Men: 52, Women: 1 (roughly)

Feliz Dia de Homem (Man's Day)! You might think it's a little strange to hear this and say to yourself that you've never heard of a "man's day" outside of Father's Day. You might question whether this is a new thing or if it's been around for awhile. You might be checking your calendar or searching the internet for any indicator that the 23rd of March is anything more than a Friday. If this is the case, you might not be very surprised when you don't find anything that confirms today as anything special around the world. However, in Mozambique today is Man's Day ...today and every Friday!

Unfortunately, any attempt to understand this fact in any sort of sensible, optimistic, or gender-equal light will be in vain. This 'holiday' is not official and no one with whom I have spoken has been able to provide a good excuse for why it exists. Men and women who are honest about it will tell you that it was imagined up by men in order to give them an excuse to drink, be out of the house, and sometimes not even return that night (interpret that as you will, sadly no interpretation is TOO open). Individuals who are less forward will attempt to tell you it is a day for men to rest after a long week of work. It is important to mention that here in Mozambique it is impossible to say that men work harder than women and that often it is the other way around...the daily work done by women around the house is back-breaking and requires more time than one can imagine in the U.S; female work here also includes manual labor (working in the field, carrying water, transporting goods) that many foreigners would assume belonged in the realm of the male workforce. Men will also mention that women actually have multiple days as well, and will go on to cite the International Women's Day, Mother's Day, and Mozambican Women's Day...still a little bit less than the 52 the men seem to have racked up for themselves.

The origins of Dia de Homem are likely diverse and may never be fully confirmed or understood, but some of the reasons for its continuing existence are visible without much digging. One of these reasons is a huge disparity between the genders when it comes to agency. Women are very much disempowered in a traditional culture in which the man is the undisputed head of the household. This is compounded by the man being seen as the main 'worker' in the household, which creates a situation of dependency and leaves women without much power in the relationship. Men are also more sexually liberated as a general rule, something that has been absorbed into the group-thought and accepted by society; many times this leads to an unsure dynamic in a relationship and is yet another reason why a wife might be reluctant to fight against undesirable aspects of a relationship where she feels, or is told she is, replaceable or just one of a few options.

Perhaps the biggest factor in this undesirable and unequal situation (because anyone will understand the injustice when you question why men get 52 holidays and women only receive one official one each year) is the "'É assim (that's the way it is)" mentality that is so prevalent here in Mozambique, and especially in the North. There is a mindset of accepting things the way they are just on the basis that they are that way and can't be changed.

This is one of the biggest things we try to change as volunteers.

A couple children laze in the shade of a tree at the Ancuabe primary school, potentially playing hooky from the classes that are taking place less than a hundred meters away. Another disempowering factor for women is the disparity in education...the primary grades are often filled with more girls than boys, but by the time students reach secondary school, many of the girls have had to drop out to help out around the house or take care of a child that was the result of an early pregnancy. The fight for gender equality in Mozambique will be a long one and must take place on many fronts.

Coasting Through Service

Recently I had the privilege of visiting Quelimane, the capital of the province of Zambezia, in a quick trip to visit Michelle, who was already there for a conference. It turns out that Quelimane is SOUTH a further 6 1/2 hours of drive time past the roughly 4 that I already made to be in Nampula, much further south than I had earlier imagined after consulting Google Maps. However, this city is incredible and I absolutely loved exploring it, as it had a completely different vibe than other places I have been so far in Mozambique. Pemba is known as a tourist destination. Nampula is known as a den of thieves. Quelimane is known as Little Brazil.

Quelimane is a coastal city, but to access the beach (named Zalala) you have to drive roughly 20km out of town. However, despite not having direct access to the ocean, the general atmosphere of Quelimane seemed more more like that of a coastal town than that of Pemba in Cabo Delgado. There was a natural, relaxed, formless, bustling-but-not-in-a-stressed-way sort of flow to the city that was reflected in the dispositions of its inhabitants as well. One of the coolest things about this capital is the bike taxis, which are one of the most common, if not the most common, way of getting around the city. It was great to be back in a place where there was so much biking and reminded me in some small way of cities like Boulder in the U.S., where they have such a presence. One taxi 'driver' I rode with told me that he had been working in the business for about 18 years! It's also worth mentioning that the street food in Quelimane is to die for. There are multiple hot dog (like big, fat Polish sausag-esque hot dog) stands, an incredible ice cream window and many of the other countless morsels that can normally be found in the streets. 

Two of the ultimate highlights for me were: 1) Zalala beach, and 2) Café Delicioso. The beach wasn't the huge, sprawling white sands and clear waters of Pemba, but was more rugged; the water the day we went was actually extremely dirty and filled with soil and debris from what might have been an earlier storm. The waves were optimal for body surfing, and Michelle and I had an absolute blast getting out into the surf a ways and riding the waves back into the shallows. While we were there we also tried the catch of the day...unreal! There's nothing quite like fresh fish and this one was huge, totally fresh, prepared perfectly and had an unbelievably good flavor. There is a stretch of the beach where most of the fishing takes place, or at least where the boats are stored, and it was intriguing to walk along this stretch, meandering through all of the boats retired for the day. 

Café Delicioso is one of those cafés that writers dream of, the full package with great coffee, a bare essentials appearance, amazing baked goods (and food items) at reasonable prices, and a bunch of local, regular-customer, old men outside on the patio drinking espresso, smoking cigarettes and yelling and pointing at each other from their respective sides of the walkway. It's the kind of haven that I would frequent if I had access to it, but Michelle and I did end up making sure to get there three times during our stay. Can't say enough about it and it is a shame I will most likely never get to go back! 

Quelimane was a fantastic trip and I was extremely lucky to get to spend some time with Michelle in such a laid-back city with so much character...another destination down on our adventure list! 

An abandoned fishing boat on Zalala Beach, near Quelimane (Photo: Michelle)

The lady I got a ride to Quelimane with and her sister were going to Zalala Beach
for the day, so Michelle and I were able to jump along for the ride! (Photo: Michelle)

There were A TON of fishing boats along this stretch of the beach. The ones out on the water had black sails and it was really neat to see them on the horizon

A beautiful woman on a beautiful beach. Luckily, Michelle is an integrated
volunteer who brings a capulana wherever she goes, so we had the perfect 'towel'
to sit on and watc the sunset

The fish pre-cutting and consumption (Photo: Michelle)

The fish post-preparation...it was INCREDIBLY good! 

There was a puppy on the premises, so Michelle and I went American on it and
had to cuddle it a bit...something that would not be so well understood by
Mozambicans, who see dogs more for utility than lovability (Photo: Michelle)

One of the delicious street food stands with our gigantic
hot dogs...with all the toppings, of course! I brought along
Zertz and we were able to get a couple games in as well
(Photo: Michelle)

Time to go home. The hitch hiking begins...

Nairucu: An In-tents Experience

After almost 10 months in Mozambique I have finally gotten the chance to venture out into the wild, untamed beauty of the African wilderness...in a way. But not really. I have been looking and eagerly anticipating camping opportunities since my arrival here last April, but they have proven very difficult to come by. In Europe camping didn't happen because it was too crowded and there was basically no such thing as public land and wilderness. Here there is plenty of wilderness, but it is difficult to find the infrastructure to get to it and this is complicated many times by a mistrust of foreigners (and even the health workers or government) in a lot of more rural sites, which at times can be a little dangerous. However, Michelle and I were not going to be deterred in our quest for the great outdoors and after some talking around and exploring possibilities we found the site we thought would be the golden ticket: Complexo Montes Nairucu.

Located about 17km outside of the city of Nampula, we actually had to buy a ticket to reserve a spot to pitch our tent, which was maybe the first sign that this was not going to satisfy our desire for a classic camping experience. The "complexo" turned out to be a paradise, however, and at any point during the three days we ended up deciding to stay there you would not have caught us complaining once, maybe just chuckling at the unbelievable cocktail of luck, absurdity and inspiration that landed us in our current surroundings. Our original plan had been to camp at this 'resort' the first night and then the second day make for the mountains and discover some location to pass the last two nights, in a plan that would give our inner Bear Grylls its fix after such a drought, but after pitching our tent by the crocodile infested lake, walking through the groves of palm trees and realizing that our 'golden tickets' came with hot showers, we were easily convinced to re-dub this oasis basecamp and take day trips out from it during our time there. 

The complex was separated into two main parts in terms of visitors: camping and rooms. I can only imagine the rooms were very fancy and were attached to the main complex, which had a DELICIOUS restaurant (based on the one meal we ate there and the countless tantalizing smells that teased us when were were just there for a refresco and cards), a patio, a small soccer field, plant/flower/fruit gardens and then the rooms for accommodation. It is worth mentioning that the complex is owned by a Portuguese couple and they raise their own pigs...one of the specials of the restaurant (only Saturdays and Sundays, and it ALWAYS sells out) is roasted piglet. Neither Michelle nor myself had ever tried it, so we shared an entree and I think both could agree that it wasn't bad, was very fatty and wasn't likely something we would order again in the future. The section of the complex for  camping is situated maybe a couple hundred yards away from the restaurant and is used more for picnics than camping as far as we could tell. There were many grills throughout the area, as well as gazebos with tables. Guests were invited to pitch tent wherever they wanted in the lawns, as there were no designated spots. The workers did mention that maybe it was better in the middle and not directly next to the water of the lake, however, due to the crocodiles (while neither Michelle nor I saw during our stay; still uncertain whether or not to believe they exist). 

Besides being able to spend a ton of great time catching up, one of the highlights for me was our sumitting of a mountain, Mount Narucu, nearby the complex (from which the complex takes its name). There was no trail and we had to bushwhack to make it to the top, but our efforts were greatly rewarded upon reaching our goal. The view from atop was absolutely gorgeous and being so high was a very nice treat that you don't get to experience everyday here in Mozambique. We were able to see the city of Nampula in the distance and the small town of Rapale to the other side. We actually have a Peace Corps volunteer stationed in Repale and I couldn't help but think at how lucky she was have access to so many mountains!

I've told you the story, here's the proof...

Just a quick pic from the top of Mount Nairucu to start the photos off!

It's hard to argue with the idyllic scene within which we found ourselves

Holding true to PCTT (Pavlik Camping Trip Tradition), we
had frito pie the first night of camping, having to use Spicy
Mexican Salsa flavored chips in lieu of Fritos, which were
not obtainable 

Didn't see any crocodiles...but there were some gorgeous lilies

Michelle found an emu...but neither her nor it ever found who was stranger

This little piggy went to... our bellies. (Photo credit: Michelle)

Michelle and I wanted to try our hand at an artistic long exposure night shot of the tent. No we did not get any advertising
money for this shot

Had a quick little tuna sandwich snack at the beginning of the hike

Looking down on my kingdom trying to make sure no one has made off with my tent. Actually, this spot, about halfway up the mountain, was really cool because you could in fact see our little tent amidst the complex (Photo credit: Michelle)

The breathtaking view from above

Miss USA...and Other Amazing Places

Today's blog post is just a little reflection on some of the scenes, smells, items and encounters here that cause me to remember or think back on some of the small (or not so small), everyday things (or most important things in the world) that exist in other places I've lived. 

Scent of brewed coffee - I am currently sipping on a cup of caffeine brewed with beans that have arrived all the way from Durango Joe's in Farmington, NM, where Mackenzie was working as a barrista (it was one of the gifts in the bag the siblings brought with them). When I open the bag of coarse-ground beans, the aroma intoxicates me and I fly back to cold mornings playing hearts in the café with the family, trying to hear each other over the scream of the espresso machine's grinder, planning out all the events of the upcoming weekend and day. I think of dad mixing bags of beans in the kitchen at home before setting them in the percolator, searching for the perfect ratio to arrive at that optimal flavor and we prepare to all sit down for breakfast before the day's activities begin. There is the earthy, wooden smell of a morning at Uncle Paul and Aunt Mary Ann's house, or maybe a late afternoon or just-before-dusk, sinking into the sofa, listening to the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, talking about all the things that merit being talked about but oftentimes are set aside and forgotten by the world. I remember what it was like to walk into a coffee shop and have a huge spread of countries and choices, have a bunch of adjectives and promises that neither myself nor my taste buds could ever truly understand, but would tell ourselves we would one day. 

Winter Olympics - The closest anyone in Metoro will ever get to competing in a winter sport is buying and consuming an ice cream cone. Many won't even get that, since you have to go to a different city that has ice cream cones in the first place. However, the Olympics (I follow along via the news and some reruns online) bring me back to the magic of the world coming together to compete. Country vs. country. Passion. Pride. A healthy amount of patriotism, but not the kind that would ever get in the way of sharing a beer or a meal with someone. The thrill of watching the world's most extreme athletes competing in ways that demonstrate just how far we can push our bodies if we really give ourselves permission. Exploring all this with friends and family. Becoming inspired to grab some winter gear and begin training...in Colorado...because New Mexico doesn't really have snow.

Nalgene water bottle - look at all the stickers. I think back on where I got them all. Durango Outdoor Exchange. Boxing Bear Brewery. Peace Corps. Backpacker. Chaco Canyon. Durango Joe's. Each one tells a small story or offers a window into a specific place. I also remember trying to figure out the best plan of attack for stickering my water bottle, conferring with Mackenzie and Liza before beginning the process of plastering them on. 

My poetry book - Patrick and I have logged hundreds of hours during the day, night and every time in between writing and sharing our verses. For over a decade. On three (almost four) continents. Countless bookstores. The meaningful, old kind, where you walk in and can smell all of the stories before you read them and you know that the books have had just as exciting of a life as you, if not more so. Numerous cafés. The exciting, unknown kind that you walk into as a wanderer and try to make your own, to enter the energy and buzz of the place, to take everything you can from it to bring with you when you go.  Buses, cars and airplanes. Hotels, hostels and tents. Oceans and forests, but most importantly the deserts. Deserts in Prague, in Nicaragua, in Albuquerque, in Cabo Delgado. Deserts that sometimes we simply walk through and other times know they are home. Or we make them home. Writing is always water, flowing from the deepest parts of us. These notebooks take me back to everywhere at once as I slowly fill them up, each poem a melding of every memory before it. 

REPEL insect repellent - sometimes its called "deep woods" and I imagine what it would be like deep in the woods doing some of the things I haven't had a chance to do yet, like hiking the Appalachian or summitting some of Colorado's 14ers. I think back on some of the amazing hikes I have been able to do: Mount Washington, The Traverse, Telescope Peak. I remember how amazing my family is when it comes to the outdoors and encouraging us to camp, hike and explore. To adventure. To find our own way. I think of how much I miss the wilderness that is so accessible there in the U.S. and hope that the people I know and love there are taking advantage of it. I also look back to a world where name brands actually exists and are not simply apples and Nike swooshes sewn into whatever article of clothing that might be lacking. 

Books - I close my eyes and transport back to my library. To shelves full of knowledge and possibility and everything I could every want to know or not want to know or maybe never even know was something knowable. Possibilities. Histories. Ideas. Movements. Emotions. Ways to remember what it is like to be alive and ways to live without ever having left your chair. Books grow us and carry me daily to myriad locations far away from here. I also think of the sorrow of the situation for so many here where I live, in a place where education and books are not accessible, nor on one's mind. I become somber at the thought that so few here could ever share my passion for reading, when their primary daily goals center on feeding themselves and trying to find a way to lead a more comfortable life. 

Neighbors coming to chat with you on your porch - I think back on summers in Verdigre, Nebraska and the beautiful, entrapping sense of community found in such a small town. I remember the conversations on front porches as you take a break from your walk across town to step into the shade for a second because it's so hot and humid that you are already sweating rivers. Neighbors look out for each other, notice each other, talk to each other and have a genuine feeling that we are all in this together, come rain or shine. 

Burning charcoal on my outside stove - I inhale Prague on a bitter winter morning the first time I ever visited in 2012; by the second inhale I already knew that this was indeed a land I belonged to and would never be able to truly escape. Instantly comfortable in the cold, overcast haze, I listened to Robert as he told me that many people still burn coal here; it's just a lot cheaper. Smelling the coal burning in the streets as we walked through the market: grilled sausage and whole pigs rotating on a spit. Coal. So overwhelming and so welcoming, spiraling up into the brilliant white winter sky. Now, in Metoro, it's much warmer and accompanied by much less food, but the smell of coal will always bring me right back. 

Well, that's a long enough list for now, but suffice to say there are SO many small triggers that bring me back to other lives I have lead. Coconuts to Nicaragua. Red wine to Würzburg. Spicy food or homemade tortillas to New Mexico. I am so lucky to have such a wealth of experiences in my fount to draw from and, far from being a way of escaping the moment or the difficulties of present situations I find myself in, these memories serve as energizers and catalysts, boosting my soul and giving me the strength to thrive within and better appreciate my current home and any of the challenges that might accompany it. 

The beautiful wilderness of the Southwest

Vail, Colorado on a trip with Riley

UNM Lobos

A storm over Prague, with the towering St. Vitus Cathedral in the far distance

Salzburg, Austria on a trip visiting Johanna and her family

The Traverse hike in Ketchikan, Alaska

Como está, o Patrão?

I've never enjoyed being called "boss" in the United States and I don't like it here either. However, there is a huge difference between the "boss" of the U.S. and the "patrão" of Mozambique.

The American "boss" is usually meant somewhat sarcastically and is usually either said tongue-in-cheek or as an extremely informal, let's-be-buds-or-at-least-talk-like-we-are sorta fashion. It's annoying. When adults call me boss. When peers call me boss. When Siri or any sort of electronic voice meant to better my quality of life calls me boss. When my boss calls me boss (which somehow actually happens in our culture?!) Boss is bad anytime it's not said in the context of the workplace in the fashion and with the respect, but not compromising of dignity and agency, which which it was meant to be said.

In Mozambique, "patrão" is far from a simple, surface-level, chummy nickname. Patrão comes with all sorts of social, economical and oftentimes racial connotations, most of which are not maybe immediately obvious or consciously intended. Here I am "Patrão" because I am a white male, a foreigner perceived to have money. It's said oftentimes in an almost subservient manner and is almost always followed by a request for money, a job or any other necessity that the individual might have at the time. That's not to say that Mozambicans aren't called "patrão", because I know countless who are. But they have taken their "patrão" and often molded it into becoming their title. Their "patrão" is the result of them owning a car, employing others, firing others on a whim, wearing foreign clothing or accessories, walking with their shoulders back in a way that makes people think twice before approaching them and then affirming this indecision when they reply with short, cold phrases to anyone who starts a conversation. This doesn't paint a pretty picture of being a "patrão" here and that's because it isn't; my experience so far is that, aside from a very select few leaders who I respect, in a country in which poverty is such a problem those who have in some way risen above it tend to want to 1) make sure everyone knows, and 2) distance themselves from those who haven't. Like I said, this is by no means everyone.

You might be thinking this doesn't sound so different from in the U.S. I might respond by mentioning it could be interesting to study how the capitalism we tend to export around the world manifests itself in different countries and cultures. Fun fact: "boss" is one of the handful of English words adopted into and used by both the Portuguese and local language speakers at my site. It is important to quickly note that Portuguese colonialism has had a huge effect on everything we are discussing, as has current foreign investment that is heavily Asian and predominantly Chinese.

Without getting too deep into it all, I've never considered myself a boss in any language or country, nor have I up to this point had the desire to be identified as one. When and if I ever am, I would like it to be due to merit and I hope to be a both who sets himself apart from others who share the title through my treatment of and interactions with those who call me "boss"; every boss should first be a leader. That's not the case here. Here I am a boss to almost any stranger due to the color of my skin and the long list of conclusions it allows others to formulate about me. Unfortunately, there's not much that can be done about this, but to slowly attempt to break down stereotypes person by person.

"Muito bom dia! Como está, o Patrão?"
"Onde? E não sou patrão, mas estou bem...e você? Como vai?"

If anyone needed proof that this guy can't be taken seriously
enough to be called "patrão"...