Black Mamba's

Did you know a black mamba is not black at all? nope- it's a light grey-brown colour. Apparently they are called 'black mamba's' because of the inky black colour of the inside of their mouths.

Thankfully I haven't had the opportunity to inspect them that closely.

It's Africa's most poisonous snake- the 'dead in 20 min if you get bitten' variety. It's also the fastest snake that can travel up to 14.4 Km/hr and can rise up and strike at 1m.

What has sparked this sudden interest in poisonous snakes for me? Well, our gardener killed a 1.5m long black mamba in our backyard today.

I'm strangely attracted to snakes, but I must admit I'm glad we're rid of this one.

Hospitals and Reality Checks

I had a lovely morning at the village. Lots of kids, chatting, de-stringing pumpkin leaves, chatting, de-kernalling maize, eating together, chatting :)

I had driven to the village cos my bike had 2 flat tyres that I couldn't be bothered fixing given the heat. I left to come home a bit after 12 and one of my friends caught a lift to take some of the food we had just prepared into the District hospital where her friend had been with her sick baby all week.

A kilometer down the road we came across a strange sight. 3 men pushing a bicycle with a cane chair strapped to the small rack on the back with 2 women following behind loaded with provisions. It took me a moment to see the woman slumped in the chair and realise this was an ambulance. I pulled over. Was she alive or dead? I tend to stop functioning around dead bodies and the RAV isn't exactly a great hearce substitute. At least the canopied ute's and Troop carrier (utilised here for friends funerals) have a bit of space between the body and the driver... I was already out of the car, greeting the ladies, opening all the doors and moving stuff out the way. The woman was alive- but very out of it. Malaria? I asked. yes. They all squished in. I closed all the doors, cranked the airconditioner and drove swiftly, breathing a quite prayer of thanks. She had a chance at survival now. They were 11 km from the hospital. It was 30degrees in the shade. If the woman hadn't died of cerebral malaria on the way there she probably would have died from dehydration.

10 min later we pulled up at the hospital. The front entrance was a puddle with bricks for stepping stones thanks to the heavy rains the last few days. We walked in and helped ourselves to a wheel chair into which the woman was unceremoniously manouvered, her feet still in the car. They pulled the chair back and I lunged to catch her legs. Too late. Thud onto the ground. She grimmaced with pain. No 'deluxe model' foot rests here. My last sight of her was slumped in the wheel chair being pushed through the puddle with one of the ladies walking awkwardly in front carrying her legs. It was de-humanising. I felt insulted at the system.

I parked the car and my friend and I continued on our original mission- visiting a sick baby. We quickly found the room, waded through the ladies and found a patch of floor to sit on. We then greeted everyone in the room and the chatter resumed while I held the sick baby who seemed to be on the mend. The crowdedness shocked me. There were about 2o women in the room and 10 babies - (mostly prems) that I could spot. The facilities were 3 steel cots, 2 bedside tables and 2 plastic covered matressess on the floor. The room was the size of a bedroom. I quietly asked my friend whether all these women slept here? 'no' she responded- just the ones with babies- the rest sleep in the kitchen. Again I felt insulted at the system.

In some ways, living here has really desensetised me to some aspects of poverty. It's a coping mechanism. But some days I just get incensed. A little kid that lives near the farm died this week from malnutrition - lack of protein. Her little body swelled up horribly.
I T 'S N O T R I G H T !!!!!
There is something terribly wrong when one third of the world live in almost obscene wealth, thinking it's our right?! Demanding not just the necessities of life, but comfort and entertainment and a new car or another tv
Meanwhile ....meanwhile the rest fight for survival. And fight they do.

African Money Issues

Recently some of us whities have been having chats about money. You see- being the hungry season and all, the number of people we don't know knocking on the gate hoping for some assistance and the frequency of people we do know asking for 'loans' has significantly increased...and it's frustrating feeling like an ATM.

So the questions of how do I respond? and who am I obligated to? and for how much? are all pretty pertinent at the moment.

I decided one day to bring up the topic with my friend Mama J and the farm manager on the way to work. They both have incomes and are also on the giving end of the social security system here. How do they respond? Well, they give to their families, relatives and if someone is really in need. I asked how they ascertained 'real need' and they answered that you look to see whether they are able to work, or find out if they have parents who can help them and if not- then you help.

Mama J said that even though she doesn't give materially to everyone- she always recieves people and at least listens to their story even if she can't help. She reminded us of the part in the Bible where at the final judgement Jesus welcomes the righteous and says:

'Come, you who have the blessing of my Father, into the kingdom made ready for you before the world was:
For I was in need of food, and you gave it to me:
I was in need of drink, and you gave it to me:
was wandering, and you took me in;
I had no clothing, and you gave it to me:
when I was ill, or in prison, you came to me.
and the righteous respond and say 'Lord, when did we see you in need of food, and give it to you? or in need of drink, and give it to you? And when did we see you wandering, and take you in? or without clothing, and give it to you? And when did we see you ill, or in prison, and come to you?'
And Jesus answers them ' Truly I say to you, Because you did it to the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'

Well, feeling very encouraged, with all the answers worked out, we pulled up at the farm, got out of the car and were greeted by a lady mumbling insitantly about my chitenje (cloth wrap). I only had the one I was wearing with me and I wasn't about to give it to her. She had burn scars all down one side of her face and was wearing a 'national disibilities day' chitenje herself. Then she started saying something about money. We all recoiled. The others told her in no uncertain terms to go away and I left them to it...well, actually I only got about 3 steps before my hipocrisy slapped me in the face and made me turn around. I said to the others- 'stop! this is our test- are we really going to send her away with nothing AND treat her with disrespect?!'

Someone said something about her always asking for things and never being satisfied. Meanwhile she was getting quite agitated and talking loudly and incomprehensibly. The workers were jeering at her. The other two stood silently. I prayed.

'What about we offer her some work? she can come and harvest beans with us, then I'll pay her.' The farm manager offered an emphatic 'No', and that was the end of my ideas, so I suggested we start work (sending off the workers), said a respectful goodbye and followed them. Fail

A few minutes later she showed up again and quietly started harvesting beans with us. We all worked together. She seemed to enjoy the company. After an hour or so the farm manager finally greeted her and asked her name. Then she started talking with Mama J and said she wasn't working for money. She wanted to say thank you to her friend (pointing at me) who had given her the chitenje at the Natioanl Disibilities Day held a few months earlier in the area. A colleague of mine had organised it all and this lady had got us mixed up (apparently all whities look the same). I suddenly felt really bad aboout the whole misunderstanding at the car. I said that I would pass on her thanks to my colleague but that I was a different white person who worked on this farm. She looked really bewildered so I introduced my self.

When the harvesting was finished she said good bye and I paid her a small amount and she left. 'Now your friend will come back looking for you every day' the farm manger said reproachfully. 'That's ok' I thought. I pray that she left not only with a little cash, but also the gift of acceptance.

You know what I realise more and more every day here? My 'true colours' are ugly. Giving freely, sticking up for and identifying with the poor, the disabled, the needy, the dirty, the hungry and desperate- are not my instinctive reactions. Theoreticising it and walking away is my first instinct. Love feels un-natural. Just as the pharisees asked Jesus 'who is my neighbour?' I see that often the reason I ask questions about who to give to isn't so I can be more generous- but rather less generous. These 'African money issues' are actually MY money issues.

Chicken lost in Translation

So I managed to keep track of Chicken up to the point where we took her out of the boot and put her in the shade under the water tank.

I was actually quite sick the day I was given Chicken. Coming down with another nasty African flu, so I had a chat to the gardner about Chicken- that she was a gift and she wasn't fat enough to eat but maybe we could build a house for her in the garden? Then I went to bed.

I woke up around several hours later around 5pm feeling pretty terrible but being responsible for my new pet, I called a neighbour to see if Chicken could stay in their chicken coup (sp?!) til we got a home built for her and headed out with a handful of maize, oats and rice to see if she was peckish ... and she was gone! I wandered around in a post-nap haze half heartedly looking for her for until one of the night guards came and asked what I was searching for. 'A chicken?' I answered with some bewilderment, chastising myself for losing my first African pet in 2 hrs flat. 'Oh, he responded - 'the gardener left with a chicken tied to his bicycle'. Yes, it was still alive.

This was about the point where I wondered whether I have in fact learnt any Ciyawo whatsoever in the past year. Maybe he thought the gift was for him? Maybe he thinks I'm incompetent enough to leave the chicken under the water tank all weekend and he took it home out of mercy to the chicken? My only consolation was that we'd both agreed Chicken wasn't fat enough to eat yet... but it IS hungry season, and if he'd misunderstood the rest...

This morning our garderner came back from his weekend without Chicken. I procrastinated about asking him what happened. I've discovered out here that I'll do just about anything to avoid confrontation and I couldn't really demand her back if she was already eaten could I?!

So, mid morning, after prepping myself with Ciyawo words from the dictionary, I plucked up the courage and went out to ask the question. It went a bit like this:
'Good morning, how are you etc Actually I'm a a bit confused, do you know where my chicken is?'
He almost burst out laughing. I actually didn't understand most of his answer til I was back in reach of my dictionary- but I got the gist. He took Chicken home because there was no where for her to live here. 'So you didn't eat her?' I asked - just to confirm. nope- she's too skinny.

How I got a chicken

I had two, ten year old boys play chicken with my car today. Not cool. I missed the 1st one by inches and thankfully my friend in the car behind managed to miss the 2nd. I wish I had enough Ciyawo, or presence of mind in the pumping adrenaline to get out and demonstrate /explain to the boys just how hard a car is... I really think they have no idea.

That's a chicken story, but not strictly the chicken story- so let me start....An old man in one of the villages I pass through loves to greet me and chat. I really struggle to understand him- but he is un-phased. Somedays he susses out what time I'll be heading back to Mangochi and what day I'll be returning past his house and catches a lift . After the last such lift, he got out thanking me profusly and said something about a chicken. It was explained to me that he wanted me to wait while he caught a chicken for me...so I explained that I really appreciated the sentiment but couldn't possibly take a chicken off someone- especially in the hungry season. and un-verbalised was the thought that -what on earth would i do with a live chicken anyways?!

I noticed the translation didn't remotely resemble my answer, coming out more along the lines of 'lisiku line' or 'another day' than my 'Im rich, you're poor , Im not accepting your gift ' arrogance. It is arrogance- to think that no one can give me stuff. This last year I've learned to accept the rich gifts of acceptance, friendship, hopsitality and time that people offer me. Gifts that are difficult to reciprocate as a foreigner who can't talk properly and misses most of the cultural cues... but it seems i'm still clinging to the right to be the one that doesn't need any 'stuff' from anyone else...

So today, as I was sitting on the front verandah chatting about farm things, a girl appeared with a chicken, unceremoniously squawking and dangling from its armpits while they tied its legs with grass. A female chicken they announced proudly. I asked what its name was and they said 'chicken' as if I was stupid. 'No- lets give it a proper name kids- what shall we call it?' 'chicken' came the reply. Ok-'chicken' it is. Oldy, but a goody.

Half way down the mountain on a particulary sharp corner I almost jumped out of my seat when 'chicken' objected to the level of cetrifical force. I'd completely forgotten she was there!
So...now the question is, what am I going to do with a live chicken?

Shot gun

kabOOM
kaBOOM
kabOOM
kaBOOM
The shots woke me with a start- was that really-? kaBOOM gunshots? It sounded like a small cannon. Distant- but not distant enough for my liking! What time is it?! I groped around beside my bed to find my phone kaBOOM! 3.23am. the waiting silence was deafening. kabOOM
then the neighbourhood dog choir started their howls
and the guards woke and started chatting excitedly
and I figured there were enough people awake at 3.23 in the morning for me to go back to sleep. so I did.

Exciting place i live in huh?! not really. It turns out 2 hippos had gone for a wander through a village near the river - and were not welcomed.

My colleague and I (both juniors in the language department) decide that it would be pretty cool to go and have a look at dead hippos- so we set off to the village where the incident had supposedly occurred. When we got there- no one knew what we were talking about. That probably had somehing to do with the fact that instead of saying 'we want to see dead hippos' (insert mime of gun and bang bang noises) - I think we were actually saying we wanted to see a 'wedding' that 'is' - followed by the mime. Eventually we got the word for hippo right- but then they thought we might want to get the shooters into trouble...but the 'offenders' were on the other side of the river- so they could take us in a boat if we paid...
we thanked them, cut our losses and went home- content to have seen a new village, and me- determined to get back to language learning!

Doing life

I visited Swa-'s family village yesterday- and decided to photograph for you a fairly typical scene on the major highway (it has 2 lanes of bitumen- its a highway :) between Mangochi and the Mozambique border. I hope this gives more perspective to my previous post :-z

When we got to the village we heard that her cousin was sick, so we walked through the village to where the patient was being cared for at her fathers house. We paused to greet every person we passed, and for each an explanation of relation was given; 'this is my sisters daughters husband', 'this is my fathers brothers wife', 'this my fathers other wife's sister', 'this is my other sisters daughter', 'this is my husbands relative' (too hard basket :).

We entered the large, half built brick house, greeted everyone in the dark corridor and were seated at the door of the patients room. He was probably early 30's, stretched out on his back, skin and bone, every breath an effort. 'He has sores on his legs' Swa- explained helpfully. We sat in the dim, resigned silence of the house. This man was going to die.

After afew minutes my 'western analytical' brain kicked in. 'Have they taken him to hospital- why isn't this man in hospital?' I asked. I knew he wouldn't have a bed there, but there might be something they could do- something they could give him more than orange cordial... Swa- spoke with her parents in hushed voices and finally answered 'they say they do not want the doctor to yell at them for bringing him now, and if he dies there it will be too difficult to bring his body back'. We took our leave and walked back to where her sisters were sitting, but she was troubled 'too many people are dying of strange sickness now' she said.

I enjoyed hanging out with Swa- her 4 sisters and their cloud of children. We sat and ate guavas and maize while the kids played or suckled and the sisters talked and laughed. It made me miss family and appreciate the strenght of this matrilineal culture. Here, the women usually stay. Men marry into the womans family and move to the womans village. In this village each daughter had a house within 30m of their mothers house. Their auntys were 100m away, creating a strong sense of community and belonging. It also creates a level of security whereby the women have support if their husband takes a second/third wife- or he is trouble and they send him packing...

The conversation turned serious again- back to their cousin. There were raised voices, frustration. Swa- explained. The man had been taken to the hospital a long time ago- for 2 months, but then they took him to his wifes house. His wife stayed elsewhere and didn't care for him so they brought him to her fathers house to die. She offered to take him to the hospital- we had a car here- but the family said 'no'. They were afraid of the hospitals way. If someone comes back too many times and is not getting better, then they give them an injection and they die. They reminded her that when their sister was in the hospital the nurse came to give an injection and everyone around said 'what is this? is she that sick?' and a few minutes later their sister was dead.

How can I process this?! Is the hospital proactively killing terminally ill patients-or is this belief a culmination of too many people being taken to the hospital too late? There is a strong belief here that the hospital is where you go to die- no wonder the doctor yells. My housemate who did 7 weeks of nursing at the hospital assures me nothing of the sort goes on. Its all coincidence and rumours.
Before we left I took some photos and captured some of the dynamics of these beautiful sisters. I felt honoured to be included. They said I had to come back to eat ugali and pumpkin with them as a proper welcome. I look forward to it.

I was woken by a phone call this morning. ‘Hello Lina- I just want to tell you that patient we visited- he is dead. Yes. I am going there now'.

rain, rain go away...

97 words so far this week. Woohoo! And it rained today like I’ve never seen it rain before. No wonder Mozambique’s having floods!

What have I been up to? Saving the world? Nope, waking up the un-used bits of my brain and ears and absorbing vocabulary. I started 2 lessons a day today…and didn’t die, which was good!

9-11 am with Swa- (she doesn’t like me calling her ‘Mama’- even though she has 3 kids!). Followed by review and recording the new word list, then lunch, nap, lesson prep, 2.30-4.30 with Esn- (also objects to the ‘Mama’ bit), more word list writing (I call it cementing)…then some exercise of some sort- or just blob out in front of the computer, shower, prepare dinner, read…sleep… I’ll trial this for 2 days a week and see how I go, with ‘only’ one session the other 3 days.

I find the titles thing interesting- technically I should call Esn- ‘Mama Comfort’ because her daughters name is Comfort. If the child died, her name would change. She said when we go to the village I should call her that, but her name at work is ‘Esn-’. As you know, I don’t have children, so where does that leave me? ‘Unti Lina’ Swa- decreed proudly. Us whities are so ‘out of the box’ that they borrow our words and make new categories for us… oh yeah, and they don’t seem to distinguish between ‘r’ and ‘l’, or ‘d’ and ‘t’…or ‘m’ and ‘n’- both of which are usually almost silent at the beginning of a word…and ‘j’ can sound like a ‘d’ or a ‘y’ depending where it is… I could go on, but I’ll spare you.

I was nervous about Esn- coming today. She is a primary school teacher, and at her interview was very…forthright. I’ve had images all week of her bulldozing me into a dictionary, but yesterday, I spent an hour or so sitting on the verandah of her rented room watching the world go by while she washed her clothes in a bucket…and that edginess wasn’t there today. SO relieved! I still feel like I’m in primary school – but that’s ok- in language I’m still a toddler, so she’s being very gracious :-).
What was I doing at her house? Well- she doesn’t have a phone and I needed to get a message to her- so I did it the African way hehe.

Relationships are different out here. These women are my teachers, older than me in life, though younger in years, and I am their boss. Wealthy, educated, outside of their system and ‘powerful’. Add to that that unemployment is huge, everyone is living hand to mouth, women’s rights and opportunities are….negligible- and we’re giving them a job. This is great, but their environment makes me/ foreigners even more powerful – it’s unlikely they’ll get jobs elsewhere in Mangochi…their only bargaining power is their life stories, their dreams... Child born to a single mother, child gets cerebral malaria, hospital has run out of medication/child doesn’t get medical help quick enough, severely disabled child now living with grandparents. Mother wants to provide for child, provide a house, money to pay for specialist, ongoing rehabilitation, knows that there is better money to be made in South Africa…she needs money to get a passport.
Woman married, only to find several years later her husband takes a second wife. He stops supporting her and her children financially. They need to eat.

Pregnant woman goes to hospital for check up. Her previous three babies have all died before the age of 2. The hospital convinces her to check her HIV status. It’s positive. Her only real options for not passing the virus to her child is to find an HIV negative wet nurse who is willing to remain celibate for 6 months while feeding…or pay 6 months mans wages for formula. She wants the child within her to live, to have a chance at living a life better than hers.

A grand mother knocks on the gate. She has no food to feed her family- comprised largely of the 5 orphaned grand children. Harvest isn’t ‘til April

The agony is that these stories of women I’ve met here are completely true. How do we/ I respond? For those I’m directly employing- am I paying enough? Do I give a gift or a loan? To whom? Why was I born so ‘lucky’?! Can a whole poverty cycle be turned around?
I guess that’s why I’m here.