Investigation period

December 12, 2007
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The sun is a predator here. You can run under a tree to find asylum, but he can smell your smoky flesh. He pierces you through the gaps in the leaves until you admit defeat. He could easily kill you at any time, but has decided to torture you instead. And so, he hovers over his victim until you are nothing more than a melted soul in a charred body. This is not the same sun who brightens the day and supports life. It is his sinister brother who is only capable of withering, wilting and melting all that he sees.
Ok perhaps I’m being a little melodramatic, but it really is hot here. I wrote this while supervising my students while they interviewed farmers in a remote village in Zavala. Since none of the farmers speak Portuguese (there are five different tribal languages used here) I did a lot of smiling, nodding, and writing. They are all very nice and I never walk away from a farm without several mangos, bananas and coconuts. I’ve developed quite an addiction for mangoes. They only cost 1 medicais at the market (that means you can buy 25 mangoes for a dollar)!
For the last two weeks my students were on their investigation period. That is a time when they go into small villages, and talk to every person there asking questions about agriculture, education, health, and environment. We were ten kilometers from a road, and even if you walked there, the road led to nowhere. I felt so isolated.
Everyday we woke up at 5 in the morning to do chores. We were sleeping on the floor of an abandoned school, with no electricity, internet, or running water. We would thoroughly clean everything, do the laundry, refold our clothing several times, shower, eat breakfast and rush to be out of the school by seven. We would start the day by talking to an administrator, but they never came to the office before 9. I couldn’t understand why we rushed to be there so early just to wait around for two hours. I tried to talk my students into sleeping for an extra hour, but they were far too responsible. I don’t think they really need sleep. They hang out until three or four in the morning and then wake up after an hour of sleep, looking so refreshed. It’s creepy.
One of the bizarre things I noticed when we were driving down to the town was that whenever you drive past a new village there’s always a big sign that says, “Welcome to this town” and then below it, “get tested for HIV.” These signs are sponsored by pharmaceutical companies. However after interviewing the people in the villages I found out that it was malaria and diarrhea that were the biggest causes of death. I find it absurd that on the brink of 2008 people can still be dying of diarrhea. I can’t even imagine being a mother and watching my child dye slowly of diarrhea, something that should be so easily treatable. Of course HIV is a death sentence here because even drinking the water is a death sentence. And pharmaceutical companies come into these villages saying that only their drugs will prevent malaria, kill the bacteria in the water, or fight AIDS. But they are only making people more dependent on foreign aid for these drugs without helping to solve the main causes. If these companies were as altruistic as they claim, they should be building wells, growing eucalyptus trees (which repel mosquitoes), and teaching people about proper hygiene and nutrition. But of course there’s no money in that, so what’s the point. Ok I’m being really cynical, but it gets so frustrating here.
(Here are the cockroaches that lived with for two weeks)


Maybe this is one of the reasons why I’m so bitter towards drug companies. Now this is embarrassing, and if you’re easily grossed out skip the next three paragraphs. The malaria pills they gave us for our time here causes yeast infections in 2% of the women who take it. I found out I am one of the unlucky 2%. I was with 18 of my male students and there was no way I was going to tell them about my problem. Since we were walking for an average of 15 kilometers a day I would come back home almost in tears, I tried to get treatment at the hospital, but they had no idea what I was talking about. I even went to the local witchdoctor, but she didn’t understand either. They thought I was saying that I was infected with bread. I had treatment for it at my house in Inhambane, but I had to wait two more days to get permission from my director to go back for a day to get the medicine. Those were the most miserable days of my life. And the worst part was that no one believed that I was sick because I couldn’t tell them what was really wrong.
On Sunday morning my students walked me to the chappa stand. There were no direct chappas to Inhambane so I had to make four connections. My students talked to the first driver and told him to take care of me. Whenever the chappa arrived in the connecting town the driver would walk me to the next chappa and would speak in Portuguese thinking that I didn’t understand. They would say, “this is our sister and she’s sick. Make sure she gets to Inhambane safely.” I never felt so well taken care of.
The trip should have only taken 4 hours but it ended up taking 7. On one of the longest rides, I was sharing the front seat with two ancient women who were sitting so closed to me that I could feel the peach fuzz on their cheeks. One asked me to hold two of her tied up live chickens on my lap. I was praying that the bird flu was just a hoax. The chappa was from the former Soviet Union, and I’m pretty sure it was old enough to have driven Stalin around town. It stalled every time we got below twenty Kilometers an hour, and considering we stopped every ten minutes to pick up people, we had to get people to push the bus a lot.
On this particular ride I went a little insane. I looked out the windows at the passing red roads, and the women carrying buckets of water on their heads. Celine Dion was crooning on the radio. Sweat was swimming down my face. The stench of twenty crushed people in the back was scenting the air. The chickens were clucking in my lap, my lap that was burning more than my sun burnt face. I started crying, and I mean really crying. “Why am I here? This would never have happened if I stayed in America,” I cried. But then out of nowhere I just started cracking up. I started thinking about how I will tell my grandchildren about the time I got a yeast infection in Africa and I had to drive for 7 hours with chickens to get the medication. I couldn’t stop laughing. This time a huge smile broke across my face, and I thought, “yeah, this never would have happened if I stayed in America!” The two old ladies took note of my insanity and inched away from me which made the rest of the ride much more comfortable.
When I got to my house all of the kids in my village came running up to me to welcome me back. They carried my bag in the house and even got water from the well for my shower. I took the medicine, took a shower, and then I slept like I never slept before. The next morning I caught the chappa to Zafala and headed back to my students in a much better mood. When I got back to the school my students looked shocked. They thought I was lying about being sick, and that I was going to go back to America without telling them. As soon as I walked in they all ran up to hug me and cried, “Mommy Tracy, you came back!” From that point on I won them all over. They still call me Mommy Tracy, which is funny because they are all in their twenties. This is the first time I’ve been called “mommy” by twenty year olds without it being a come on.
The second week was amazing. Everyday the students wanted to show me something cool. They took me to a beach where they let the bulls run loose. I went to this huge sand dune and we slid on the sand all day long. They talked to farmers to let me plant some crops for them. It was quite an experience. Once everyone in the village heard that there was a white person visiting they all wanted to see me. Kids would follow me in huge groups. One brave kid would finally run up and touch men and then run away laughing. A traditional dance tribe visited one night to teach me a dance. They made me perform it in front of everyone. There were a lot of hip thrusts, and moves that only dogs make when they are in heat. My students cheered and laughed the whole time. I was quite humiliated, but they seemed to enjoy it.
The rainy season started during the second week as well. I have never witnessed rain like this. We had a tin roof, so every night I woke up because of the pounding of rain on tin. Every night I mentally prepared myself for the roof collapsing, and I’m still shocked that it never did. There were so many holes in the roof so that no matter where I slept I woke up drenched. When you go walking in the morning the land is completely transformed. Some roads were completely washed away. Everyone is outside repairing their houses. The air was so saturated with water I felt like I was swimming in a hot tub.
Before I go any further I must describe these visits to the farmers in more detail. First you need to find the tribal chief to get his permission to talk to his people. Next you walk for about an hour to find a house because everything is so spread out. One time we tried to talk to a family, but we got permission from the wrong chief and her son came out with an axe and we had to run away. I think he was just trying to scare us, but I was willing to stay and find out. Usually it’s much more calm. When you walk up to a house the people ignore you at first. After standing awkwardly for a few minutes they bring out their chairs and let you sit down. Then they do the introduction. They mutter a sentence in Bitonga, a local language, without making any eye contact. You are supposed to respond with a barely audible grunt, then they say another sentence and you grunt again and this goes on for quite a while. After that you can conduct the interview. If you are really lucky they will present you with water. Since they walk for hours to get water, they usually don’t offer, but if they do you should be very flattered.
Drinking water in the small villages is like a fine wine tasting. First the youngest child brings the bucket of water to show you the vintage. Then she scoops up a little bit and presents it to the oldest male visitor. He holds the water up to the light and swirls it around to make sure there is no sand or bugs. He takes a sip, swishes it around in his mouth, and gives a satisfied nod of the head. Then they child will fill the glass up all the way and everyone drinks from it. Fortunately there is no spitting; however there is no cheese either.
When the two weeks were done I was happy I experienced it, but eager to go back home to Inhambane. As soon as Pricilla, Jerome, and I saw each other when we got back to the house we were so happy we started to cry. They were on investigation too. We went strait to the beach and stayed there for two days. We didn’t have a room, but we kept meeting new people who let us stay in their room. We met amazing people for those two days. A dance group came to perform and we told them about our school and they are going to perform for our students after the New Years. We met some people that do micro-financing and they were really encourage us to do it as well, and they said they would give us guidance. It is so easy to make connections here.
Well that’s all for now. I’m looking forward to Christmas when everyone from my team who is working in Mozambique will come and stay with us in Inhambane. I can’t wait to see them. And afterwards my parents will be visiting me for the New Years. It’s hard to believe it’s December because it’s soooo hot, but I remind myself everyday, and it’s starting to phase me.