If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler. . .

 From Marera:  Engenheira Ana Paula with Daughter Paloma, as promised

 Green Bugs:  from Zobue

Best Boleia Ever

PCVs Will and Jamie

Quissico Lagoon 1

Quissico Lagoon 2

Arts and Crafts in Quissico

Quissico Music Festival

In Moatize, with Hot Toddies:  PCVs Laura, John, and Thelma

On the road: Tete 1

On the road: Tete 2

Vanduzi Mountain

Angonia Church

Zimbabwe Bar

O.G. Life: Zimbabwe (with stripper's pole in background)

Moringa Bay Sunrise 1

Moringa Bay Sunrise 2

Moringa Bay Sunrise 3

Roxy

Moringa Bay Sunset 1

Moringa Bay Sunset 2

It couldn’t be helped. The end is near, so I have disappeared.  From this blog at least.  I’ve only got a couple of months left at site or in country, and things have just gotten a little crazy and confusing.  That’s life, I guess.  On one hand, not much has been going on, but on the other, everything seems to be happening all at once.  And, well, in the face of everything that’s happened, really there’s not a whole lot to say, not much to report.  The biggest news in the homefront is that we've got three new pups:  Nosey, Gayboozle, and The Jackal, I like to call them (only in my head, of course, and in this blog).  They're whiney, always craving attention, and always pooping in our front yard.  Luckily, they're cute.  Otherwise, I'd have been tempted to toss them slices of bife laced with something sinister.

I’ve also been reading some, as always.  Writing, a little, obviously.  And have traveled quite a bit.  I’ve actually read some of my private journal entries from last year, realized I read and wrote so much more back in Cuamba than here in the bustling city of Chimoio.  But then there’s one journal entry that only lists quotes from one of my favorite books, If On a Winter’s Night a Traveler, by Italo Calvino.  It’s nothing but a page of quotes, but much of it captures so many truths, which is what I love about literature, you know, how it gets at something real and true in such a roundabout way, by lying really, so that it’s all crazy and confusing, too, but in a good way.  In a playful way.  They're much more beautiful and true than anything I can say here.  Anyway, at the risk of being criticized as lazy or unoriginal or pedantic (which this blog has actually been accused of), let me just lay out some of my favorite passages with a few random comments in square brackets:

“the professor-sorcerer” reading to his students, stories “that emerge from nothingness, find a point of departure, a direction, a plot. . .” [I'm no sorcerer, but I do read to my students; we emerge from nothingness, sometimes.]

“How much do you think you have changed?  Before ‘the revolution?’ After?”  [Even if one hasn't read this book, one can't read 'the revolution' literally.  Fiction asks to be read figuratively, openly, personally.  My initial response was: Can't teach an old dog new tricks, so haven't changed much, except, of course, for this big-ass beer belly.  Some call it "xima belly."  I like to call it the "paunch of prosperity."  It's appealing to the ladies, I hear.]

“. . . the desire to narrate, to pile stories upon stories, without trying to impose a philosophy of life on you, simply allowing you to observe its growth, like a tree, an entangling, as if of branches and leaves. . .”

“. . . how many times, when the past weighed too heavily on me, had I been seized by that hope of a clean break:  to change jobs, wife, city, continent. . .”

“Wherever I went and however I introduced myself, there has always been somebody who knew who I was and what I have done, even though my appearance has changed a lot with the passing years. . .”

“. . . and if I keep skipping from one story to another, it’s because I keep circling around that story and escaping. . .”

“. . . to communicate again with her through the channel dug by others’ words, which, as they are uttered by an alien voice, by the voice of that silent nobody made of ink and typographical spacing, can become yours and hers, a language, a code between the two of you, a means to exchange signals and recognize each other.”

“Maybe afterward you will go your separate ways and the story will again have to shift gears painfully. . . but now, since your bodies are trying to find, skin to skin, the adhesion most generous in sensations, to transmit and receive vibrations and waves, to co-penetrate the fullness and the voids, since in mental activity you have also agreed on the maximum agreement.”

“What makes lovemaking and reading resemble each other most is that within both of them times and spaces open, different from measurable time and space.”  

Tete Travels

PCVs always say that Tete is one hot province, but whenever I travel there (twice already) it's always been overcast, wet, and cold.  Here's what Mavudze Ponte looked like seven months ago:

And then last week, across the Zambezi on the famous Samora Machel Bridge:

I don't know what everyone's complaining about.  Tete's always been cold to me.  

Zobue, too, was wet and rainy when I arrived, but I liked seeing the mountains enshrouded by clouds--felt like we were on high high elevation.  And then of course Jeff arrived and with him clear skies and sunshine. 

 Inselberg hill by Mt. Zobue

 Mt. Zobue

 View of Malawi from hill by Mt. Zobue

 PCVs Jeff and Sienna, plus Piro the dog, border marker to the left, and town of Zobue beyond

Zobue's a beautiful site, no doubt about it.  A glorious hike, even though it made me realize how out of shape I was/am.  Also, I have to say I never ate so well on a trip as I did on this Teteventure.  PCVs Sienna, Tania, and Heather are true Chefe Chefs.  

 Xani's Bon-bon Covered Cupcakes. . . I think I gained wait on this trip.

Lasagna, garlic bread, salad

We made tortillas the next night, but I was too busy eating to take a picture. Oh, and then I binged on Bon-Bon's for sobremesa.  Thanks Jeff, for giving me this addiction.  

Hike up some low hills outside Angonia:

And the Angonia PCV House--both cozy and chiki de matar

Students at the Angonia House

 Uli playing Jenga, Fani and Fernandes on their phones

Thanks so much for hosting me, Sienna, Tania and Xani!  Special thanks, too, to new expat friend Richard in Tete City.  Hope I can return the favor, if y'all are ever in Chimoio, though I may be back in Tete before then!

On Street Charity

Last weekend I was having lunch with expat friends Maarten and Alexandra on the patio area of this restaurant when a beggar child came to us asking I think for money at first, and then for food.  The boy was probably eight or ten years old.  Perhaps he was a small teenager.  Needless to say, chronic starvation and undernourishment hinder physical development.  Now, we had just finished eating, and I was actually about to collect the left over bones for our pet Machu, so it was awkward for all of us, wanting to give the boy food, but not wanting to demean him by giving him our left-overs.  In the end, Maarten and Alexandra ordered bread and an egg sandwich for the child. 

Maarten and Alexandra at Casa Msika

Normally, I don’t give to beggars, whether they are children or adults.  This seems cruel, and the incident at the restaurant made me question why I am stingy and ungenerous.  I hope I'm not really cruel and stingy and ungenerous.  But I’m afraid after three years a PCV in Africa, I have become pessimistic and cynical.  Or more pessimistic and cynical than I normally am.  Giving the boy food was an act of kindness and generosity.  Had the same thing happened in the states, I think I would’ve given the boy bread.  I have actually done that, but to a grown man not to a boy, on Market St. in San Francisco.  Once, I even served in a soup kitchen there.  But here, I’m sorry to say, my tendency is to look away.

Many beggars people the streets of Chimoio.  There are blind elderly led by kids asking for “ajuda,” (help).  There are disabled men and women sitting cross-legged on the streets, calling for “patrão” (a patron).  While I turn away, I’d like to think that I still see.  And it is a sight painful to the eyes.  Unlike last year in Cuamba, where I biked almost everywhere, here in Chimoio I walk almost every day in the city to go to the market, to go to work, to meet up with other PCVs, to get something done.  I don’t mean to excuse my turning away from beggars, but at least I can see how it is easier or less painful than interacting with them every day.  Luckily, they don’t usually become aggressive like the ones I’ve encountered in San Francisco and Berkeley.

I do take issue with monetary handouts, however.  Yes, we impoverished PCVs don’t have much of it, but a couple of meticais is not a lot out of our pockets.  I think my issue with it, though, is that it’s an act rooted not so much in generosity but in pity.  And while this feeling isn’t necessarily bad or negative, I do think its effects can be detrimental.  I do not want the kids to learn that it is okay to be pitied.  I do not want them to learn habits of servility.  I do not want them to see foreigners as casual distributors of change, as the natural “haves” while they are born into the lot of the “have-nots.”  

While it saddens me to see anyone beg, I do not want the person to learn that to beg or “pedir” is fine as the natural (and only) way of interacting or being with us.  So many times we hear the phrase “estou pedir” (I am asking or begging for something), not just from street beggars but also from other host-country nationals, from neighbors and acquaintances, from Mozambican friends and even colleagues.  Some say that this habit is based on a culture that shares resources. . . Perhaps.  But I do believe that giving away money based on pity has unfavorable, cultural consequences:  maybe we feel better temporarily, but I’m not sure how real that emotion is if it is founded on this unequal relationship and unfair cultural exchange.  Perhaps pitying another person is okay in and of itself.  But if that person learns to be okay with being the object of pity, if that person doesn’t learn what it means to act with dignity, then this is the real danger.  It is not only unsustainable, it actually sustains the unequal relationship and unfair cultural interaction.  Giving handouts so casually can be an easy way to accept how things are, normally.  It is giving in to the way things are.

A Chimoio Winter

So, it is now winter here in Chimoio, which is to say we’re experiencing cold evenings and mornings, but the middle of the day is still fairly sunny and somewhat warm.  Most days are overcast now, though, and lows are usually in the 60s (Fahrenheit), sometimes in the 50s, which, for my brown ass, is cold enough.   This winter actually reminds me of northern California early spring.  It’s been nippy, and even windy, but not at all miserably freezing.  

Still, it’s cold enough that I’ve reverted to my old, homebody self. . . I had planned to return to Lake Niassa, to say a proper goodbye to a good friend, but, as I said before, the distance is long and time is short.  Colin, man, we’ll just have to hang out and chill again in the future.  Next time, brunch is on me.

The future.  Time.  For something so intangible and even illusionary, it sure is unrelenting.  It’s almost time for our Moz18er colleagues and friends to leave Mozambique.  I’ve been talking to some of them, and pretty much everyone has told me they are ready for the next chapter in their lives.  I can’t help but compare myself and feel how so unready I am for whatever is next.  Thank goodness I’ve still got some time. . .

See, here’s what I mean by it being illusionary:  no one has got, or possesses, time.  Really.  I guess it’s a problem of language—we’ve only got words to grapple with such an abstract thing as “time,” as if we’re referring to something concrete like words for “chair” or “book.”  It’s real, yes, don’t get me wrong.  We feel it passing.  We see changes.  Some say we see its “ravages,” i.e., deterioration, death.  Sheesh.  That sounds so depressing.   “Illusionary” is better because the root of this word refers to the Latin “ludere,” which, I think, means “to play”. . . I won’t bother to look it up, I already sound so bloody dorky.  All I want to say by describing time as illusion is that, like most things in life, indeed like life itself, it is like a play.  I try to keep this in mind when I get into discussions about age with folks, with fellow PCVs and expats.  Some, I think, try to make me feel better by trying to convince me I don't look my age.  I end up wondering if they pity me, if they feel sorry for me being here surrounded by so many young Gen. Y or millennial or internet generation, whatever name or word supposedly refers to folks born in the 80s and 90s.  My usual response is that their eyes deceive them.  If they look closer, they’d see that I am old.  Sometimes I feel like I could be older than the rocks of Cabeça do Velho, the cluster of inselbergs right outside downtown Chimoio. 

There are moments, though, when I do feel like I’m much younger.  I remember one time we were in this club called Coqueiros (which, I guess, refers to flirts, or coquettes and dalliers) I felt like I was still my insecure, 16 year-old self.  I’m not going to get into the specifics of that moment; I’m just trying to explain how age is not only relative, but also, I guess, emotional.  Just because I am in my 30s, doesn’t mean that is my identity.  And if it is, then since 30s includes 16, it’s only normal that my 16 year-old self is still inside me.  Honestly, I don’t think there’s an essential difference between 16 and 26 and 36.  Essentially, at the core, I haven’t really changed.  I guess I’m better able to manage.  At least, I’d like to think so.  I think that once we’ve reached a certain age, for some it’s maybe at 18, for others maybe 25, but at a certain point in our lives we don’t really change at the core.  Or maybe what ever change we perceive is just another illusion.  I don’t know. 

Anyway, here I go again sounding like some dork.  I wanted to talk about winter in Chimoio, and how I’ve turned into a homebody due to the cold.  Enough digression.  Here’s another reason why I find myself hibernating inside the house:

 Machu, a.k.a. Mata-bichu, a.k.a. Machu Pichu, a.k.a. Machubombu

 It’s the first time this little guy is staying at my place, and, while he likes exploring, he seems to like napping even more.  He’s hibernating, too.  We get along.

I do get out of the house, mainly to run errands and play chess.

And last weekend PCV Brian and I went on a UCM “retiro,” an excursion or retreat to Marera, this village about maybe 40 kilometers south of Chimoio.  

PCV Brian and UCM colleague Frank

UCM had arranged for all staff and faculty to attend a “palestra,” a talk/discussion on the topic of corruption in the schools.  It took about an hour to get to Marera on a UCM minibus over dirt road, which, though dusty, wasn’t very rough or “batida.”  The venue for our retreat was this “Centro Polivalente,” a sort of recreation center, but also a place where missionaries and nuns live, as it is I think run by the church.    

The palestra was interesting.  First, it was good Portuguese listening practice.  I picked up words and phrases like “deveres,” (duties), “subornos” (bribes), “propinas,” (tips) and “falta de confiança” (lack of confidence).  Second, it was cool that our speaker broke down the Latin roots of the word “corrupção,” how it is related to rupture, to something broken in society, or, in our case, in the university.  The palestra seems to be a response to the problem of professors taking bribes from students who want better grades.  Apparently, there have also been cases of professors asking for sexual favors from students who want better grades.  So yes, most definitely, there’s something deeply broken in a society or an institution in which these take place.  But I also thought, as my attention appeared and disappeared during the palestra, that corruption is not specific to Mozambique, and that listening to a speech on corruption probably will not do much to solve the problem.  It was interesting, yet unsurprising, that our speaker referred to stories from the Bible.  But perhaps these stories are not enough to move people to change values and behavior.  I don’t know.  Perhaps the “corruptors” did not even attend the retreat.  Who knows?  Leaders must know and lead not just by example but also by holding followers accountable.  We all are, after all, followers, aren’t we, if we’re to follow the Bible stories that our speaker talked about.

I’m no church-goer, but I do like stories.  I love good stories.  It is unfortunate that much of the palestra is rhetorical exposition because I think if we had more stories or case studies and more of a discussion about them, then maybe there would’ve been some change or movement, at least for me.  The biblical line inscribed above the entrance of our meeting hall is ironic.  

I think it translates as, "And the word (or the 'verb,' the action word) became flesh and lived among us (or perhaps 'lived inside of us' or just 'inhabited us.')."  It's been ages since last I went to Catholic school.  I don't remember what that word is.  

After our palestra, we had a terrific lunch, and then mass with a priest who was, I think, originally from the Congo.  He ended his sermon with this story of a kid, a son of missionaries staying at the center.  Apparently, this kid "cabeçou” a girl.  Most laughed and seemed to understand the priest’s use of this unusual verb in the past tense.  At first I thought he meant a boy had butted his head (cabeça) on a girl, but then he went on to explain that the two are about to be engaged to be married.  I was told that the priest really should have used the verb “descabaçar,” which is not in my dictionary but supposedly means “to deflower.”  My Portuguese is too weak to understand the humor or the point of the story.  All I’m going to say is that perhaps in this case the action came before the word, yet many, many more words and stories must come and even much more silence and reflection, before actions can change.

Testing, testing, testing

So a colleague of mine the other day commented on how delightfully easy my life is in Chimoio, what with chess club and only a couple of English classes on my teaching load at UCM.  I felt a bit guilty, to be honest, though I tried to remember how I have gotten myself burnt out back stateside, and how I've jumped around from site to site, so that establishing sustainable work has not been most characteristic of my service.  I'm not saying I deserve to have it easy.  I am saying that I have had and still do have my share of good, honest (volunteer) work.

Anyway.  Work, believe it or not, has picked up dramatically.  Lesson planning and teaching don't normally take extensive periods of time, but two weeks ago I had to write up three tests for my classes (in one class I'm using 2 curricula--the students' levels and skills are so disparate).  Then last week I graded the tests and recorded the grades.  Tedious stuff.  This week, I discovered only yesterday, the grade sheets or "pautas" are due.  Final exams are next week, so I was actually getting started on writing another set of tests, but then had to put that off in order to submit the pautas today.  I had assumed, wrongly, that the university administration would want the grades in one go after the final exam.  But it looks like grade submission is done twice towards the end of the semester.  Hey, I'm still learning the ropes here.

If you think this is a slew of tests, you would be right.  In addition to the "final exam," students get the opportunity to re-take it in what's called the "segunda chamada," the final, final exam.  I hope.  The entire testing process drags, in both senses of the word.

I do see the obsession or anxiety for testing:  it's not really a need, I don't think, but a compulsive desire for some number, for the illusion of some quantifier for learning.  As if receiving an 18 out of 20 signifies intelligence.  All students, whether here in Mozambique or in the States, by the time they reach university, are quite familiar with this "banking" system of learning.  They come to class to earn credit points, get a grade, not really to learn.  I've done projects and presentations in my classes, but unlearning this "banking" system takes more than alternative forms of assessment.  I think I myself didn't completely cut my grade obsession until graduate school, when I had to complete a Master's thesis that my thesis committee could approve.  

It's difficult to be on the other side of learning, that is, to be on the side of "teaching," and then hear your students complaining about their grades.  Last week, when I returned the tests for one of my classes, I confess I kind of lost it.  One student, having received his test, instantly started packing up his bags.  I ended up getting in his face, telling him to go if he's all set to go.  I then proceeded to give this big spiel on how students come for their test scores only and are not really in school to learn, how they have no right to complain about the test if they hardly even attend class and only come for the tests, how they ought to take their test results like responsible adults, face the consequences of their actions.  Sheesh.  I don't know why I struggle.  Lectures, studies have shown, are the least effective way to teach.  And I gave my spiel in Portuguese.  

My Life in Chimoio (Manica Province, Mozambique)

Of course, I can only speak from the narrow perspective of my experience.  But since I've lived and worked in three different sites (in two different PC countries), comparing them, reflecting on those past lives from the point of view of the present, would perhaps broaden my perspective.  In any case, it's my life here, short though it may be.  Factual accuracy, I think, isn't so crucial.  Being honest is.

Let me start with my work week: it consists of Tuesdays and Thursdays, with classes in the afternoon to the evening, from 3:30pm to 7:30pm.  I'm supposed to have meetings Monday and Tuesday mornings, but I find myself useless in them, not so much because of the Portuguese, but more because of the ways in which these meetings are conducted.  I'm trying to relinquish my "coordenador" position, as it doesn't fit  with Peace Corps' objectives.  But I'm still negotiating this with our school, as they would prefer to have an unpaid departmental coordinator to save costs.  So my teaching load at the university is light and relatively easy.  Very different from back in the states where I would teach at least four college writing courses in two different colleges.  I was a part-time writing instructor in community colleges, which means driving almost everyday to work, schlepping bags full of students' papers, trying to teach academic/analytical writing.

Here I teach English as a foreign language to first and second year university students.  In addition to the work load being lighter, the challenges seem to be less intense.  I've taught similar EFL courses in Praia, Cape Verde and last year in Cuamba, Niassa.  Though I still create plenty of new materials and lessons (the students don't have or use books), I've amassed a good deal of older materials and lessons which require some tweaking for my current students here, but are still adaptable and pedagogically relevant.

I lucked out, I suppose.  I think many Education PCVs at the secondary schools have heavier teaching-loads, bigger and more classes, fewer resources, and needier students.  My placement at the Catholic University allows me to spend more time on fun secondary projects like Chess club and English club.  Like my first year of service in Cape Verde, my third year here in Chimoio grants me the time and opportunity to hang out with more host country nationals, intelligent Mozambicans open to different people, to different ways of seeing and being.

I think I hardly talked about my life last year in Cuamba, where I worked as a "teacher trainer," helping Mozambicans improve English language instruction in the primary schools.  The thing is, while most Cape Verde Transfers would say that they established meaningful friendships in Cape Verde, and meaningful work as educators here in Mozambique, I could not say the same.  My placement last year in the north was rough.  My students needed a lot more help than I could give them, and the environment or institution in which they received training was not conducive to learning.  I also had a difficult (even impossible, I thought) time integrating within my community, living six kilometers from the city of Cuamba.  I did develop meaningful relationships with my sitemates (PCVs Colin, Rich, Zackaria), however, as we all faced similar challenges.

I'm sure there are a number of rural (Cuamba) versus urban (Chimoio) differences, but it is fascinating to face similar (not identical), though varying degrees of isolation and alienation.  In Cuamba, not a day passed by that I heard ching-chong-mock-Chinese from ignorant kids, mostly, but sometimes adults as well.  Every time I biked through the bairros to reach town, there was always someone yelling "China!"  Here in Chimoio, I rarely hear the same mockery; Mozambicans seem to be more accustomed to ethnic difference here, and there's probably a higher level of education in the city, as there is a higher level of development.

Ironically, what I do hear a lot every time I hang out with fellow PCVs is "Grampa J."  It started as a joke, even maybe as a term of endearment.  But because at least one PCV would call me that every time there's some party (of which there are plenty) or get-together, it has become old and not really very funny.  In fact, even one European expat whom I hardly know has started calling me this as well.  It's become juvenile and annoying.  When I expressed my annoyance, it's ignored or dismissed as trivial.  I guess being of the minority opinion (I'm one of the few older volunteers), what I say doesn't seem to hold much traction.  

Now, I'd be the first to own the fact that I'm an old Gen. X geezer.  But I never expected to be labeled for it.  I find myself trying to re-claim or re-appropriate the label when I'm around Americans and expatriates to attain some control over my own self-definition.  Anyway, I've been in Peace Corps long enough (perhaps too long) to know that one should just stand back, observe, keep moving.  

I try to do my own thing.  Chess, for example.  Colleagues imply that it's become an addiction, but I don't think it's taken over my life.  I'm still functional.  I think.  I do end up spending a lot of time playing chess on-line, but I've also taught about at least half-a-dozen Mozambicans how to play, and it's good to see how they can be addicted, too.  It's great that we can take the time to play--they're not just playing checkers, or being on facebook, or whatever it is that most young folks do nowadays.  

Time to play, and time to get to know host country nationals.  These are some of the best benefits of a PC service.  When I first joined PC, I had this vague inclination to write a book. . .  Tough to do when there are so many things going on.  And, unfortunately, we don't have first world libraries for doing research.  At least I've got plenty of first-hand material to work with.  Now if I could just develop the discipline.

March Post

The month went by super fast, with work--teaching at Universidade Catolica de Mozambique--along with weekend events and outings.  My preference is to write about what's been going on, but since so much has been happening, and I've posted no pics at all over the last 3 months, I think this blogpost will just be a showcase of photos from January to March 2014.  We all know the cliché, a picture says a thousand words.  We are bombarded by images and by "the image" (of cool, of class, of power and prestige, youth and entertainment).  We would do well to remember, however, that a word can evoke not only an infinite number of images, but also hidden inner meanings and inner worlds.  Of course, words require a bit more work and commitment.

So, here are some pics:

PCV Victor, from Momba, Niassa.  The first northerner to visit me in Chimoio.

My living room when I first moved in.

My kitten. . . later given away by my landlady.

Kitten up a mango tree.

Kids that wanted their photo taken at Mavudzi Ponte, Tete.

Mavudzi Ponte River and Bridge

Colleagues Esta and PCV Ana D. at Flor de Vouga in Chimoio

Chic Dutch Duo Maarten and Lieke. 

Looking for live music, Praça da Independencia, Chimoio

At a churasqueira, Chimoio

Camp Ndzou Adventure (between Dombe and Sussundenga, Manica province).  Our Cozy Cottage and the Amazing Rav4

Camp Ndzou: Elephant Footprints

Camp Ndzou: Through the Jungle

On our way back to Chimoio after Camp Ndzou

Birthdayboy with PCV Wendy at a restaurant in Manica City

Gate at Geological Museum, City of Manica

Geological Museum, City of Manica

Lunch at Policentro Restaurant, City of Manica

On our way to church perched atop a hill, City of Manica

Old Church, City of Manica

Kids playing soccer by the old church, view of surrounding mountains, Manica City

U.S. Ambassador to Mozambique, Douglas Griffiths, American Corner Opening Ceremony at Universidade Catolica de Mozambique, 25 March 2014.

PCV Brian performing with English Club members for the American Corner Opening Ceremony

Chess for breakfast, before Cabeça do Velho hike (30 March 2014)

UCM student Rudolfo, Cabeça do Velho background

Near the top of Cabeça do Velho

View of the city of Chimoi from Cabeça do Velho, PCVs Steven and Wendy: "Life is Calling, How Far Will You Go?" 

Atop Cabeça do Velho

TV reporters from Maputo doing a piece on Cabeça do Velho; Women kneeling, praying at the peak of the mountain

PCV Brian sharing his scrumptuous quiche, our picnic atop Cabeça do Velho

Baboon sighting atop Cabeça do Velho

We started with chess, we ended with chess.