pictures...Finally!

Sorry for the radio silence lately. Here is a link to pictures from the Youth Conference (JOMA) in Chimoio and of a get-together at the beach with some international aid workers (many of whom are former PC volunteers!). Meeting them was not only a great way to relax, but also bolstered my desire to do overseas work. Enjoy the pictures!

http://www2.snapfish.com/share/p=89461210078245793/l=373198598/g=35776459/otsc=SYE/otsi=SALB

There is a God...

After months of arguing with TDM and waiting (there is a lot of waiting in Peace Corps, I'm learning), this week we finally set my office up with internet. Internet!!! Can't you believe it? We start classes next week on what the internet is and how we can use it as a tool for our daily lives. I figure by the end of our tutorial I will have everyone with a MySpace page, a Facebook page, and addicted to YouTube.

Nah, this is actually a big step forward for them. Not only can we apply for grants online, but we can research information on health and agriculture and hopefully open their minds to the wealth of information that is in the world. Everyone is excited, although most aren't sure exactly what they are excited about. They just know that the cities have Internet and now we do too. Pretty swanky, huh?

I was kinda giving myself a little grief this week about how this will make my experience less "Peace Corps" but the more I thought about it, the more I realized something. While the overall principles of President Kennedy's Peace Corps have remained the same, the tools we use to accomplish those goals have evolved. Nothing wrong with that, it's just life. I mean, we all do our jobs differently then they would have been done 20 years ago. Hell, some of us are doing jobs that didn't even exist 20 years ago!

I have to go now though. I checked my e-mail about 12 times, but I want to check one more time...just in case.

LU,

Z

I'm sick...

and I’ve been sick for a week now although it is finally showing signs of slowing down. We had a major cold front come through (and boy does it get chilly here) signaling the start of winter, which led to me getting a cold. This of course led to a sore throat and general achy body, which was then followed by an infection in my nose. My upper lip and right nostril is pretty swollen and sore, but the rest of me is feeling better. Of course, that was until I got out of bed the other day and strained my lower back. GETTING OUT OF BED!!! What 24 year old strains their back, especially just getting out of bed??? My nana is 93 and plays golf every week, but I can’t get up in the morning without pulling something. There is no justice…

I used to kinda enjoy getting sick in the states. Think about it…you get to miss work and watch movies all day, you get sympathy from friends and family and people bring you soup. But here, I am confined to my cold house with nothing to do but read and sleep. I found myself huddled under my blanket, the springs from my mattress jabbing into my back, dreaming of the days when I could just run out for an Egg McMuffin, or a McGriddle, or a McSOMETHING!

While I was in bed one day, my neighbor (the owner of the house) and his wife came over to have a chat. They were concerned that I wasn’t eating properly, which is what made me sick. I assured them that I cook a variety of healthy meals and that me being sick was just a passing thing. They told me that the eggs I was eating in the morning with my various scrambles weren’t as nutritious as American eggs, so I had to eat different foods to stay healthy. Then they asked me what I had for dinner the previous night and I told them I had salad with lettuce, cabbage, tomato, boiled egg and some tuna that was sent to me. "NO NO NO," they said. "You needed to eat more rice and xima with traditional Mozambican cuisine - that’s where you’ll get your vitamins!" I tried to explain that a salad like the one I had made had sufficient nutritional value, but they were convinced otherwise. So, realizing I did not have the strength to bust out my nutritional presentation at that given moment, I relented and said I would eat more Mozambican dishes and lived to educate another day. They were happy.

One positive thing in my life is my empregada. I know, I know…I wasn’t comfortable getting a housekeeper at first, figuring that I could easily wash clothes, clean dishes and carry water. In fact, several of us in training felt that way. But we came to find out that culturally it is expected that if you have the money to hire someone, you do so. There are such few jobs available, it seems greedy for you to horde money rather than pay someone to do things for you. So when I arrived to site my neighbors recommended a 15-year-old girl who was the daughter of a friend, despite my apprehensions about having someone that young. She turned out to be too afraid to talk to me so it didn’t work out. The 2nd woman they recommended was older but didn’t work out either. I won’t say why exactly, but she must have loved sweets because her fingers were very….sticky. Finally I told my neighbor’s wife, Aquima (whom I have bonded with) that I was looking for more of an older woman…a Dona, with kids, who actually needed some help and wanted the job. Turns out she knew of a woman who lives right behind them who has 3 kids and needs a job to support the family. She is a delightful woman, a hard worker and a great new addition to my life here. We sit and chat about life in Mozambique and she is starting to tell me more and more about herself. She moved to the village because of her husband, but is disappointed on how few jobs are available. She and the kids rarely see the money that her husband brings in from Xai Xai so I am trying to make sure that what money she makes from me stays with her and the kids. I can trust her to feed the pets if I am away and she has even started cooking some traditional Mozambican dishes with me. When we cook, she takes half the food for her and her family, since I really only need two nights worth of leftovers. For a beginning, we are meshing quite nicely.

Guy Stuff And My New SPCA....

Last Saturday I arrived home from a 16-hour bus ride from the city of Chimoio in the north (of me) where I was attending a weeklong, all-male conference (JOMA) on communication with two of my theatre group students and a professor. They were learning better theatre techniques, while also discussing healthy masculinity, leadership and community change. I was lucky enough to manage a daily reflection group of students to discuss various topics, problems and feelings encountered at the conference and was really blown away by these kids. Hearing their stories was heartbreaking, but then listening to their perspective on everything and their desire to breakout of this hand that life had dealt them was inspiring. One kid in a group came out as being HIV positive which, given the stigma, is HUGE to do amongst your peers and especially so as a teenager. These kids talked about the problems in their families and communities but not once did anyone mention leaving Mozambique. The common theme was working hard in school and building their communities from within. As a person who fled his conservative home state for the liberal comforts of California, I have to say I was a bit emboldened by their courage and dedication. It gave me that 2nd wind (or 3rd…I forget which one I’m on now) and made me realize that this country will continue to change dramatically as soon as time passes and this new generation has time to show us what they can do.

Anyways, after my 16-hour bus ride, I arrive home to find that my neighbor has recently acquired a puppy…Leon. Chissy was curious about the new addition and was generally open to the idea till the little bugger jump up between her legs and bit her right in the vagina. Scared that damn girl so bad she leapt in the air and ran 20 feet. That unfortunate incident aside, the two seem to be playing well together. Leon is a fighter and a little too big for his britches, but Chissy is establishing the obvious…that she is the bigger dog.

Two dogs and four cats later, I have yet to get a damn animal that produces food rather than just consumes it.

ZS

My growing sense of humor…

Some of you know that I went through a rough patch for about 4 weeks between February and March where I was pretty frustrated with things in my life and lonely for the people not in my life. Thankfully, with the help of other volunteers, a little yoga and a LOT of reflection I worked through it and am in a much better headspace now. However as a result, I learned that I have to sit back and seek humor in the situations in which I find myself; looking for little equations of reality that equal out to a pretty funny moment.

Like when your chapa blows a tire at 70 kilometers an hour, propelling you into oncoming traffic and veering away just as an 18-wheeler roars past. And then when the cobrador (money collector) opens the door to check on the damage, the entire door falls off onto the ground. Funny, right? Like something you’d see in a National Lampoon movie.

Or when the local children all shout “Mulungo! (white-person)” whenever they see you coming even before they have learned words like “mai” and “pai”.

Or when you set a meeting for 1pm and people start to trickle in at 2:30.

Or when your barber asks you why the hair on your back is not on your head?

But my favorite chuckle always comes from the music videos produced in Mozambique. These are classic and oddly fascinating. You can see them in barracas or sometimes in a really tricked-out chapa where the owner has made the wise decision to invest a portion of his limited profits into installing a TV and DVD player. This of course enables him to watch these music videos while swerving to miss potholes and driving at a safe 65 miles an hour down the EN1. Anyways, I notice that there is such a dichotomy between what the Mozambicans want to mimic in surrounding cultures and the limited available talent and resources to do so. Like trying to pimp-out your mother’s station wagon in high school, or trying to make an American flag out of red, orange and green pieces of cloth. Difficult, right? Mostly these videos are people standing in a field or on a farm with animals in the background, and swaying back and forth while the camera zooms in and out in the attempt to make it look like there is some action and excitement going on. The sound editing is pretty bad with people mouthing words that just aren’t quite there yet. The choreography is relatively basic with the idea that as long as you put at least 2 girls showing their stomachs and shaking their hips people will watch. However, my favorite move thus far has been the “slow-motion-jump-from-rock.” Sort of like what you would see in the music videos of the 1980’s where a performer would leap into the air from a structure in slow motion at a critical point in the song. Alas, in this particular video the director apparently forgot to explain to the performer the concept and simply said, “Just jump off the rock.” The result is a middle-aged man slumping off a rock like you would step off a stool in your kitchen….only now it’s in slow motion.

This isn’t meant to laugh AT this facet of Mozambican culture, as there are MANY examples at which my Mozambican friends can (and do) laugh at ours (like the idea that you would ever kiss a dog or let it lick your face…that can kill you, you know?). But finding humor in everyday life is helpful in getting past moments that would normally derive stress and frustration. In other words, it keeps this Mulungo sane.

ZS

That's it!

I've reached my breaking point! I can handle the cute e-mails, the pictures you guys send of everyone having a good time, and the care packages that remind me of my life back home, but Joe Clapsaddle has gone too far! Upon receiving his package this week, I opened it up to find an array of adorable bowties, fabulous skin care products and….a bottle of Hendricks Gin. Hendricks Gin!!! I mean, the nerve! It's hard enough being away from you all without Joe taunting me with the luxuries and memories of home. It's just cruel! I cursed his name and vowed to donate the bottle to charity.

Well while I was in such a fussy, I noticed that by a FLUKE I just so happened to have one random cucumber in my fridge and by ACCIDENT I happened to have a glass available and by SHEER COINCIDENCE there was ice ready. So what's a boy to do other than indulge himself just a teeny tinny sip, right?

Joe Clapsaddle, a man after my own heart and a fellow sporter of bowties, and the gang at the WeHo Chamber managed to bring a moment of style, taste and panache to an unshaven boy in a village halfway around the world.

Thanks.

Z

I need to learn to just stop talking….

The other day I was sitting outside with my co-workers helping prepare lunch for the activistas participating in a health seminar. I was playing and giggling with a toddler when I made the offhanded comment about wanting to have kids one day (I have been feeling RIDICULOUSLY maternal lately, so don’t be surprised if I come home with a troupe of children accompanying me). Upon hearing my comment, the women said that I needed to find a good woman first to have kids. Having gotten quite good at skirting the girlfriend/marriage issue, I posed the idea that I could simply adopt a child and raise them as my own. This is when I should have stopped talking…

They proceeded to tell me that I could adopt, but A) had to have a wife, and B) had to have at least one biological child. Why, I asked, couldn’t I simply just adopt? I mean there are plenty of orphan children in Mozambique and America in need of good families. Why was it so important that I have a biological child? Well, you would have thought I had that black was white and up was down! I have never seen them so galvanized around a single issue! They were adamant that I could not call an adopted child my son or daughter. One woman even went so far as to say if I gave the child my last name I would be stealing it! She called me a robber!

Not wanting to back down (and loving a good argument) I started posing questions to get them to think about their opinion. Why was a biological child so important? What were they differences between adopted and biological children? They said that I could treat the children the same, but then why was it a necessity that I have one over the other? Then I started to ask them what they thought about women not wanting to go through the ordeal of pregnancy but still wanting to raise children - or women who were unable to have children but were willing to adopt. In the end, no matter what direction I approached the issue they refused to look at it any differently; stating that it would be unconscionable for me to simply raise a child as my own without naturally spawning another Zachery Junior. They kept going back to say that their view on the issue was because of their culture. But I reminded them that cultures change and that even a few years ago, they probably wouldn’t have had the jobs they currently hold because of a particular cultural view. That gave them pause.

I can’t wait to send them a Christmas card in 5 years of me, my husband, and little Gabriel or Annabelle sitting around a Christmas tree. One big unnatural happy family. We should all be so lucky.

One Love (some kid said that to me the other day...)

Z

Dona Gina

So when I arrived back from Maputo I was told that Dona Gina was sick. You remember that Dona Gina was the lovely widow who cooked me my first meals at site and with whom I have been trading recipes and baked goods ever since. She has been the most welcoming and comforting person to me thus far at site and always makes me laugh. Well I found out this week that she was indeed not sick, but had just arrived back from the Provencal hospital and was recovering from being attacked by bandits at her house. Apparently she was taking a bano (bath) when someone came up behind her and took a machete to her head and then stole items from her loja (store). When I found this out I was horrified. Of course I did what any good southerner does when confronted with tragedy…I cooked. I brought her over some meals and checked to see if she was feeling better. Thankfully she was and we both prayed and thanked God that she was alive and not permanently injured. What is even more troubling is that she saw and knew who the attacker was and he broke into her loja again a week later to try and steal more stuff. The police apprehended the man, but then for some reason they left the cell open and he escaped! I was shocked when she told me this, not only because of the incompetence of the duty officer, but also for the danger that this puts back on her. But the overall thing to remember is that she is OK and recovering well. Keep her in your prayers and hopefully she will be back to work soon. A new, bigger loja just opened up right around the corner from her and the owner has a connection in Maputo and is able to beat her prices. She is losing customers so I am going to sit down with her and look at another business model to see if she can’t find another niche in the community.

I live in a relatively well-lit and populated area so I don’t feel anymore in danger because of this, but have been more aware of my surroundings lately. Months ago, upon request, dad sent me an awesome hunting knife which I keep right by my bed, giving me a GREAT sense of false security…lol. But it helps me sleep at night, dreaming of the intruder that breaks into the house, to which I can go all Chuck Norris on his ass.

xoxo

Z

"...That's why this kitty....is a tramp..."

After 5 days in Maputo for regional meetings, I was eager to get back home to my own lumpy bed and spend some overdue time with my pets. I had gotten a text from my neighbour who is watching the kids for me while I was away, saying that “Gato tem bebes.” I was hoping that maybe I misunderstood the word “bebes” and that it was actually a derivative from the verb Bebir, to drink. Maybe my cat was drunk and my neighbour felt the need to inform me. But sadly, our Portuguese skills are both decent and I arrived home to three kittens huddled in my kitchen. How could this happen?? When did Sammy get preggers? My cat is only a year and a half old! She’s too young to have kids! How could I have raised a cat that turns out to be a teenage mother? And where is the father in all this? I felt so hurt, like a dad realizing that his sweet little daughter who made the honor roll last semester is really stripping down at the Eager Beaver to make some extra money to pay for her boyfriend’s smack habit. You thought you recognized her the last time you were there with the boys from work, but she ducked behind the curtain so fast that you just convinced yourself you were being paranoid. Next thing you know you’re finding singles everywhere and her clothes smell like gin and Fanta. Ugh, anyways…

To top it off, she has the maternal instincts of Britney Spears. I’d be less surprised if she left a can of formula on the stove and took a weekend trip to Vegas thinking the kids would be alright on their own for a little bit. I woke up the other night and found that she had put one of her kittens in a random box in my room and left her. SHE LEFT A DUMPSTER KITTY! She is constantly abandoning the kittens to go sleep in her regular spot in my room, to which I have to bring her back and remind her of her motherly duties. As soon as the kittens start whining to be fed, she looks up at me as if to say, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.” This is all in addition to her still leaving the house each night, I’m sure to get knocked up again. I figure she is out clubbing, trying to score free drinks from older, more desperate male cats. But things are getting better. She is sleeping with the kittens through the night and they are whining a lot less (correlation? I think so.) At night we still play house, but now it has a more realistic edge. She saunters in after being out all evening, and I look up from my book and shout, “You’re a whore….just like your mother!” Then I throw my glass of scotch at the wall beside her and she runs crying into the other room. Well, the glass is plastic and the drink is mango juice, so it doesn’t have quite the desired effect but she still plays along.

Chissy is still my sweet little puppy girl. She would never whore around like her big sister. Sweet Chissy…..Sweet, Innocent Chissy….