“Estamos Juntos”

All PCVs in Mozambique will be familiar with the expression “Estamos juntos.”  It is Portuguese (and Spanish), literally meaning “We are together” but it functions as a way to take leave or say goodbye.  Saying estamos juntos seems as common, if not more so, as saying “Farewell” (Fica bem) or “See ya’ later” (Até logo).  I first encountered the expression in Namaacha during Pre-Service Training, but I hear it now almost every day here in Cuamba.

The possibilities of interpretations for estamos juntos are fun to play around with.  The expression could be read as:  “We are joined together;” “We are united;” “We are in partnership;” “We’re linked;” “You and I are one;” “I’m leaving but I’ll still be with you, and you with me;” “Parting is such sweet sorrow, so let's keep in touch. . .”

Playfulness aside, what’s most interesting for me is the formal Tagalog translation, because one must decide between two interpretations—Estamos juntos, in Tagalog, could be interpreted as: 1. Magkasama tayo, or 2. Magkasama kami.  What’s crucial here is the first-person plural “We” which Tagalog splits in two, first as “tayo” (we-inclusive) and second, as “kami” (we-exclusive).  So, the we-inclusive number 1. of “We are together” in Tagalog could be interpreted as “We, you and I both, are together” (Magkasama tayo).  However, the we-exclusive number 2. would be “We, and others like me, but unlike you, are together.”

Perhaps a situational example can clarify.  Say for example you are a PCV in Cape Verde and, having served there for over a year, Peace Corps transfers you to another country and asks you to undergo “Pre-Service Training” again.  Naturally, you and others like you, would occasionally say during parts of this second training that, “We have done this already.”  In Tagalog your “we” must be “kami,” (I and other Cape Verde transfers, we) excluding the other trainees who are participating in PST for the first time.  Thus, “kami” excludes your listener(s), while “tayo” includes them. 

English and Portuguese (and perhaps all Indo-European languages) use only one word for “we” (nos in Portuguese, nosotros in Spanish, nous in French).  “Estamos juntos” is therefore ambiguous, obfuscating who “we” are.  In fact, you don’t even see nos in the expression; it’s omitted but is fused in the verb estamos.  Another way to look at it is that it doesn’t obscure “we,” but carries the double-entendre of “You and I—the both of us are together” (inclusive), and “We, Mozambicans, are united, but not with you, foreigner” (exclusive).

Generally speaking, I think Mozambicans mean the former when they use “estamos juntos,” but plenty of times I get the feeling they are actually saying the latter, acting as if they are only out for themselves in a dog-eat-dog world.  Let me list some examples that contradict “estamos juntos,” examples illustrating how disconnected “we” are:

• ·       Cutting in line at the ATM and at the padaria (bakery) and at the loja (store).
• ·       Next door neighbors throwing their trash in our backyard.
• ·       We’re told not to use an electric stove so that we do not hike up the electric bill of the school—but our next door neighbor has just installed an AC unit, and another neighbor just bought a commercial deep freezer (we found out because he showed us the English instructional manual for us to translate into Portuguese).
• ·       We’re told to use the gas stove provided by the school, but this stove is broken.
• ·       We’re told to buy gas tanks in town, but the town is 6 kilometers away, and we have no means of transporting gas tanks. . . and no one in town sells gas tanks anyway because most use carvão (charcoal).
• ·       We’re told that we have a meeting at 8am, but the meeting does not actually start till 9:15am
• ·       The facilitator of the meeting announces the names of colleagues who are either late or are absent, as a way of reprimanding their lack of punctuality and unprofessional behavior.
• ·       During the meeting, facilitators are sending or reading SMS messages on their cellphones.  One even answered the phone right in the middle of his announcements, and had a 5 minute conversation in front of his audience.

Our next door neighbors, as another example, also use our backyard to hang dry their clothes.  Is this what they mean by “estamos juntos”—that what’s yours is mine, and mine yours?  In our case, I think our back yard is seen as "theirs" because there is no reciprocity, no sharing between our two houses.  They share their garbage with us, but not much else.  They put up their clothesline in our backyard because, I think, they don’t want it blocking their own backdoor, and they want the extra space to hang the clothes of the two families living in their house.

I don’t mean to present too negative a view of Mozambique here.  Saying one thing and meaning or doing another is not at all particular to Mozambique, to be sure.  Certainly I saw the same “dog-eat-dog” world in Cape Verde, in the U.S., and in the Philippines.  It’s safe to say that hypocrisy is universal, that what varies is the degree of hypocrisy from country to country, culture to culture.  Perhaps what’s important, whether in a developing or a “developed” country, is to put up a mirror to that hypocrisy, to show reflections of the self from the other’s perspective, because things like “estamos juntos” only smokescreens the truth.

            So what is the “truth” behind “estamos juntos?”  Maybe it’s not a smokescreen at all, but more a sign of an aspiration, an expression of the Mozamibican dream of being united after the country’s civil war (1975-1992).  This aspiration we can see in their national anthem, in "Povo unido do Rovuma ao Maputo (People united from Rovuma [in the north] to Maputo [in the southern region]).  I know my experience is based only in Cuamba, Niassa; however, the disparity in levels of development between north and south seems to me very real.  So maybe “we” should not be read as “we Mozambicans,” or “we men,” or “we the elite, the ones in charge and in power (who are mostly men).”  I’m no expert on Mozambican history, but I can see that we are together in that we are all just working with and working through the postcolonial inheritance of rigid social hierarchies and inequities.  Taking this more historical perspective makes the challenges of living and working in Mozambique a little easier to take, or at least more understandable. 

The sign outside our school reads: "Mozambique--One and Indivisible"

Then again, is the “truth” we want really for everyone to be “juntos?”  Wouldn’t it be suffocating, maybe even repressive, to be lumped together in one big, monolithic “we?”  Wouldn’t we lose our independence, our autonomy, and our privacy?    

I don’t know.  Right now, what seems clear to me is the divisions, the separation, the isolation.  What seems clear is the everyday work of bridging the gap not just between utterance and meaning, between the word and the world, not just between writer and reader, but also between PCVs and host-country nationals (HCNs).  We really just need to keep talking to and keep interacting with our neighbors and with other HCNs.  Keep integrating.  There’s nothing else to be done.  Of course, it's easier said than done.

On another personal level, “estamos juntos” sounds like some wicked joke, now that I’m so far apart, so disconnected from most of you in the U.S., from those I met in Cape Verde, from the folks I got close to in PST 2.0.  I hate to always bring these blog posts to my own personal sodade, but maybe if I get more emails, calls or text messages, I’ll finally stop my griping.  Just drop me a line, for heaven’s sake!  Bridge the gap between our shared past and our present separation.  This gap between you and me.  
Estamos juntos.

Jingle Bells at Lichingles & New Year’s by Lake Niassa

The challenges at site are in some ways helpful in that they distract us from sodade, from terribly missing our homes, loved ones, family and friends.  What really helped weather the holiday blues, however, was re-establishing new friendships up in Lichinga, or “Lichingles,” as PCV Jamie of Mecanhelas likes to call it (along with coining terms, Jamie also deserves credit for the gorgeous lakeshore pictures in this post).

Here we are, the Moz19ers of Niassa province, all together after about two weeks at site.

Look at our happy faces, having just feasted on hamburgers and French fries and pizza and pastries and other (very American) goodies at a fabulous padaria, or bakery, which, for all y’all Cape Verde Transfers, was not only reminiscent of the “PãoQuente” franchise on my island of Santiago; it was also of better quality, believe it or not.  Over the course of five days, we made and ate roasted chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans and pad-thai (thanks, Jade!) and decadent chocolate cake (thanks, Ella!) and quiche-à-la-Victor (a joint effort).

We rocked the city of Lichingles, passearing (taking walks) around town, checking out the central park where there’s a crashed plane, hiking to the city’s barragem (reservoir) and witnessing a procession of girls in preparation for a ritual called “uniago.”

We had plenty of sunny days, but even the rains didn’t stop us.  One day we even saw double rainbows, one of which was a full arch spanning across Lichinga.

We would take late night walks back to PCV Laura’s house accompanied by the “Victorious Mexican Nomad” who bundled up with fuzzy blankets, and by Russian Classical music (courtesy of PCV Grisby, with his portable stereo system clipped to his belt).  We arrived on the first night at Laura’s to discover four newborn kittens, nothing but wet, clumps of fur.  Gross.  Here they are a week later:

The day after Christmas we met some cool and/or colorful locals on our barraca crawl, which we finished off with a game of billiards.  
For the record, it’s Cuamba 1, Nomba 0.  Cuambaninhos whooped ass. 

Though I never went clubing at the “Hot Chilling Club,” it was great just to chill with colleagues, exchange fofoca (gossip) and play chess with the Nomba and Macaloge boys (I want a re-match, Matt!).  The “Lost City of Lichinga,” situated in the mountains, is its own, separate world with its Australian missionaries, “Ladies Nite,” paved roads, cold, wet weather, and variety of stores.  Our holiday was no white Christmas, but it was tons of fun.

I confess though, that through it all, despite enjoying my time with friends, I couldn’t help but think of friends in other parts of Mozambique, in Cape Verde, and of family in the states.  I couldn’t help but think of Cape Verde, especially when we reached Lake Niassa to ring in the New Year.

The lake, with its clear, calm water, and perfect temperature, was nothing like KebraKanela beach (or “break shin beach” in English) at my site in Cape Verde.  And the close of 2012 at Lake Niassa was certainly nothing like the end of 2011 for me, which was absolutely hellish.  For New Year’s Eve 2011 we hiked Fogo volcano where I got so miserably cold and sick.  This New Year’s Eve 2012 on the other hand, was relaxed and beachy and warm.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was paradise—it wasn’t.  Chwanga, the village we stayed in, had little food in its mercado (luckily there were restaurants, and we could boleia to the nearby, bigger town of Metangula).  I really enjoyed my time at the lake, but like any New Year’s Eve, the moment forces you to look back at the past year.

The future isn’t very clear, and the past may only be a little clearer.  This time last year, for example, PC Cape Verde shutting down was invisible to all of us volunteers.  At the time I knew I was just trying to recover from Fogo while I managed my teaching load. 

We plan ahead, and will keep on planning, but I feel like over the years (and you know I’ve got plenty of those under my belt), I’ve been sitting on the back of an open-bed chapa (a truck)—I can’t quite see where I’m going, but I see where I’ve been.  Time moves forward, we’re not driving, but we’re just along for the ride.  Or, if that metaphor doesn’t work for you, or you simply have never been on an open-bed chapa before, then maybe the Janus experience of New Year’s Eve is more like watching sunsets. There’s a wonder, even a sweetness to it that’s tinged with loneliness as the light fades.  It’s as if you can see moments of your life, and the important people filling up those moments, moving out of reach.  We plan and change and stay the same, but after all the fireworks, in the silence and in the darkness, it is the past that we must reckon with. . .

Okay.  Not sure where that last bit came from.  Lake Niassa, maybe.  Or from The Little Prince.  In any case, if any of you ever visit, I will have to tag along.  It truly is a must-see spot.  We stayed a couple of days, so you can bet it wasn’t all pensive reflection.  Actually, some days it was downright wacky, with cows on the beach and majestic cloud formations. 

Here is the first sunset of 2013 in Chwanga by Lake Niassa:

The light so saturated the place in pinks, blues and oranges that everything and everyone looked cartoonish.

Check us out again after four months during “Reconnect” or In-Service Training.  We’ll all be badasses by then for sure.  If we aren’t already.

From Nampula to Niassa

Moz19ers, the 19th group of Peace Corps Volunteers in Mozambique, became official volunteers on December 4th, 2012.  Though some of us Cape Verde Transfers who swore in as volunteers in September 2011 might have felt like the swearing-in ceremony in Maputo, Mozambique was just another superfluous formality, I think most of us were glad and happy to be at the U.S. Ambassador's grand residence, glad and happy PST 2.0 was at an end. 

On Dec. 5^th, volunteers going north left Maputo for Nampula City, the eponymous capital of the province.  It was difficult to say goodbye to certain people—some of whom I ended up not even saying goodbye to because, well, I suck at it. . .  So let me just say here, now, that I’m sorry.  Sorry not because I’m to be blamed, but sorry because I really miss you all, and I’m not sure we ended amicably because it was as if I just ran away.  I’ll do better next time, I hope.  Though next time could very well be 12 months from now!

In Nampula we stayed at Hotel Milenio, a lavish hotel in a not so lavish city.  For two days we participated in conferences with our supervisors.  A couple of volunteers ended up staying a few more days at the hotel after the conference because their site was not quite live-in ready.  In retrospect, I somewhat wish now that we could have stayed a couple of days more, too, because our site also was not yet move-in ready (and who wouldn’t want luxurious lodgings for a weekend?!).

On Dec. 8^th volunteers going to the town of Ribaue in Nampula, and to the cities of Cuamba (my site), Mecanhelas, Lichinga, and Macaloge, the latter three in the province of Niassa, all rode in Peace Corps Jeeps to reach their new home for the next year, or two.  But wait, I skipped the worst part:  the car ride from Nampula City to the town of Cuamba is over 8 hours, over 350 kilometers, all dirt road.  It was a horrendously rough, bumpy ride.  Despite the well-equipped PC vehicles, it was a bum-numbing experience.

There is, however, that popular train from Nampula to Cuamba, for those wonderful people thinking of visiting us Niassomes.  The train is even a highlight in many guide books on Mozambique, one of those must-see, must-experience tourist attractions.  I did see some of the scenic views of stunning rock formations, mountain half- and full-domes.  I’m excited to take this train myself to Nampula, a trip that will make another future blogpost, no doubt.  

Sierra Mitucue, a 2.5 hr bike ride from our IFP

So we get to the Instituto de Formação dos Professores (IFP, a teacher training institute) in Cuamba.  We were told that our apartment is not yet ready, not yet cleaned, and the person with the keys is supposedly not even present on campus.  We stay at the campus guest house for, not one, not two, but three days and three nights.  Thanks to our PC program manager for contacting the director on our behalf, so that on the fourth day we finally move in to our own place.  Moving in, however, did not equate to finally living in the apartment, as we were not ready to stay or eat there because the windows were broken, and we didn’t have a stove, nor cooking utensils, nor food. . . So we pretty much mooched off of PCV Zackaria, a Moz17er, who has been living and working at the IFP for over a year now. 

Those first couple of weeks were hellacious in our new apartment.  The broken windows and ripped screens let in a plethora of insects after one heavy rain.  The variety of pests from termites to moths to other alien critters carpeted the living room floor!  It made one think of the plague of locusts, a swarm of bugs biblical in proportion, for Christ’s sake.

The next day we put plastic bags over our windows and taped them up, ghetto-style.  So things got a little better.  Till my roommate found a scorpion in his room one morning.

So far since we’ve found three scorpions in our humble abode.  So we’ve been covering up the gap under our doors, and things got better.  But then somehow a mouse got in the house one night, and my roommate and I ended up playing hockey with it.  So again, things got better.  Till the next night when somebody’s kitten decides to hangout outside our front door, incessantly meowing to be let in.  Seriously.  Where this kitten was when the mouse came, I don´t know.  The kitten actually did penetrate the plastic bag barriers of our windows at one point, but we did not play hockey with it.  Health volunteer Laura from Lichinga, along with PCV Jamie from Mecanhelas, helped get the poor kitten out of the house.  Thus, with much help from so many fellow volunteers, slowly but surely things are getting better.  Special thanks and shout-outs again to Zackaria and PCV Colin for helping us settle in.

Niassa is the biggest province in all of Mozambique, yet it is the poorest, according to my roommate (y’all tell me if this factoid is wrong, and I’ll be happy to correct him).  The literacy rate is very low, and most of the people in Niassa work the fields.  The town of Cuamba is the second largest “city” in Niassa, yet it has no paved roads.  While it’s very doable to boleia or hitch a free ride in the southern provinces, it’s nearly impossible here in the north because there are very few private vehicles going in and around town on a regular basis.  We are isolated not just from the rest of the developed world, but also from most of Mozambique.  The isolation is rough out here in the north. 

So, “Norte Forte,” as we say here in the north.  We’ll go strong and keep on going strong.  We have to.