It Doesn't Have to Be Like This

While I was sitting in the book group circle, chatting and sipping on a glass of red wine, my phone rang. It was a number I didn't recognize so I thought I should answer it. I excused myself and stepped out into the hallway.
"Hello teacher, this is Arinaldo."
"Hi, Arinaldo. How are you?"
"Not so good, teacher. I am calling to tell you that we can't come to class tomorrow. We lost one of our classmates."
"What? Who?"
"Augusto."
"How? What happened?"
"He was so bad, teacher. "
"He was sick?"
"Yes."
My mind was going a mile a minute. What do I say? What do I do? Arinaldo told me about the plans for the funeral and we planned to meet the following day at the university. As I hung up the phone and looked back at the circle of women, I decided to hold it together and just get through the rest of the evening. I couldn't even picture his face in my mind. With over 100 students, I don't know all of their names, especially when they are not standing in front of me. That bothered me. I should know their names.
I faked my way through casual conversations and finally it was time to go. My friend Laura and I drove together, so as we got in the car, I took a deep breath and said, "One of my students died." As soon as the words came out, I broke down. A flood of emotion washed over me as I thought about his family and the fact that he was so young - a first year student, so probably 18 or 19. At the same time, I became overwhelemed with the bigger picture. Young people die here all the time, and it's unnecessary. People here have to deal with this grief far too often. Every once in a while, the suffering slaps you in the face - maybe you see a hearse with a tiny casket in the back, or you see a large crowd outside a cemetery, or an acquaintaince tells you a tragic story. But those moments are fleeting. This one was not. All of it hit me at once on that car ride home and the tears would not stop streaming down my face. This time the loss was personal.
The next morning, as I rode to school, I suddenly reaslized that I would have to face his classmates that afternoon. I'm the leader of the class, I should provide support, but how can I do that when I am an emotional wreck myself? I just kept thinking over and over, "I was not prepared for this." Never in a million years did I think that I would have to sit down with my students and tell them that their classmate is dead, and that I would have to be someone who helps them cope. I wouldn't have the slighest idea how to handle this in the US, let alone in another country with a completely different culture.
As I walked to the classroom, I still didn't have a clear plan in my head. I was greeted by a group of male students who were standing in a circle. They were there to give the news to those who didn't know and collect money for the family, which is customary. They were also giving directions to his house so that those who wanted to could pay their respects. I was amazed by their poise in the face of such tragedy. They were sad yet practical. Unfortunately, these kids know all too well how to handle such situations.
Those students who wanted to stay and talk, did. We sat in a circle and they explained their traditions when a person dies and we discussed why so many young people die in Angola. One student said, "We are not living here, we are surviving." Another chimed in, "This is a rich country. It doesn't have to be this way."

I apprehensively entered the funeral, which was a patch of dirt surrounded by houses of crumbling concrete. I struggled to keep my balance as my heels dug into the sand and rocks. The singing is what his me first. A ring of women surrounded the casket, swaying back and forth, melodically repeating the verses of their hymns. I made my way through the crowd toward the closed casket. As soon as I saw the photo, I knew exactly who he was and and could picture where he always sat in the classroom. A tall, skinny kid with a noticeable gap in his two front teeth. I saw it often since he was almost always smiling. I could now see his face vividly in my mind, which for a split second, made me happy, and then terribly sad. His mother, who bares shocking resemblance to him, looked far too young to have a 21-year-old son. She sat next to the casket, gripping one of his shirts and sobbing. I knelt down and kissed both of her cheeks, but didn't know what to say. She wouldn't have heard me over the singing anyway. I looked over at his classmates as they cried and consoled each other.
Eventually, it was time for the burial. Augusto was not only a student, but also a teacher at a high school. His students lifted the casket and carried it to the street. His family and friends followed, some crying so hard, they could barely walk. The singing resumed and we all jumped in our cars and taxis to begin the journey to the cemetery. There the sounds of sadness grew even more intense. As his loved ones watched his body enter the ground, the collective wailing was almost too much to bear. I watched from a close distance as two men carried a seemingly lifeless woman out of the crowd and laid her down under a tree. Just as they were trying to revive here by splashing water on her face, another body emerged and joined her in the shade. Their minds so overwhelmed with grief that their bodies simply shut down.
Finally, everyone was out of tears and it was time to go. As I walked away from Augusto's burial site, past the unmarked mounds of orange dirt, two girls in my class rushed to catch up to me. They came up on either side of me, not saying a word, and each took one of my arms and linked it with theirs. And so we left the cemetery, arm in arm, silently wondering.....why does it have to be like this?

Return to Normalcy

No more parties, predictions, or anxiety. Election season is officially over. With over 70% of the vote, the ruling MPLA enjoyed an expected landslide victory. Voting day was remarkably uneventful and Luanda was eerily tranquil. The ubiquitous blue and white condugeiros (shared taxi vans) were nowhere to be seen on this national holiday as Angolans walked calmly to their neighborhood polling stations. There were no reports of violence or political protests, not even when the unofficial results were announced over the weekend. As the last of the campaign flags and banners wither away, things are getting back to normal around here. I'm happily back in my office, which I was kicked out of last week becaus the building was a polling site. I should have known something was up when they shut off the power in the room. A few hours later, a man from the dean's office informed me that I had to be "out in 5 minutes." Ok, so it takes a month to get a new box of chalk, but now you need me out in 5 minutes? Sure.
Classes resume next week, and I can't wait. This past month has not been easy. Teaching gives me a sense of purpose. When I am in the classroom, I am in control and I forget about the every day stresses and confusion here. I know what's going on and I can plan for the next day and the day after that. Everything else here is so unpredictable. I miss my students and the crazy things they say that make me laugh. Unfortunately, now the semester will be very short - only 3 months - so we have a lot of work to do.

Here is a story from BBC news about the election:
Angola: Promises Temper Election Victory

This is the new waterfront in Luanda, the marginal. I'm sure the grass and trees were imported as I have never seen either growing naturally anywhere else in the city. Coincidentally, this major construction project was finished and innaugurated by the president 3 days before the election. 

However....

most of the city still looks like this 

A Ray of Hope

Working with young students here is one of my favorite things to do. I am certain that I get more from them than they get from me, because they boost my morale and give me hope that this county won’t always suffer from poverty and corruption. I see a light in many of them that shines in spite of the challenges they face on a daily basis. The students that the embassy supports are taking English classes that are supplementary to their ordinary school day. They are choosing to improve their lives by learning a valuable skill that will give them more opportunities. The fact that they are showing up is a major accomplishment in itself, especially in a place where survival, not education, is the number one priority for many families. 

Over the summer, my colleague and good friend at the embassy organized weekly presentations for the English students at the American Corner. The American Corner is a library that is funded and run by the embassy and is used for youth programming. About 30 kids attended the first presentation, but by the last one, there were over 140! The topics included American food, music, volunteerism, and women’s empowerment. The presentations were given by various members of the embassy community so that the kids could meet a diverse group of Americans. It’s also a great way for the embassy staff to get out in the community and see something positive happening. All too often, we are bombarded by negativity here. Life is hard and many of the problems facing this country seem insurmountable. Once in a while, we all need a ray of hope to keep us going. These kids are exactly that.

A few weeks ago, the kids had an idea that they would do a presentation about Angolan culture for the embassy to return the favor for the knowledge they have gained about American culture. They wanted it to be a surprise so we had no idea what to expect. On Thursday morning, 8 of us from the embassy went out to the school, including the Deputy Chief of Mission (this is the position just under the Ambassador) and the Ambassador’s wife. What we experienced was nothing short of amazing.

We entered a large auditorium where the students had decorated a long table and displayed at least 12 different Angolan dishes. As we took our seats and the presenting students, about 30 of them, anxiouly made their last minute preparations, hundreds of students began shuffling in the room. What makes this even more incredible is that schools are closed right now due to elections. All of these kids came to this presentation during their vacation. The MC took the microphone and welcomed us. He flawlessly pronounced our names as he introduced the embassy staff to the growing crowd. After that, we stood for the national anthem, which was led by another student.

Two more students, dressed in traditional Angolan garb, told us about the history, politics, and geography of Angola. They even quizzed us on some of the information, asking, “People from the embassy, can you tell me who the first president of Angola was?”

The next topic was clothing. After showing a few slides of different types of outfits worn in various provinces, the presenter said, “Well I think it’s better to show you.” Music started pounding and the door on the side of the auditorium swung open. Fashion show! Never cracking a smile, the models fierecely walked the runway and showed off their intricate, handmade attire. They paid attention to every detail – the makeup, hair, and jewelry were all representative of the tribe or region in which the model was from.

 

The next two presenters explained the different types of Angolan music – semba, kizomba, and of course kuduro. They showed us pictures of some of the most famous artists. Each style of music also has a dance that goes with it. Again, the students thought it would be best to show rather than tell. Each dance group was dressed alike and had clearly spent many hours coreographing their numbers. One thing every Angolan can do is dance. They move their bodies in ways that I did not know was even possible. The movements come so naturally and the dancers exude a joy that is not often seen here. 

The dancers managed to drag the Ambassador’s wife up to participate and then motioned for several others in my group to get up so that they could learn kuduro. I had never been more releived that they didn’t call me up. For a white girl with very little rhythm, standing in front of 400 people and being forced to dance, is pretty high up on the embarrassment scale. 

I cannot express how relieved I was that they chose her and not  me. 

The students finished the presentation by describing the dishes they had made – fish, funje, beans, greens, caterpillars. Yup, caterpillars. I wasn’t feeling patricularly adventurous that day so I passed, but apparently they are a delicacy. The amount of work they must have put in to preparing the meal almost brought me to tears. 

You want me to eat what?

The most touching part of the experience for me was just how proud they are of their culture and their histroy, however painful it may be. As I sat in that auditorium, I thought, “If these kids in front me are the future of this country, then things are looking up.”

The Pausa

Presidential elections will take place on August 31st and campaign season has certainly provided a lot of material for the blog. However, due to security concerns, I have decided to post about my feelings after I am no longer in the country.

Protests and rallies are expected for the next week, but so far there have been no major incidences of violence in Luanda. The campaign season has been more of an inconvenience than anything else.

As I mentioned before, all schools in Angola will be closed for one month due to the elections. Originally, I was told that this break or pausa would begin on August 15th. On Thursday, August 9th, I went to class at 8:00am as usual and began teaching. Around 9:00,  a gentleman entered my classroom and told me that the pausa begins NOW and I need to stop teaching immediately. Knowing that this man was an employee of the university, but not a member of the administration, I kindly told him that I would continue my class until it was over at 9:30.

I then discovered from my students that the night before, the Ministry of Education announced on TV and radio that the election pausa would begin on the 9th rather the 15th. There was no reason given, obviously. About half of the students had heard the news, but the others had not. I was completely in the dark. Once again, I must adapt to a situation in which I have no control.

I am not enthusiastic about this forced vacation. In another city, I imagine I would be excited about having a month off, but not here. I’m scrambling to find ways to keep myself busy. Idle time is the enemy in Luanda, but the coloring helps. 

Election Fever

It’s an exciting time to be in Angola. On August 31st, Angolans will go to the polls to elect their national leaders for only the second time since the end of the civil war in 2002. The last election held in 2008 was considered to be a failure since it did not meet international requirements. A Presidential election was supposed to take place in 2009 but was postponed and then cancelled under the 2010 constitution. Therefore, President Dos Santos, who has been in power for 33 years, has never been popularly elected.

This is a pivitol moment in this country’s history. Whatever happens in the next month will determine how this young democracy has progressed in the past 10 years, or if it can even be considered a democracy at all. A recent Human Rights Watch report claims that the climate in Angola is not conducive for free and fair elections. In the months leading up to the elections, the MPLA has restricted freedoms through intimidation and attacks against journalists, political violence, and excessive force against peaceful protesters.

HRW Report

August 1st marked the official start to the campaign season in Angola. Literally, overnight the city transformed into an MPLA carnival. The abandonded construction sites that litter the Luanda landscape miraculously and suddenly came to life. Everywhere I look, there is an enormous poster of the President’s face surrounded by what appear to be leftover Christmas lights. Schools have closed and the parties have begun. Trucks filled with supporters and hundreds of motorcyclists wearing red helmets with a big yellow star swarm the streets. The term in Portuguese for this type of activity is “confusão,” literally translated to “confusion.” This seems fitting. The ruling party is attempting to trick the citizens of Luanda into thinking that everything is great and that the government is taking care of everyone. They keep the population complacent with beer and music while subliminally spreading the message that it’s best to keep things exactly as they are. Don’t rock the boat. You don’t want war again, do you?

Political campaigns look vastly different than they do in the US, but I have to wonder if our way isn’t just as manipulative. While Americans are bombarded by attack ads and personal information about the candidates that is totally irrelevant, Angolans are attending parties and collecting free stuff. Both are popularity contests. Republicans and Democrats alike allege that they want to debate the real issues and the future of the country, but at the end of  the day, it’s all about winning. It all comes down to which side can make their candidate more likeable, down to earth, a man who is worthy of sharing a beer with the “average American.” Perhaps this system here in Angola is more honest. They don’t even pretend that this election is about the issues affecting the Angolan people – unemployment, poverty, health, education. No, it’s about who can throw the best parties and make the most noise.  As far as I know, the youth MPLA are not encouraging healthy political debates at their block parties. They are blasting music, passing out beers, and adorning their guests in red, black, and yellow.

The strongest opposition party, UNITA, is barely visible in the capital, and most believe that the MPLA will win by a landslide – the legitimacy of that victory will be debatable and the reaction of the people unpredictable.  

The Pausa

As I mentioned before, all schools in Angola will be closed for one month due to the elections. Originally, I was told that this break or pausa would begin on August 15th. On Thursday, August 9th, I went to class at 8:00am as usual and began teaching. Around 9:00,  a gentleman entered my classroom and told me that the pausa begins NOW and I need to stop teaching immediately. Knowing that this man was an employee of the university, but not a member of the administration, I kindly told him that I would continue my class until it was over at 9:30.

I then discovered from my students that the night before, the Ministry of Education announced on TV and radio that the election pausa would begin on the 9th rather the 15th. There was no reason given, obviously. About half of the students had heard the news, but the others had not. I was completely in the dark. Once again, I am being forced to adapt to a situation in which I have no control.

The students are by no means excited about the pausa. We just had a 6-week semester break, returned to class for a week and a half, and now we don’t have classes again. They feel cheated and that their education is not a priority, which it’s not.

I am also not enthusiastic about this forced vacation. In another city, I’m sure I would be pretty fired up about having a month off, but not here. I’m scrambling to find ways to keep myself busy. Idle time is the enemy in Luanda, but the coloring helps. 

Never a Dull Moment

One characteristic of life here is that even the most seemingly mundane situations can lead to marvelously awkward adventures.

          It was a Saturday morning around 8:00 when I heard a rattling at my bedroom door. I awoke unalarmed. This was an occurrence I had grown accustomed to. The oil workers with whom I live work on Saturdays, but I do not. Even though I have been living in this house for 6 months, the maids have not caught on. Every Saturday, they attempt to enter my room while I am sleeping, realize I am still in my bed, and close the door. If I’m not sleeping, I’m usually doing something equally as private, like taking a shower or changing. They have this uncanny ability to enter my room at the precise moment when it is the most inappropriate. I’m almost positive that I am the only one who feels uncomfortable when this happens. On several occassions, the maid has come into the bathroom to collect my dirty laundry while I’m in the shower, which, by the way, has a see-through, glass door.

            So on this particulat Saturday, I simply rolled over when I heard the key enter the lock, turning furiously, the maid finally gave up, or so I thought. I was hovering somewhere in between sleep and conciousness when I heard a toilet flush, and then water running. I kept my eyes closed, convinced that the rubmlings were coming from the room next door. I rolled over again and felt a presence beside me. I opened my eyes to see the maid standing directly over me, wiping my night table. With an audible gasp, our eyes met. “Disculpa (excuse me),” she muttereed matter-of-factly. Not at all embarrassed or affected by this awkward situation. “Depois! Depois! (later),” I screamed. She slowly exited the room, taking her cleaning supplies with her, as I caught my breath and attepted to descrease my heart rate. “Did that really just happen?” I thought. There are 7 other rooms in this house and she needed to clean my bathroom, 3 feet away from my sleeping body, exactly at this moment? Needless to say, by then I was fully alert. It wasn’t the best way to start the day, but it was a start nonetheless.

            Later that evening, I went to a BBQ at the marine house. It was a pretty uneventful night until the ride home. The driver picked me up around 11pm and we started on our journey home. This driver, let’s call him Mario, is my favorite. Not only is he competent and punctual, but he is a pleasure to be in the car with. I genuinely enjoy his company and I like to think that we have become friends over the past few months.  

            As we began chatting, I noticed that he was acting a bit strange – his voice was an octave higher and he was laughing more heartily than usual. I started to think that he might be drunk, which was obviously unsettling since this man had my life in his hands. Also, the streets of Luanda are not exactly safe, even under the best conditions. We approached my street, which is a wide stretch along the beach. “We’re almost home, I thought. Its gonna be OK.” Just then, Mario drove directly into a line of traffic cones in the middle of the street. THUD! This wouldn’t have been a big deal if there had not been 3 police officers standing on the side of the  road. One of them immediately motioned for us to pull over. This could be bad.

            It must be mentioned that the police in Angola are not like the police in the US. Their job is not to protect citizens, but to support the ruling party and line their own pockets while doing so. The transit police are a mainstay of the Luanda landscape. They stand at every intersection, randomly pulling cars over and asking drivers for their documents. If the driver does not have the proper documentation, then he must pay a gasosa (bribe) and be on his way. Anyone can be asked for ID at any time, especially foreigners. One time, my car was pulled over by the immigration police and I was asked for identification. Luckily, I had a copy of my passport on me. I asked the driver, “What would have happened if didn’t have my passport?” He answered, “Oh, you would just have to pay a gasosa.” Police encounters here are nothing short of terrifying, for me anyway. The rules here are not the same, and I know that they are certainly not on my side.

            The officer directed Mario to get out. They walked to the back of the car and joined the other 2 officers. So here I am – alone in the backseat of a car while my drunk driver is interrogated by 3 Angolan policemen. 10 minutes crawled by. My mind was awash with possible scenarios of how this was going to end, each one more devastating than the last. I wonder what an Angolan jail is like. Is it OK to start crying now? Just then, Mario walked over to my door on the other side of the car. I rolled down the window. Looking into his eyes, I was certain now that he was intoxicated. Uh oh, crazy thoughts taking over again. “I need 1,000 kwanza.” He says, “Gasosa.”

          “Of course,” I answer as I feverishly rummage through my purse. I hand him the bill – about $10. He walks back to the policemen, hands one of them the cash, and gets back in the driver’s seat. The tension in the car was palpable. Mario spent the rest of the ride home apologizing and explaining that we was at home before he picked me up and he’s been having problems with his family. He ensures me that he will pay me back on Monday. “That’s not necessary,” I told him. I was more than happy to never see that money again. In my mind, that $10 just saved me from being the star on the next episode of Locked Up Abroad.

           

Oh, and then there was the day that I came home to this….

The area on the left is where the stove used to be. The wood supporting the sink and stove was completey rotted and finally just collapsed. Looks like it will be Easy Mac for dinner tonight.  

Introduction to Angolan Journalism

While I had heard stories that the state-run newspaper, Jornal de Angola, was nothing nothing more than a propaganda tool for the MPLA (the ruling party), a few weeks ago I experienced this first hand.  While in Lubango, a reporter from Jornal de Angola came to the first day of English Weekend and he asked me a few questions about the event and my opinion on English education in Angola. All pretty benign....so I thought.
The following day, I ran into the reporter at (ironically) the journalism training seminar that the embassy was conducting in the provinces. He enthusiastically came up to me and announced that the story had been printed in the national edition of the paper and that he would get a copy for me during the lunch break. When he returned, he proudly flipped to the page and handed the paper to me, anxiously awaiting my reaction. Finally, I looked up and said, "I didn't say any of this." I read my "quotes" again as a pit of anger and frustration began to form in my stomach.

What Jornal de Angola wrote (translated from Portuguese): "The executivo is working very hard to promote English education in Angola. During the war, people did not have the opportunity to study English, but now things are much better."

* The executivo refers to the president.

What I actually said: "The American Embassy is working with universities to improve English language teaching through events like this. It is important to bring teachers together so that they can discuss the challenges they face and to find solutions. The American Embassy is committed to providing English materials to teachers and exposing them to new methodologies."

A million questions were swirling around my head as I looked at the journalist with disbelief. Why is he so excited to show me an article in which I was so blatantly misquoted? Why did he even interview me if he was going to write whatever he wanted anyway? How could anyone believe a word of this? Why would an English teacher from the US be talking about the war and the president of Angola?
Our conversation did not alleviate any of my confusion. I insisted that I didn't say what was written and he argued that it was OK because it was nothing bad or political. I told him that wasn't the point. I explained to him that he can't put my words in quotes if I did not say them. What are they teaching them in this journalism training anyway? He told me that he sent the story to Luanda and the editor changed it, but he really did not seem phased by the fact that my words were completely ignored and replaced with ones that praised the government.
The story also boasted a color photo of the crowd on cultural night, which featured dancing and singing performances. I was sitting in the front row with several of my colleagues from the embassy. Keep in mind, this was a very low key event, so we were all dressed very casually. The caption under the picture read: American diplomats gather for academic conference at university in Lubango. I would hardly call kuduro dance groups and horrible renditions of Boys II Men songs an academic conference. Not to mention, we look like total bums for attending an "academic conference" in jeans and t-shirts. My colleague's boss sent him a text saying, "Saw the paper today. You couldn't have worn a big boy shirt?"

Unfortunately, this incident is par for the course. Jornal de Angola's objective is not to inform the people of of this country, but to maintain the status quo. Now I know why my students told me that if I want to know they truth, then I shouldn't read the paper.