Humors all mixed up

I’ve taken to giving little kids rides on the back of my bike and challenging others to a spontaneous race when I pass them on the road. I remember last time I was here being very (and in hindsight I’d say overly) self-conscious about the image I portrayed as an American. I’ve come to accept that we are all weird and especially weird to the rest of the world, so why not just have some fun. Yesterday when a 4 year old jumped off the back, I asked for money as if I were a taxi. He was too confused to respond and just ran off instead. It may take the kids a lifetime to get my humor. Oh well.

This morning I was on my bike at 5:45 and heading towards a village called Caiaia. There were no kids out to race so I met up with Pedro, who lives out in Caiaia but works nights in town as a guard (which honestly includes more sleep than you’d expect). Pedro is the president of a farmers’ association I’m working with. He makes the commute to town each afternoon and then back home each morning by bicycle. He showed me the shortcuts. Caiaia is only about 20min outside of town by car which translates to anywhere between 40 and 70 minutes by bike depending how many times your bike breaks down and if you choose to walk or bike up the hills, of which there is no shortage. I found the ride better than my morning cup of tea, which I had gone without, and certainly more awakening. Though there was some time on dirt roads most of the trip was done on a path sometimes no more than 3 feet wide and rarely flat. Also the path was carved and cut by streams of water that slice into it in the rainy season so it was also rarely level. Since most bikes here do not have gears the goal of going down a hill is to see how far up the next one you can make it before having to walk. This results in some pretty fantastic downhill riding over ruts and rocks and through the occasional stream, and then you just walk up the next hill.

By the time we got to Pedro’s house I was pretty excited, but for him it’s just his daily ride, no different than rush hour on the Dan Ryan Expressway for some. We sat in the shade for a bit because that’s where you sit. I had asked to work with him today, just to work with him. I acknowledge that coming here and trying to teach a village how to farm without understanding the daily work is foolish and ignorant. So I came to work. I had to remind him of that once 9 members of the farmers’ association showed up and walked off to the field. Being from World Vision and white, the normal expectation is that I’m here to manage and managing is usually done from a chair. I refused. They all laughed at me and started walking off to the field. I literally went in search of my own hoe (the save-all farming tool here) and followed behind. We set to work weeding a field, which will be the site of a demonstration plot. The field was about 1 acre and it took us about 2 hours to go over it all chopping out weeds and old stumps. At one point a lady arrived and asked to “borrow” my hoe. I saw right through her politeness, but handed it over regardless. I stood watching them and soon enough they insisted that I just sit in the shade. I told them I wanted to work but that lady stole my hoe at which they all burst out laughing. As soon as the next person sat down for a quick break I went over and “borrowed” hers. By about 10am it is too hot to work, so the group dispersed and after checking on some other fields I was on my way back to town. Pedro wouldn’t let me leave without 4 fresh eggs from his hens. I had brought all the sugar I had at home, knowing that was impossible to get in Caiaia. He was grateful and I thought it was a fair trade.

Pics of deforestation

Some areas i was working in today. Note those trees are not just supposed to lining the road.

Napiri

The weeks of training and orientation are past. My first day in “the office” put me farther out in the backcountry of Mozambique than I believe I have ever been. Alto Molócuè itself is not urban (in fact its proving to be less developed than my site in Chibuto during Peace Corps #1) and then we drove out of town towards the mountains for about an hour to a village called Napiri. Driving for an hour does not mean we were moving fast but the changes were drastic.

The huts we passed clearly belonged to families who have no means of accessing the commerce of Alto Molócuè except by foot or bike. We passed one guy literally carrying the front door of a house on the back of his bike. Every good of this manner arrives similarly. Houses were sparse standing alone or maybe with one other until a small river crossed the road where clusters existed along with small primary schools (3 room hut with a grass roof, dirt floor, and half walls to let the light in) and cattle corrals.

The scars of deforestation were almost impossible to escape and were even evident on some of the lower slopes of the approaching mountains. Fields of stumps 3 feet tall and singed by fire were common. Wood is both the main source of cooking fuel and construction. Beyond leaving about 3 feet of stump remaining, which usually sprouts new branches over time, nothing is done to replenish the wood or native habitats. Stands of forest that look somewhat old prove to be secondary if not tertiary growth. Each trunk can be followed down to its base where it thickens and splits about 3 feet above the ground. Each of these was at one point cut down for use and has since re-sprouted. At least some trees are allowed to grow back, but this is more a management tactic than preservation. The ecosystems that would mature under mature trees never even have a chance.

The dirt track curved tightly around the base of a chunk of granite, which spiked maybe 400 feet straight up though was narrow enough to easily drive around in 2 minutes. We kept going. Half of me wanted never to arrive, but just to continue over rut and rock.

Only the empty stalls of the Saturday market told us we had arrived in Napiri. We met with a farmer who is helping to organize a youth group in that area, as well as care for conservation agriculture demonstration plot. The site also has an active compost pile, which they turn regularly in preparation for the coming planting season.  The demonstration plot is definitely an experiment for the community and much depends on its success.  The youth group has yet to begin any farming work, but hopefully that will start with my visit next week.

Visited a farmer association in Napiri this morning. I gave them some advice on their compost. Its not too ugly out there

A view from Alto Molócuè

What came first? The brick or the brick oven?

About 5hrs (about 250mi) north of the provincial capital Quelimane lays the town of Alto Molócuè, where I will be working for the next year. I arrived yesterday evening with Sansão (World Vision district coordinator) in a comfortable pickup truck listening to bad covers of Whitney Houston and Lionel Ritchie and chilled by too much A/C. Along the way we had passed number of villages whose mere existence seemed to be an open air market in a small opening off the road’s shoulder strewn with blankets on the ground and a mass of people, most just “blanket shopping” and others just talking. For a half-mile before and after these villages the shoulders were crowded with people coming and going. Beyond the ripple of the market, the road was empty save maybe a chicken playing chicken with traffic or a small pod of kids, wearing more dirt than clothes, up to kid type things in the bush.

Hills rose and fell but never as dramatically as the mountains forever on the horizon. I for some reason find it surprising to encounter giant granite monolithic mountains here. They seem random and out of place, but maybe that’s because they are scattered without a visible pattern and rise so drastically that they are of little use. I can only imagine what a bunch of climbing-crazed hipsters would say if the saw some of these faces.

Without suspense suddenly we were in Alto Molócuè. The road had risen as it had before, but here at the top this time there was a town. I’m not really sure why there is a town here. It’s inland several hours from the coast, not in the cool growing climate of the mountains, yet hilly. There is a river that runs through it, though not of the trout fishing kind, more of the clothes washing kind. I need to figure this out, why there is a town here.

Most homes here are brick to protect from the cooler winters that one finds at 500m elevation. The red soil of Alto Molócuè is easily convinced into bricks, though it is not at all clay burdened. However simple bricks are made from the dirt in your front yard; mix in a little water, pressed the mud into a form, let it dry in the sun and then fire the bricks in a brick oven (what came first the brick or the brick oven, the world will never know). The result is a house that is the same exact color as your grass-free (i.e. clean) yard. Add a dried thatch roof and your gots yourself a house. Most are 1 or 2 rooms big (10ft x15ft) with or without windows – no one really sits inside during the day so fewer windows often means fewer mosquitoes at night. Out back there is somewhere to cook, maybe under a tarp near a tree or under a little thatch hut with walls that stop halfway to the roof. You’ll also find two little walled, but not usually covered, structures at the back of the yard: one has a cement slab with a hole in it as a floor and provides a great deep knee bend workout and the other is just cement and for bathing; though for some the bathing room doubles as a urinal, a most unpleasant surprise first thing in the morning in my experience.

I spent my morning wandering aimlessly around town for about 2 and a half hours and generally surprising a lot of wide-eyed people. The older women always looked the most shocked upon laying their eyes on me, but are always the most cordial when I say hello. I imagine a lot of evening conversation today will go something like “Did you see that white guy today!? He must have been fed well!? Did you see that beard!?” Alto Molócuè is big enough that you could easily walk in a straight line for over an hour and still be in town. It’s not the most centralized place. The market area lays on one hill and the hospital and government center on another. In between the 2 sides is a river, over which there is only one bridge.

I don’t have my own red brick house yet and am not quite sure when I will. That project will start tomorrow, hopefully, but more likely Monday or Tuesday, possibly Wednesday. I’m for the mean time I’m renting a room at compound run by Catholic priests, Sacred Heart priests for all you Catholics out there. It’s comfortable. I have a room with 4 beds, a ton of windows, a/c if I want it and a bathroom with hot water, but its kind of on the edge of town and not near anywhere that serves food which may be an issue seeing as though I don’t have a kitchen and wandering at night is never the best idea. Also last night, when the person in the room next to me farted I discovered that the walls are paper-thin. Oh well. Two can play at that game.

Test

Testing blog from my phond.

Stews and more

Curried beef stew
Curried goat stew
Curried chicken stew
Curried shrimp stew with coconut milk
Bean and sausage stew
Pumpkin leaves stewed with ground peanut and coconut milk
Collard greens stewed with ground peanut and coconut milk
Curried duiker stew

Coconut rice with ground bean flour
1 under-cooked grouper steak
4 barracuda steaks, grilled
7 half chickens, grilled
8 greasy egg sandwiches
4 pounds of soggy french fries
42 pounds of cornmeal mush

I'm full.

Zimbabwe...add it to the list

From Tuesday to Friday of this past week I was in Mutare, Zimbabwe. It was an accomplishment for me mainly because Zimbabwe has been on my list of places to go, but since it is was recently also on the list of places where I'd be more likely to be the recipient of something unpleasant I had not yet made it there. Now I have, and I loved it. In 2008, Zimbabwe hit a low point economically; hyper-inflation of the Zimbabwean dollar had left the country distraught. At one point $1 USD equated to literally quadramillions of Zimbabwean dollars. I really have no idea how zeros are in a quadramillion. Not to long ago the Zimbabwean dollar was not to far off from the US dollar, but the last 10 years or have dissolved any confidence in the currency. In 2008 many schools and other civil departments closed. The salaries of these govenerment employees had reached such inflated levels that a month's salaries converted to $1 USD per month (as opposed to about $150/month a few years earlier). Now that's a motivation killer. Lines for simple commiditier like sugar and gas stretched for 5hrs. Zimbabweans fled the country, not surprisingly. Then about a year ago the government sort of abandoned their own currency and took up all transactions in US dollars and simultaneously standardized the salaries of government employees in US dollars as well. This stability ha helped immensely. It would be a lie to say that Zimbabwe is anywhere close to where it once was, but at least it seems the uncontrolled tailspin has stopped. However, I must say it is weird to walk into a Zimbabwe open air produce market, be overwhelmed by the smell of dried fish and the banter of people speaking Shona and then exchange a bunch of bananas for one US dollar; not what I expected. I also did not expect to see by far the greatest Taxi slogan I have ever encountered (not that I can say I have encountered many at all). MIN TAXI - "Expose yourself, get a ride." I could not decided quick enough what exactly I felt like exposing and alas the taxi had taken another fare. Oh well, I have to expose myself for US dollars some other time.

Oh yeah.....why was I in Zimbabwe anyway. I attended a 2 day workshop on conservation agriculture techniques and principles that I will bing back to my community in Moz and train others in. It made more sense for me (and the other volunteer Mica) to go since we speak English and could translate the methods back in Mozambique. Basically I'll be emphasizing a minimum tillage agriculture with a thick mulch cover for water conservation and a planned crop rotation. Simple things, but new things and thus difficult. The oddest part was that after growing up in the midwest and driving past endless field of corn and soybeans for the past 30yrs, I have learned to grow corn (the starchy flour variety) and soybeans in Zimbabwe.

We got back to Moz yesterday to find out that a series of food riots have erupted in the country, and particulary in the city of Chimoio, the largest city to our border crossing. Things seem to have calmed, but we're going to stay put here in Chimoio for a few days, just to make sure. If you'd like to read more about them check the links below.  On Monday we'll see if the riots continue, they sort of take the weekend off, seriously.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-africa-11176238
http://allafrica.com/view/group/main/main/id/00011718.html