Small Developments

This week has been one of progress in lots of ways. Its now Sunday morning and my body hurts all over, but I'll put that down to how hard I'm working.

For those of you following the animal news- I've buried 2 more dogs who both curled up and died of the same mysterious illness. The last remaining one has some growths on his back and legs and is starting to look a bit pathetic too. The cat is still heroic as ever.

Anyway, we've been trying to meet more people and get involved in some things this week. And what better place to start than the pub? Last Sunday we went to 'Branco Bar' (translates as 'white bar', reflecting the colour of its walls and the origin of its owner rather than an entry requirement) for a couple of early afternoon pints. The bar consists of a small shop inside where you can buy groceries and cold drinks. The seating area is a kind of paved patio out the front, partly shaded by a couple of large umbrellas and a mango tree. When we got there the only folk there were the manager and his drunk brother Manuel, a couple of old guys sitting quietly in the corner with their bottle of gin and a couple of excitable middle-aged women gesticulating their bingo-wings. Drunk brother Manuel wandered up to try and chat up Celisse and cursed the cat that was casually wandering about (I think it was a different cat to the one we have here at the hotel but with similar colours and the same arrogant swagger, who knows?). His brother spoke a couple of words of English but didn't get involved. The old guys just smiled quietly in the corner and went back to their gin. But then up came Muaco, an english teacher at the school who had spent a few years in Malawi and acted as our translator with drunk brother Manuel and bingo-women who followed him in cackling to themselves. Muaco taught English and Portuguese to primary school kids in Mossuril and asked us to come and help. We bought him a coke and agreed to come along. To once again reflect the similarities with back home, some of the most useful and interesting people you meet are in pubs.

And so it was that at 6.55am on Tuesday morning we met Muaco outside the school and followed him into class. The primary school is made up of several large airy classrooms surrounding a small courtyard. The secondary school next door was rebuilt a couple of years ago and is large and shiny but the primary school still looks a bit haggered. After introducing ourselves to the headmaster we walked into class and were met by about 30 pairs of brown eyes ranging in age from 8 to 18. Grades in Mozambique are based entirely on academic achievement and never on age. Because of the war, incomplete education and inability to pay for school every year, there are people in their mid-20s still in primary school. By the time we had introduced ourselves to the class and sat at a desk in amongst the class (Muaco wanted us to assess his teaching technique and give him advice) there was a stream of latecomers wandering into the class which reached 58 students by 20 minutes into the lesson. The class was an hour and a half long and focused on modes of transport. Muaco was able to control his class very well and there is a high level of respect for elders and teachers in this culture. I was struck by the pupils willingness to volunteer to speak and conduct conversation role-plays and it seemed they were picking it up. Then at 8.30 a man outside repeatedly hit a metal rod against a metal hub-cap hanging from a tree in the courtyard. That was the bell. Muaco asked if we were able to join him in his next class so we wandered into another classroom, this time slightly smaller, with much older students and still numbering over 50 of them. This was the second 'stream' the same class but split on the basis of age and ability. After we had introduced ourselves there was a knock at the door, about 10 of the pupils from the first class had a free period and wanted to come and learn the same class again, mostly due to the presence of Celisse. I made this assumption on the basis of our introductions. In both classes we stood at the front, said our names and where we were from and Muaco invited any questions. In both classes there was only one, it was the same one and it was directed only to Celisse. “Sinhora, are you married?”, upon hearing that she wasn't, every one of them had a vested interest in showing their proficiency in the English language. You can have all the bells, whistles and educational incentives you want but put a single woman that the boys fancy and the girls want to speak to in a classroom and you are guaranteed to get results! Its for this reason that Celisse was asked to help out with teaching and extra tutoring on a semi-regular basis and I tried to save face by muttering that I was very busy with other stuff anyway.

My man-flu hasn't really eased off either. Headaches, sweats and exhaustion led me to think that I might have malaria so me and one of the waiters here at the hotel walked to the hospital to get me checked out. I don't know whether its a throwback to its socialist heritage or just its effective governance now but Mozambique has particularly good provision of public services. The hospital set up is as impressive as that of the schools. Since I was here last summer, two new wings of the hospital have been built with builders frantically working on a third. The cost of seeing the doctor is 2 pence, it doesn't matter how poor you are, you can afford 2 pence to see the doctor. The doctor saw me immediately and spoke fairly good english, reducing the need for Waese the waiter to translate (or me to attempt my portuguese). He explained that the power was off so I'd have to sit and wait a bit longer for the manual test to be conducted. He sent me through to another room where a different doctor pricked my finger and dripped blood onto a small plastic instrument, followed by some clear solution. He shook it for 10 minutes and looked at me in the same way that a school nurse might look at you if you're screaming and bawling over a scratch on your knee. “Negativo” he announced with feigned surprise and ushered me out of the room with a scribbled and stamped (you can't get anywhere in Mozambique without an official stamp) note to take back to the original doctor. I was prescribed a cocktail of different pills and tablets, some of which I recognised as paracetamol and vitamin tablets, some of which I just trusted him on, and went to pay. Prescription charges are set at 10p in Mozambique, regardless of amount or type of medication. This also includes the charge to see the doctor as this would only apply as an extra if he didn't prescribe anything. Therefore my 10 day supply of cough and cold medicine and the reassurance that I don't have malaria is most definitely within the average Mozambicans budget.

In terms of life here at the hotel, its still coming along. Work is continuing on a couple of dorm rooms in the back courtyard to house volunteers and a turning circle is being prepared in the carpark to improve access. There is still no running water but well water is carried up every morning to be used in the kitchen and bathrooms and boiled to make it safe for drinking. Work hasn't started on doing up the mud-hut I'm set to move into as the family who sold it are still waiting for their new house to be built before they can move out. We're chipping in with helping in the kitchen, washing clothes and trying to keep the place running. Guests are intermittent but the staff are more than capable of dealing with them when they do turn up. I still have impressive tan-lines (read burn-lines) on my arms from washing clothes in a bucket the other day. Its amazing how much you appreciate washing machines when you have to scrub every item of clothing individually in a cold-water basin with a packet of soap suds before rinsing it, wringing it and hanging it up.

Anyway, I suppose I better speak a bit about the subject of this blog. In terms of work this week, funding applications have continued, thus far without reply. I've approached various car manufacturers asking for charity rates on a solid vehicle that won't destroy itself in a couple of months as others have consistently done. In return I'm offering a platform for improving their reputation for corporate social responsibility and, assuming their vehicle does indeed survive, the ability to base an advertising campaign around the boast that their car can survive in some of the most inhospitable places in the world (inhospitable in terms of roads, otherwise really quite hospitable) and increase their sales in the region and the lucrative NGO vehicle market. I reckon its quite a good deal but then I'm not the one being asked to donate a brand new off-road vehicle.

The African Development Bank has various loans for microfinance development and business creation but they are all focused on the private sector and are out of the reach of NGOs such as ourselves. The uncertain and unaccountable nature of NGO work means that banking institutions are not always happy to lend money to them and without a large presence in the western world, funding is few and far between. I'm planning to approach state-based development organisations in the next week in the hope that we can link in with some of their business interests in the region and help to improve bilateral relations between themselves and Mozambique. Its an awful lot off writing letters and finding email addresses and the nature of the industry is that one reply out of a hundred requests is a good return. Ah well, keep on trucking.

On the home front, requests have been trickling in as always. A former nurse wants to set up a chemist's shop, hopefully the only well-stocked one in a 200km radius. A guard wants to set up a fish shop and a teacher wants to set up a chicken farm. But until we know portuguese, have money and can transfer it easily those are nothing more than good intentions.

One business which is doing very well in Mossuril is an aloe-based industry owned by two Belgians. Bel-Moz makes brandy, after dinner digestives (the drinks, not the biscuits) and cosmetics and shower gels from predominantly aloe plants. They came to Mossuril 7 years ago and have built the business up from then. Most of the raw materials they use is produced locally and people are paid a fair per-kilo price for providing plants and making packaging materials. There is a special price for local people to buy the products, a fraction of what it costs to anyone outside Mossuril and no products are being exported outside Mozambique, thus returning all profits and returns within the country. Its organic, without chemicals and fair trade. If they did export to the West they would make an absolute bomb, I think they're pretty happy keeping it simple here in Mozambique though. As we were leaving we saw a guy hollowing out a huge tree truck into what looked like some kind of canoe. We assumed it was just a heavy boat until it was explained that this was one of two bathtubs for the house. If you have a nice house, a thriving business and two solid, polished wood bathtubs why would you want to live anywhere else?

Which brings us up to yesterday afternoon. Muaco said he would speak to the organiser of the football team that I had known only as 'Os Professores', the teachers. I was asked to come along for a training session and that Muaco would pick me up at 3pm. At 4.30pm he wandered up and explained that the game only starts when people are ready. Despite their name 'the teachers' are made up mostly of students, probably between 18 and 25, with a couple of older guys thrown in too. I've played football in Africa before and I've played in teams where very little English is spoken. What I haven't played in is a game where nobody speaks English and very few people communicate even in Portuguese, preferring the tribal language Makua. I've also never played on a pitch which is predominantly made of soft sand and where solid ground is concentrated on the paths which are walked across the pitch when its not in use. A game like this requires the tactical consideration of more than just passing and moving. It requires working around large patches of sand, it means that most goals are scored from close range and in the air. It means that the long ball game is vastly favoured as passing along the ground is the most uncertain game that can be played. It was a huge education to me in how different football can be from what I know.

I walked up to the pitch with Muaco, put my boots on and knocked about the ball for a bit. Muaco assured me he would look after my shoes while I was playing. He used to play in goal but hasn't recovered from an injury he sustained 6 months ago. We walked up to meet the organiser and get his blessing that I was allowed to play. I was given a red and yellow striped shirt and explained that I would feel happiest at centre-back. No bother, I went and stood there and sank six inches into the sand. The goal mouth was like wading through treacle. Initial exchanges showed the this was a very physical game and mostly based around marauding runs up the wings (where most of the grass happened to be). I did as best as I could and put in a couple of early crunching tackles to try and show I wasn't just the token white boy. We went one-nil up with a break-away run from the wee guy upfront. They hit back with a crossed in ball met with looping header from the guy I was meant to be marking. Thats how it stayed until half-time. The crowd was slightly more populated than the average Unst FC game, probably 30 or 40 folk, mostly old men. The half-time team-talk was scarily similar to Unst FC. We sat down on the pitch and listened to the best player giving tactical advice and using his hands a lot to signify runs and positioning. Once in a while one of the other assembled company of fans and old men would give their opinion of what needed to be done being met with mixed responses of silent agreement or vocal abuse. Not that I understood a word that was said as it was all in Makua. Muaco came up with my shoes and reassured me that I was doing alright and the old guys weren't entirely unimpressed. I looked around to try and locate water and didn't see any in sight. I could feel the factor 50 sweating off my face and it was only my total covering of dirt and sand on my legs and arms that was saving them from a similar fate. After my relatively productive performance at centre-back in the first half, I was pushed up to centre-midfield in the second and had to contend with the sand pit of a centre-circle. Half-way through the second half I couldn't move and they pushed me upfront to try and get something out of me. Apart from a couple of free-kicks gained and a spectacular collision with their goalkeeper, I had very little further influence on the game. Their captain (the tall quiet organiser) knocked in the winner with about 10 minutes left and my first game for 'os professores' ended in a defeat. I wasn't invited to go with them for an away game today but was asked back to training on Tuesday. I suspect I'm going to have to gain some serious fitness before I become a regular feature in the team.

Since this is surely my longest blog entry yet i'll maybe leave it at that. As I said before, this week will once again be spent begging for large sums of money and trying to get a car. Verb conjugations are coming along and on Tuesday we've been invited to go to a primary school portuguese class which might also be a plan. I'm intending to spend today watching the old-firm game on BBC text, swimming in the sea and trying to recover full movement in my legs. Lazy Sunday afternoon.