Thoughts

Three cockroaches emerge from the depths of a three meter latrine. The first cockroach, twitching his antennae frantically, is scared and bewildered by what he finds. He is confused by the bright light, agitated by the gentle breeze, and overwhelmed by the sounds, smells and movements that now surround him. Unable to deal, he turns tail and flees back to what he knows. Back to where he understands the shit that rains down upon him. To where he has a warm meal waiting for him, the climate is agreeable, no one is out to get him, and there are very few surprises except for the odd… oh who knows… and that isn’t really much to deal with. Back to where he is secure and comfortable. The second cockroach is no less bewildered than the first, but he is exhilarated by what confronts him. For longer than he can remember he has been listening to stories of other cockroaches that have gone forth. Brave roaches who have left the comforts and spent DAYS out there. Stories filled with danger, with giant geckos who attack with a swift and vicious pounce swallowing roaches whole, and sandals that come crashing down from the heavens leaving pitiful roach pancakes. He has heard stories of extravagant and exotic meals that his head could never really wrap around, and of other strange cockroaches from far off latrines, all with their own ways, smells and manners. The fine adventures that could be he thinks, glancing around at the BIGness that surrounds him. He too is overwhelmed, but the opportunity is too good to turn down so he takes a few brave steps forward, and then at full speed scuttles away to whatever he may find. The third cockroach is of course our roach of moderation. His auburn cockroach armor is thicker than most. His 6 legs are quick and steady. He doesn’t like mistakes, and does his best to avoid them. He, cockroach number three, can sympathize with the actions of both of his friends, truly he can. And so, perched on the lip of what he knows and what he doesn’t, decides that he will try, just a taste, of what’s out there. He takes those same few brave steps forward, but always with the antennae moving and probing and tasting the strange air. And then a few more steps, but never losing sight of the hole, his escape, his guarantee of salvation. And maybe just a few more steps, because those wild stories of treasure and pleasure and all else, maybe it’s all true. So step after careful step cockroach number three tastes the other world, until he’s not sure if he can still see his hole, and he’s not sure if he cares …
(As told to me by one of my students... kind of)
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My last responsibilities as an English teacher in Mozambique are to proctor 10th grade national exams. I check a group of 30 students into a classroom, making sure that they are entering with a pen, a pencil, their identification, and nothing more. Then I distribute the tests and for 90 minutes make my rounds to be sure that there is no funny business. Not 3 minutes go by before out of the corner of my eye I see a sheet of paper being passed from one student to another. This being a national exam, our strict enforcement of the ‘pen and pencil only’ rule, all the hype; I am under the impression that we are really enforcing this exam. So I fire across the room, snatch the paper from midair, and try to make a stink of the whole thing, to make an early example of these fraudulent students. My last act of naïveté. Indeed these students are an example, an example that they should do what they have to in order to pass. An example that we will not catch any cheaters, cheating does not exist, not here in Mossuril. Our students will succeed one way or another.
And then the teachers start to circulate. In and out of my classroom (and into others), making quick efficient runs, dropping off little pieces of paper at certain desks and then making their exit. My heart jumps each time. I just watch as my colleagues flaunt their corruption, confident in their actions. Our students will succeed one way or another. Then my fellow proctor, who’s been furiously working out a math problem (or maybe it’s chemistry, does it matter?), strides purposefully to the desk of a young lady, her head cradled comfortably in her folded arms, and drops his work to the right of her resting hand. It’s too much. I call the teacher out of the classroom with me. My last act of nobility. I tell him what he’s doing is bullshit. I ask if she’s paying him, or maybe sleeping with him (because that is the way it goes), try to reason with him that his actions are the downfall of the whole damn system. I tell him that I won’t stay in the same room as him during a test, and he can call me when he needs relief. He laughs and pats me on the shoulder. That’s all.
And finally, four days later, nine national exams later, I sit dejectedly at my desk in the front of the room and watch it all go by. The cheat sheets, the teachers, the time. My last act of submission. I sit for 90 minutes, only rising once to sign each student’s exam showing that I have diligently proctored this test. As I have done many times in these past two years, I have come back to the ‘fuck it’ outlook. The system, top to bottom, is corrupted and flawed. My acts of defiance and indignation, while they are better than nothing (which is why I keep coming back to them) leave me feeling depressed. And so once again, and for the final time, I say fuck it.
Which is how I go out. And in truth, it’s not all that bad a way to go. There’s a certain liberation in letting go of a losing battle (no way to change the world, huh?), and taking up the battle with the individuals who warrant it (or is that the way the world is changed?). As I have probably written before, as most teachers anywhere in the world are probably likely to say, it’s been the students, if only a few of them, who have made it all worth it. My experiences as a teacher here in Mozambique, although often disheartening, have ultimately convinced me that education, teaching and learning, really is our only hope. Even in a flawed system.

And there’s been other stuff. The school newspaper, Ehapari, continued on. We ran smack into a couple of walls, but we always managed to bounce back alright. The kids started branching out, in addition to the weekly (more or less) news editions they’d post on the outer school wall, they had a few photography expositions as well as a few theater presentations. Our closing ceremonies, resided over by his Excellency the school director, came off surprisingly well. The director, the same one who had at one point threatened dictatorial censorship (or worse!), took about fifteen minutes out of his busy evening to praise us. He talked about the importance of our initiative, about the values of thinking critically, and of his hopes that the project will continue on. I grinned a sardonic grin, and the students nodded a bored nod; a grand success.
Roger killed again. He went on a small spree targeting baby goats. Low, I know. But really he’s the sweetest dog, I swear. Anyway, the latest killing took place when I was out of town. I got a distressed call from Lima one morning saying that Roger and Dama (he always works with a partner) were caught red-pawed with two small dead-as-a-doornail goats down on the beach. What should I do, he wanted to know. Tie his ass up… and stick the goats in the freezer (I am now a realist). When we, Jorge (guardian of Dama) and I, returned home, we found two intact goats, meaning heads, hooves, tails, and everything else that comes with a baby goat, stuffed into a burlap sack and then crammed into the small upper freezer section of Jorge’s fridge. It was a truly impressive sight. We paid the owners, and were therefore forgiven of our neglected parental duties. The next weekend we ate grilled baby goat at the beach, with small waves crashing and palm leaves rustling overhead. Better to not let these small lives be wasted we figured. It was delicious.
The Prodigy, our young, undersized, poorly dressed, gem of a chess disciple, up and skipped town on us one day. Just like that, gathered at the small bar where we played and taught one afternoon, one of the other kids says, you know he left today. Left where? How? Why? Of course a kid like the Prodigy doesn’t leave much of a trail. And just a week or two before our regional (to be held in Nampula City) chess tournament. The heartbreak of my two years, seriously. We still fielded a team of four, all homegrown, and we did alright. Not first place by a long shot, but the kids did well and had a great weekend. (As an aside, upon arriving in Nampula for this very chess tournament, we were immediately picked up by the city cops under suspicion of child trafficking. Seeing as we didn’t have any official documents stating that these students could be with us, we were all brought into the local station and detained for about an hour before it could all be sorted out.)
My charcoal stove finally disintegrated. Turned to rust and then crumbled.
The rat who lived under my pillow has left the building.
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Today I laid on my back and stared at the clouds for 4 hours. I chose a nice spot in a small beach cove, protected by a half circle of a soft sandstone wall. With the water from the bay gently and steadily lapping at the shore, fully enjoying the shade given by the dense foliage of a mangrove tree that grew out of the sand, and nobody (nobody) around. I laid there and watched the clouds drift and gather and part, and I allowed, encouraged even, the thoughts in my head to do the same.
I thought about what it was going to be like going back home, but that thought proved to be too much, too dense, a dark cumulonimbus, so I willed the thought to split into several wandering tufts. I thought about an email I had just received informing me that I wasn’t in fact eligible to teach English classes in New York public schools. So you mean to tell me that back there speaking the language isn’t the sole qualification? There goes that plan. I thought about the prospect of grad school, and then took solace in the fact that it’s too late to apply for 2009 anyway; maybe in 2010. I thought about what it is that people do right after getting back from Peace Corps, before they get their shit together. Wait tables? My parents had just been telling me about how my cousin has a job at a hot dog joint. Selling hot dogs, now that’s something I’d be into.
A hot dog cloud floats lazily westward. I squeeze it between my thumb and forefinger.
I thought about the food I will eat. Buffalo wings. Chicken parm. Spicy tuna handroll. Chicken tikka masala with naan. Pad thai. Pepperoni pizza. An Italian sub, no onions. Bacon, egg and cheese on a roll with salt, pepper and ketchup. Chicken picata. Chocolate cake, served warm, with whipped cream. Crispy duck with garlic-chili sauce. A cheeseburger and fries. Fried chicken fingers. Sesame bagel, toasted, with cream cheese and lox. Dumplings. Flank steak, rare and sliced thin, with mashed potatoes. Chicken and cheese enchiladas with guac, sour cream, refried beans, and yellow rice. A chocolate milkshake. Not necessarily in that order.
I thought about driving, trying to imagine the right side of the road, the left side of the car. I thought about people, a lot of people, who I haven’t talked to in a long time. The phone call. The email. Hey there… what’s up?
I watch as the wisps of going home disperse. Aware that they are still hanging about on the periphery, the way thoughts and clouds will, waiting their chance to re-traverse my conscience. A small crab emerges from a hole to the right of my foot. He takes two or three shimmies sideways in my direction, and then makes a mad dash at the water’s edge.
I thought about what I heard on the news earlier. Something about a 20 billion dollar cash infusion. A bank dipping into a 700 billion dollar bailout fund. What?! I count 1 billion grains of sand and throw them into the water. The mestre came by my house two days ago. He said he was in a bad way, no food in the house. He asked me for 50 meticais, a 2 dollar cash infusion. I talked it over with him and we settled on 20 meticais, an 80 cent bailout! That makes sense to me; that I can understand. I thought about all that for a while.
I thought about thanksgiving being this week, and that I haven’t been home for thanksgiving for four years now. That’s too many years.
Three boys come around the corner of the cove I’m lying in, pulling a long tow rope of a fishing boat. The boat glides along behind them with a man standing in the stern helping the boat along with a long wooden pole. The boys watch me as they pass, and I watch them without lifting my head. Nobody says anything.
I thought about my house and packing up. All my goods, my stuff, my shit. Like my computer with a battery, a hole where the CD burner used to be, and a half a screen that sometimes vanishes, poof. Like my t-shirts, some stretched, some stained, some holy. Like buckets, plates, forks, socks, calendars, speakers, books, chairs, half bars of soap, etc. Who’s to say what is goods, what is stuff, and what is shit? Not I.
I thought about Roger. Man’s best friend. My best friend. How can I just leave him to his fate, whatever that may be. (I’ve seen the ugly fate of too many Mozambican dogs). But what can I do, but try to leave him in the best hands possible, and send dog support (as in child support).
I thought about being very hot, and being very cold, and I tried to decide which is worse. I decided on hot, because there isn’t any r-e-l-i-e-f.
The clouds build into a single heavy mass. Sparse raindrops fall, and I lie as still as I can. I bat my eye to clear it of rainwater. Still I am thinking. Mostly of home, in all its senses. But also about other things, just thinking.

I’ll be calling, hey there… what’s up?,
Zach