No Hay Camino

    Over the past 13 months of living and working in Mozambique I’ve had to face many obstacles. As a result, I have come to an equal number of interesting and often exhausting realizations. As both a school teacher and a student of all things Mozambique, one of the biggest and most exhausting obstacles I am constantly struggling with is the lack of information available to the general public. I have come to the realization that the accessibility of information is one of the biggest and most notable privileges of living in a developed country. Schools, books, libraries, the internet, and even TV offer multitudes of information that is readily available in any first-world country. In the US, for example, information is practically thrown at us all day every day. Parents and teachers constantly expose children to books, TV programs, computers, and the internet. Even crayons, scissors, and paper help children develop their fine motor skills. Children growing up in developed countries cannot help but be affected by this constant overload of information. Youngsters in developing countries, however, do not have this advantage. Kids are lucky if their parents are literate let alone own books and read to them, and TVs and computers are even rarer. I constantly have kids coming over asking to look at books and draw. Teaching kids how to draw straight lines and circles, color in the lines, or use scissors are monumental tasks if they have never had any previous experience. Once children are in school this disparity continues to grow. If a student in a developed country doesn’t understand a concept or wants to know more about a certain topic, all they have to do is look it up on their smartphone or computer, or they could just pop over to their local library. Not to mention there’s that free, pesky k-12 education that most citizens of the first world are all forced to attend. The outlook on education and information is completely different in developing countries like Mozambique. Almost no one has access to the internet, only the rich kids have access to books, and only the lucky ones have the opportunity to graduate from the 12th grade.

Most towns in the United States have at least one if not two high schools and each state boasts hundreds. An easily accessible, quality high school education is one among many things citizens of first world countries, myself included, take for granted. In Mozambique, it wasn’t until the late 90’s/early 2000s that there existed even one secondary school through grade 12 in the state of Inhambane. Although the Secondary School of Cambine began in 1910 as part of the Methodist Mission, it wasn’t until 2002 that the school included 11th and 12th grade. Before 2002, if any student wanted to complete high school and continue onto university, they would have to travel to Maputo, an 8 hour drive. Not a likely occurrence considering costs and time. Now there are 19 schools offering instruction through grade 12 in Inhambane including the one located in Cambine. Still, as of 2009 although 90.7% of children enroll in primary school, only 14.7% of students enroll in secondary school, let alone graduate. And, according to USAID, this year (2015) only 11% of girls enroll in secondary school. And out of those already minuscule numbers, only a small portion actually graduate. Of course, when considering the obstacles many students must overcome in order to attend school, let alone graduate, I’m slightly surprised the numbers are so high. And this is coming from my experience working in one of the better schools in my area, the school where Eduardo Mondlane, the George Washington of Mozambique, attended. At least 20% of our students walk upwards of 10km (6.2 miles) to school which starts at 7 A.M. (dawn in the winter months) or 12 P.M. Then they have to walk home in the heat of the day at 12 PM or while the sun is setting at 5 PM. All of my students have morning classes. Some wake up at 4:30 AM so they have time to do their chores and walk to school. By 11:00 AM, all of my students are starving, tired, and unfocused. If a student misses class, getting the information is almost impossible and even if they are lucky enough to find the time to worry about it, they have no access to books or the internet, and their friends and teachers often live hours away.

After spending 14 months living in Mozambique, one would think that much of the novelty would have worn off. In some respects, this is true. In others, not so much. For example, the fact that I wake up at 5:00 AM every morning and teach around 200 students math in portuguese no longer contains the shock factor. During class I used to randomly find myself thinking “What the heck am I doing??? What idiot thought to trust ME with these kid’s education? In Portuguese!!!” Now it’s just another day at the office. Or when I ride a chapa and the driver tells me he’s fallen in love and wants to marry me I no longer stutter and throw out lame excuses. No, I like to confuse them with ridiculous lies such as I’ve got 2 husbands and 5 kids and don’t have time to take them on too. Or when they start talking about me in Xitswa, I no longer get uncomfortable and frustrated but smile and say something back to them. In xitswa. In other words, the day to day stuff that used to be difficult and frustrating has become just that; normal day to day stuff.

Of course, Mozambique still constantly throws me curve balls and I still often find myself miles outside of my comfort zone. Such as the staring. I’ve yet to figure out a universal response to the wide-eyed open-mouthed stares. The babies are the worst. Often they act completely hipnotised but sometimes it’s a scream-fest. Kids are adorable with their curiosity. They will hide behind bushes, trees and houses and watch me but as soon as I catch them and smile they start screaming with laughter, and run away to hide again. Other times it’s as if I’m a rock star but instead of pictures and autograghs, it’s pictures and hair-touching (Mozambicans love everything to do with hair). When I’m on the chapa (a pick-up truck with passengers holding on for dear life in the back) into town I find that the place I feel most secure is standing up by the truck cabin. And so, as the people walking in the road scramble to get out of the way as the chapa bears down on them, it is hard to miss the white person with bugs in her teeth and a white-knuckled grasp on the truck. For some reason, my students find it hilarious that I ride the chapa. And so, as I speed down the bumpy dirt road with students, other teachers and community members grabbing my shoulders and hugging my waist so they won’t fall out, getting dirt in my eyes, bugs in my teeth and losing any previously had concept of personal space I had, I feel like a queen as my students and neighbors laugh and scream my name when I pass.

The color of my skin is also a magnet for crazies. Or maybe they are not crazy but they act crazy around me. The last time I was in Morrumbene I had a guy come up to me on the street and tell me that it was his father’s dying wish that he marry someone like me and that I was his dream. This was as his girlfriend stood off to the side trying to disppear into the sidewalk. Talk about awkward. The drunk guys are the worst. When they are sober its bad and they don’t take a hint but if I ignore them for long enough or pretend I don’t speak english nor portuguese they’ll eventually go away. The drunks, however, become obsessed. One guy used to hang out at the market in between Cambine and Morrumbene and ambush me anytime I would pass through. After weeks of first politely listening to him, to politely telling him to go away, to rudely telling him to go away, to rudely pretending he didn’t exist he finally stopped asking me to sleep with him. The last time I saw him, he was crying because I continued to ignore him despite his drunken begging.

Living here in Mozambique is a strange thing. Strange because there is no adjective in any of the three languages that I speak semi-fluentley to describe exactly how I find it. The truth of the matter is that each and every day I feel and think and learn so many different things that my perception of the world is always turning topsy turvy. As most of you reading this can imagine, to broaden one’s view of the world is thrilling and wondrous but it is also like walking on constantly shifting sand; horribly slow, at times very difficult, and usually incredibly frustrating. I thought I might use this post to explain a few Mozambican cultural norms. I’m sure I’ll think of more cultural differences to write about in the future but for now I will start with a few customs I come into contact with on a daily basis.

CAPULANAS

One of my favorite Mozambican traditions is that of the capulana. A capulana is a highly versatile swath of colorful, patterned cloth that you can use for just about anything. It can be a wrap, be made into clothes, used as a head scarf or become a tablecloth. I have capulana curtains, capulana wall decorations,a  capulana head band, capulana earrings, a capulana tablecloth, I use a capulana as a bathrobe and of course I have several clothing items made from capulanas. Most communities have at least one seamstress, all of which I am convinced are magic workers. As long as you can describe it, they can make it.

SHARING/“ESTOU A PEDIR”

As a member of this community, the concept of sharing is wonderful. Most of the people who live in and around Cambine go through times of need and times of plenty. When someone or a family needs help, the whole community is there to support them. It is also considered very normal to “estou a pedir…” which literally translates to “I am asking for…”. This was one of the most shocking and frustrating things to get used to. In American culture it is rude to walk up to a colleague or an acquaintance and say something like “I am asking for your earrings.” or “I am asking for your chocolate.” This last example was my first experience with the infamous “estou a pedir”. All of you who know me can imagine my reaction and response to that one.

As a teacher in such a community, this whole concept of “what is yours is mine” can be a rather large problem as well, especially when it comes to test week. From the best to the worst student, everyone shares answers. And because for provincial exams I am not allowed to proctor my own tests, and the teachers who are supposed to be controlling the test often decide to spend most of the testing period outside socializing with the other teachers who should be controlling their classes, I have graded tests where basically the whole class has the same, usually wrong, answer. They also share desks or are forced to sit close together on the floor, which compounds the issue. During the exams I have controlled, my students have now realized that I have zero tolerance for cheating and have begun to get creative. I’ve caught students sharing tests, hiding cheat sheets in capulanas, hiding cheat sheets between pieces of scratch paper, hiding cheat sheets or notebooks under their desks, cheating off of cheat sheets with notes for the wrong class (it was a physics test and this student was using a cheat sheet for geography), using their leg as a cheat sheet, and my personal favorite, using their flip flops as cheat sheets. And this was all during the first trimester. Their creativity in this area somewhat scares me.

Of course sometimes the “estou a pedir” is inredibly useful. I am learning to “estou a pedir” help all of the time. One particular instance that demonstrates this integral part of the Mozambiquan tradition of helping and sharing is burned into my brain. I had just gotten back from grocery shopping in Maxixe on the last chapa one Saturday. It was starting to get dark and I was exhausted from lugging my backpack and two bags filled with edible loot home on the long, bumpy ride. I got to my front porch and started searching for my keys. After 15 minutes of fruitlessly and desperately tearing my bags apart looking for any little flash of metal to indicate that I did indeed have them, I reached the conclusion that I must have left them in Maxixe. Luckily I have two spare sets. Unfotnately, one set was with my housekeeper who lives in another village and who wasn’t answering her phone, and the other set was inside the house in a tin can with a small pile of othe. It was at that time that my neighbor, the director of the boys boarding school, came accross me and asked me how I was. Being tired, hungry, frustrated, and a bit scared, I promptly burst into tears and between hicups and tears I spilled the whole horrid story. He and his wife are some of my closest friends and have taken to calling me “Rebeccinha”, as a sort of endearment. So when I was finally done outlining my folly, he just chuckled and said “Oh Rebeccinha” then assured me that we would find a way to get me into my house so I wouldn’t have to sleep outside. By this time it was fully dark and I was miserable, but after several failed attempts to break into my own home we managed to get in and get the a spare set of keys.I of course offered him my most prized posession in return, my chocolate stash. The best part of this memory was that I didn’t even have to “estou a pedir” help. It was just assumed he would help me. I was one of them and they take care of their own.

“COM LISENÇA”

Another one of the things I have had a rather hard time getting used to is the “com lisença”, which roughly translated means “with permission”. In Mozambique, when someone comes to your house, what is considered polite is to stand a few feet from the door and say “with permission”, patiently wait a few minutes then try again. If the person does not answer, you gracefully walk away. In my experience, however, this is not what usually happens. When confronted with a large quantity of humans between the ages of 7 and 25 patience, politely waiting for a response, and giving up easily when they want something bad enough are not commonly done.

For example, if students come looking for help with schoolwork and I am bathing. My bathhouse is a small, old, enclosed area out back made of woven banana leaves with no roof. Three sides have held up relatively well and the one side that is falling down faces my metal fence so noone can easily look in and see me. However, when one is bathing and a group of students start casing your house “com licença"ing as loud as they can without actually yelling and banging on your door, a flimsy old banana tree leaf does not make one feel entirly comfortable when it is the only thing standing between their nudity and a bunch of high school students. And once one anwers their somewhat desperate sounding calls and says that they are bathing (a.k.a. naked) and can’t help them at the moment and they immediatly respond that it is ok they can just wait right on the other side of the old, holey fence for you, it starts to get rather frustrating (I made them leave and come back in an hour the first time. And also the second, third, fourth, and fifth times.).

Also imagine it being five O'clock A.M. Saturday or Sunday morning and they are standing outside of my bedroom window yelling “com licença” to “estou a pedir” if I can unlock my water spiget for them to use (the one I pay for on a volunteer salary). Or all the times I happen to not be home so obviously I was “fugiring” (one of my favorite portuguese words that means “to hide”) because obviuosly I have nothing going on besides waiting around my house so that I can have conversations with them about matters of the utmost importance such as tampons and letting them have some of my flour or oil. And by “nothing going on” I mean of course what with 24 hours of math and chemistry instruction a week along with two two hour long girls soccer team practices, a grassroots soccer program and helping out with homework and such at the orphanage whenever I can, I have plenty of time to wait around my house for someone to come by and ask me about tampons. “Com licença” has quickly become one of my least favorite portuguese phrases.

“DEMORAR”

Nothing quite describes the Mozambican atmosphere quite like this word meaning to tarry, loiter, or linger. Here, there is no such thing as a bus time table, class always starts at least 15 minutes late, and meetings will start at least an hour after the scheduled time. The first of the girls to arrive at soccer practice will show up at 2:30 p.m. when practice supposidly starts at 2:00 p.m., waiting in line at the ATM machine is often an all-afternoon affair because people will take between 5 and 10 minutes to withdraw money and there are 15 people in line, and getting any community program started is slower than molassas.

The first time I went to pay my electricity bill for example. I stupidly went to Morrumbane the day before the payment was due, after teaching, and planned to do a little food shopping after stopping by the electricity office. After waiting for three and a half hours with a deseptively short line (every person had stacks of bills they were paying for their famly, friends, and neighbors), I finally arrived at the last switchback. Everyone was trying to find their true place in line or pretend to hold a spot farther up. I, being the one white person in all of this mess, garnered way too much attention and attracted several cutters. All of us were hungry, tired, and frustrated but even so, the people around me in line defended me. All this commotion attracted the attention of the one security guard who sauntered over and began to accuse me of cutting in line. Before I could even come to my own defense all the people surrounding me in line jumped to defend me. After the guard walked away I thanked everyone for speaking up for me. Immediately, the guard came back over, pointed to me and said “You! Come with me.” I, thinking the worst, froze but the guard, reading my expression, only smiled and said “It’s your turn now.” I was completely taken aback and pointed out that everyone in front of me had been waiting for so much longer and that I didn’t think it was fair. Everyone still in line was obviously eavsdropping and one of the laddies in line in front of me explained “You thanked us so now we are thanking you!” at which time everyone else in line agreed and pushed me up to the front. It was a very pleasent end to a perfectly horrible afternoon and it completely restored my faith in Mozambique and humanity simultaneously.

OTHER FAVORITE PHRASES:

1.“fugir”= to hide or runaway

    ex: My last period class was only halfway full because the students get hungry and fugir.

2. “brincar”= goofing off or hanging out

    ex: Children prefer to brincar over doing their homework.

3. “shiki-shiki”= Dressed fashionably

    ex: She is always so shiki-shiki!

4. “maningui nice”= Really great, beautiful, or handsome

    ex: That girl is maningui nice (hot).

5. “fofocar”= to gossip

    ex: The market ladies are always fofocaring.

6. “Matar Saldades”= Literally translated this phrase means “to kill the grieving”. Basically when you are missing someone and you see them again, you kill the loneliness you feel without them.

    ex: I cannot wait to matar saldades of my sister when she comes this December!

7. “Molungo”= Xitswa for white. Used to refer to people with white skin.

    ex. Look at that Molungo riding the chapa!

8. “Mulandi”= Xitswa for black. I use it as a response for someone calling me molungo.

    ex. Hey mulandi! I know you’re speaking about me!

9. “Ishona”= Xitswa for truth. Also used to say “OK” or “it’s all good”

    ex. “I’m going into town to buy milk.”

         "Ishona.“

10. “Wahemba”= Xitswa for lie.

    ex. “Hey molungo, you are going to marry me.”

         "Wahemba!“

11. "Pasear”= To wander

    ex. “Hey! Where are you going now?”

When I left the USA to come to Mozambique, I like to think I was a pretty well adjusted and competent 23 year-old. However, when I arrived, I realized that though that may have been true in America, it was far from true in Mozambique. As soon as I stepped off that plane in Maputo, I was treated as if I were a small child and I soon realized that I was, in fact, as incompetent as a baby. My first taste of my new status was when we weren’t allowed to leave the hotel premises for the first three days in country because our supervisors were worried we would get ourselves seriously injured or killed. At that time their worry seemed rather excessive but, well, the hotel had a pool, a restaurant, a bar, and we had about 600 meticais (about $20) to blow, which goes a surprisingly long way when you are caged in a hotel. Needless to say we had plenty to keep us occupied and didn’t question our situation all that much. Then we went to Namaacha for our 10 weeks of training and were walked home by our host families. That is when I truly realized what a child I was. With basically no electricity, no running water and a crumbling house, it was all I could do to get myself dressed in the morning and even then, my host mom would sometimes take one look at me, shake her head and tell me that even that I hadn’t done correctly. That first day I learned that I knew absolutely nothing about how to care for myself here. I had to relearn how to talk, how to bathe, how to cook, how to eat, how to wash cloths and dishes, how to clean a house, how to make friends and be in social situations and even how to use the toilet/latrine. The only thing that assured me that I was still on earth with fellow human beings and not on Mars with aliens was that I still knew how to walk. Everything else had changed.

I have been in Maputo maybe six or seven times since I arrived in Mozambique and I believe my progression towards independence can be clearly seen in the circumstances of each visit. During that first visit, when I was newly arrived, I was about the equivalent of a Mozambican fetus, not yet aware of the world around me. I had no clue about what awaited me and I had no idea that I should even expect such a difference, let alone what to expect. I was coddled and safely kept away from the world that could hurt my completely ignorant self.

After a couple of weeks of training, all of us “brancos” were shuffled into several white vans and were again shipped off to Maputo for the day. This time I had some idea of the world around me but I still viewed everything with new eyes filled with awe and not a small amount of fear. We were forced to stay in our language class groups of around 5 volunteers and one Mozambican language instructor. For that first part of training, these were the people we saw the most and in many ways, these volunteers became like my brothers and sisters and our language instructor became almost like our parent. I remember jumpily walking the streets of Maputo in my small group, tightly clutching my bag in front of me and glaring suspiciously at anyone who was not part of my “family”. That trip I ate pizza, walked in open-mouthed wonder around Casa Elephante, the small capulana store that shortly put me in a stupor with an overstimulation of too many colorful swaths of fabric, and bought a cell phone. It was as if we were children, just discovering how big, wonderful, and scary our new world was.

The third time I was in Maputo was the day before site visits and the Peace Corps allowed those of  us travelling long distances by car or who had early flights to spend the night in Maputo. Alone. It was like being left home alone and, for the first time, there was no babysitter. We were shown all of the Peace Corps haunts by a third-year volunteer living in the city who I saw as a sort of Peace Corps big sister. Needless to say, we ate lots of junk food at the international food festival and stayed out way too late at “teacher’s bar”, the bar that no one knows the name of but sells the cheapest beer. That was our first taste of independence in Mozambique.

The next time we went to Maputo was the day before site placements and I was chaffing for my independence. I thought I knew everything I needed to and I was done with “Big Brother”(as we all fondly referred to the Peace Corps) constantly looking over my shoulder. I just wanted to start my Mozambican life. In other words, I was acting like a teenager counting down the days before I “left the nest”. That time we again travelled with our language groups to the arts and crafts market, the Peace Corps Office, and again to Casa Elephante.

The fifth time I went to Maputo was after training for Swearing In and the Southern Supervisor’s Conference on my way to my site. Honestly, I felt like I was leaving for university again. It was the last time I would be with all of my “family” until our Mid-Service Conference the next January, a year and a month away, so obviously there was an undercurrent of sadness, but at the same time, everyone felt ready. We felt confident enough and capable enough to walk the streets of Maputo without a “parent” or “older sibling”. We were relieved to have made it so far (only two of our number didn’t) and excited/nervous to start our independent lives and work in Mozambique.

I love my site. I’ve been called crazy for enjoying living here and I’ve been commended for it. There are some really great things about Cambine, not the least of which is the history. It is located in the district of Morrumbene and is about a half an hour north of Maxixe, one of the three largest cities in Inhambane province, and a half an hour to 45 minutes inland on a bumpy dirt road that changes every time it rains. In portuguese, Cambine is classified as a “localidade”, too small to be called a town (“vila”) but big enough to have it’s own name. It began as an American methodist mission station, and the first Methodist mission in Mozambique exactly 125 years ago in December. Back when Mozambique was still a Portuguese colony, and the province of Inhambane was considered but a district, these American missionaries chose Cambine as the location of their mission over Mongue, another nearby localidade that has since housed a Catholic mission, because of the spring that still exists here. I spoke to David Cumbe, the grandson of one of the two stonesmiths who built the secondary school, where I now work, and the oldest buildings still standing under the tutelage of an american engineer around the year 1925. In December 1990 the second President of Mozambique, Joaquim Alberto Chissano (president from 6 November 1986-2 February 2005), a Methodist himself, visited Cambine to celebrate 100 years of Methodism in Mozambique in the place Mozambican Methodism began. However, he was only the second important mozambican political figure to set foot on Cambine soil. It was here that the founder and first president of Frelimo, the ruling political party here in Mozambique, Eduardo Mondlane(1920-1969), attended secondary school.

On top of this incredible history, the aesthetics only add to Cambine’s charm. Imagine rolling hills covered in thick, heavy sand mixed with light brown dirt. Imagine rows upon rows of towering coconut trees lining those beige hills. Picture every type of perfectly rounded mango tree scattered unevenly among the rows of coconut trees with a few cashew nut trees sprinkled in with lemon trees and the occasional avocado tree or masala tree. Picture passion fruit vines twining among the different trees, connecting everything together and adding bright spots of yellow to all of the greens and browns. Now, imagine a thick dutsy green carpet of wild grass and weeds. In the valley between two hills picture a small spring that rises lazily from the earth and meanders through the thick greenery it gives life to and sustains.

Imagine several monkeys swinging through the trees down by the nascente, the place the water springs from the ground. Below the thick canopy, the women wash their clothes to monkey calls and bird songs. Further down the river the men bathe and water their cattle and even further down you can find that for a moment only, the gentle spring turns into a raging river where the water clamors to fit through the dam, where the first electricity in Cambine was harvested. Along the river and along the hillsides, imagine snails with shells bigger than your hands and tiny black mambas that with one bite can end the life of a man. Imagine cockroaches three inches long and millions of tiny mosquitoes carrying diseases that have caused the death of more people in Africa than any other animal. Imagine grasshoppers as big as a small bird with wings the color of a campfire and thousands of fruit bats rising into the air as one, creating a cloud so big and thick it can block out the sun.

Now picture a spider web network of sandy trails connecting a smattering of small rectangle shaped concrete and “Kiniso” or reed houses on the hills lining the valley. All are decorated with sandy, peeling paint and sky blue windows and doors. Some have caved-in roofs with broken doors and absent windows, and some have been carefully tended to so though they are old, they still give the shelter they were built to provide. Some have fences made of woven banana tree leaves, called macute, and all have small huts outside made for cooking on charcoal or wood. In the center of all these old buildings is the methodist church, a bright orange, new building that, in accordance with it’s importance in the community, has been well cared for over the years. Just a few minute walk down the hill from the new church, the buzzing hospital building, the restored theological school building, the old, unstable church, and the old schoolhouse where Mondlane attended his classes and where I now teach rest. From a distance, these charming stone buildings lining the dirt lane and surrounded by flowers from trees and bushes look like something out of Beauty and the Beast but on closer inspection, the missing windows, the broken chalk boards, the doors that refuse to close all the way and the missing roof tiles become apparent.

The slight breeze chills my nose and ears but my brisk pace up the long hill from my host family’s small concrete house into town keeps me from shivering in my thin capulana dress. The early morning sunlight beats down on my head, warming my hair and promising a hot day ahead. I have a half an hour walk ahead of me and it is 7:15. Class begins strictly at 7:30 but since we are on Mozambican time, which is eerily similar to island time, I will most likely still arrive early. I glance up from my feet, which are permanently caked in the red-brown dust that makes up most of the roads through town, and glance at the small, blond trainee walking at my side. Annie, my walking buddy, my Namaacha neighbor, and my rock throughout training, glances back at me and smiles nervously. I wonder over the fact that two months prior I had never met this amazing person who has quickly become one of my best friends.

“Where do you think you’ll end up?”

I glance around at the slightly crumbling cement houses and sparse trees lining the dusty road while I contemplate that terrifying, looming question that all of us 55 volunteers in training have been obsessing over since arriving in Mozambique. The question that will never have to be asked again after today. The answer to which will determine my life for the next two years. A shiver of nervous anticipation runs down my spine. After today I can let excitement take the place of my almost overwhelming fear of the unknown. After today I can start making plans. After today this crazy life in mozambique becomes real.

Today is what we call an IFP day. Once every week this beloved and hated day comes around. Beloved because it is the one day all 55 trainees from all disciplines and neighborhoods get to study together. Unfortunately it is also always painfully boring, filled with long powerpoint presentations, theoretical discussions and endless skits and presentations in both portuguese and english. Today I know will be more than painful. It will be torturous. Today I will learn which discipline I will teach, if I will have easy access to water, if I will have electricity. Today is the day I find out which friends I will continue to see regularly and which members of my “government issued family” I might only see once in the next two years. Today, everything changes. Because today, at the end of the day, we receive our site placements.

The day passes slower than usual. 8:00. The presenters could have been speaking Changana, the local language of the region, and I wouldn’t have noticed. 10:00. We are all distracted and subdued, staring at the clock and watching the minutes tick slowly by. 12:00. Lunch. The anticipation becomes more and more tangible. 2:00. I can taste it, like stale bread, soaking all of the moisture from my mouth and leaving a strange, though not entirely unpleasant taste behind. 3:00. 3:15. 3:30. 3:40. 3:50. 3:55. 4:00. It’s time.

I am pretty sure that as freshman in college, no matter the location or the people, the most common small-talk-question is “what is your major?”. I can’t recall the number of times I was asked that question but I remember being heartily sick of it by the end of the first day of orientation. Looking back, I believe the cause of my annoyance with that specific question was at least in part because of my answer; undeclared. In my young, confused mind, that boring, common, indecisive answer gave the most horrible first impression; that of being boring, common and indecisive. And, just like most young people when leaving the nest for the first time, all I really wanted was to be perceived as exciting, unique, and confident.