International Perambulator

Once in NYC I was walking home after purchasing a large bag of dog food for my brother’s dog. Of course, he didn’t tell me that the bag weighed a million tons, so as I was sherping up the block to his apartment building I was hoping for an act of chivalry: as I was wearing heels, had a 30lb laptop on one shoulder and of course my oversized-NYC-everything bag on the other shoulder---instead of offers of carrying the bag for me I was told in various ways by different men: “I sure wish I was that bag and you were carrying me home”. I have found that walking in the developing world also carries with it all sorts of commentary and adventures.

I’ve learned that there is a certain way to walk that is particular to a place. In Latin America I was told that I, and most American women, we walk like men. It appears that we American women walk very straight, quickly and with a very determined look on our face, somewhat soldier-like. While Latin American women walk more slowly, appear to be in no particular rush, and they are better at using their hips and shaking their behinds as they sashay rather than, like us gringas, “stomp” down the street. Here in Mozambique, where roads are not cemented but really are just narrow lanes of sand, there is a practical reason of adopting the way Mozambicans walk: your shoes will become filled with sand or they will become quite dusty looking if you don’t lift your foot the right way. When you walk, you must not just lift your foot, but also your leg, as if you were to bend your knee to your chest and then kick out to step down--so think of the way a giraffe walks and that is about right. It is another thing that I wonder if my boyfriend is telling me to do for his own entertainment—as he always starts to grin widely as I place all my focus in doing my giraffe walk.
It is best that you wear socks at all times or else your foot will become quite dry and cracked at the heels due to all of the sun and heat exposure. It also keeps your feet clean looking and less ashy. I learned this the hard way—as my feet started to look like a pavement dweller: in other words that homeless person that sits next to you on the subway and you can’t tell if he is wearing black socks or not.

Also, you must be protective and territorial of your sidewalk space, as there is not much of it here in Mozambique, or many other parts of the developing world. Where in the U.S. pedestrians have the right of way—here cars have the right of way—not legally of course, but if a driver hits you, s/he will haul their ass out of there like a bat out of hell. Here in Maputo, cars have been known to crash into people’s homes and once the dust clears that driver is long gone. I’m super protective of my sidewalk space as it is my feminist roar, not just here but in NYC as well. If you are a woman, please make the following observation: when walking down the street or sitting in the movie theater with your male companion (BF, brother, etc.), observe whether you must move to accommodate the on-coming man walking towards you on the sidewalk or for him to enter into the aisle of the theater. You will see that you must always move out of the fleckin way. This really irks me. And it irks me even more here in Africa, as it is just not men it is women too who make me move out of the way. Why? Because if a woman is walking towards us on the sidewalk she will move out of the way for my boyfriend thereby pushing me off to the side so I can accommodate her accommodating him! My friend Tessa who was living and working in a rural area in Malawi, who is all of 5 feet and 90lbs, would actually body slam herself into men to let them know that she would not side step off the sidewalk for them. I’ve done that only once here in Mozambique and only because B was with me and I knew he would back me up if I had to rip my earrings off to begin a tussle.

A reason why I do end up hitting into people--- but more often than not, ignoring acquaintances and neighbors---here in Maputo is because I look down when I walk—and there is a very good reason for that. One day while living in my rural town of Zobue, after sitting in a minibus for ten minutes and waiting for it to begin our journey, B. my boyfriend, starts mumbling that he smells some baby poo. I didn’t really pay attention as I couldn’t smell anything. But as we traveled, I too started smelling it—so I’m looking around, and B is turning around and staring people down thinking that someone was farting and not saying “perdao”. But then he says, no, it is here by us, and he looks at me “Jeeesuss, Aishia, don’t you smell that shit on your foot?!” And I look down, and I see a load of excrement seeping out from under my foot. B bends closer and says—“That is not animal shit that is from a person.” I must of stepped in it as I was getting into the minibus, as I remember a small mound by the side of the road that I thought was a mud pile. So basically someone in my town said “I’m gonna pull down my pants, right here on this high trafficked road and take a big ‘ol dump.” Who does that?!?!? Needless to say, I’ve been traumatized and very, very careful where I walk.

I also get my fair share of comments while walking abroad. In Costa Rica and Venezuela it was “Gringa!” or “Gorda!”.In Botswana, because of my coloring and my Sikh tattoo on the back of my neck, I was literally chased down the road by an Indian Sikh—he wanted to know if I was single and if not, if I would marry him. In Malawi and Zobue it was “Uzungo,” (white or foreign person) or “Why is that white person walking?”I get a lot of stares from the Indian/Middle Eastern population both in Malawi and Mozambique. In Malawi, I was living in the servants’ quarters of a house rather than the big house itself, to save on rent. I felt strongly that my Indian neighbors thought that I must have done something to anger my family to be living in such a house as well as to be riding my bike and walking about town rather than driving a car. But that too had a reason, there was a gas crisis and I refused to pay those exorbitant amounts for gas just to drive my car down the road to the supermarket and back. My feelings were confirmed when my black boyfriend showed up and as we walked hand in hand cars filled with the whole 10-20 member Indian family would roll down their windows and do a slow drive by of us and stare with evident concern, dismay and once, one older man just shook his head --“no”-- at us. I clearly was a bad Indian girl that had been disowned for dating outside of her race.Here in Maputo, comments are mostly about being part of a handsome couple: ”Que bonito casal!” or questions thrown to B on how he “ Got one of those”—evidently if you go to your local Shoprite you can a find a whitey next to the milk and a Chinese or an Indian in the ethnic foods aisle. Who knew?

I’ve also gotten my fair share of touching while walking down the street, waiting on line or sitting on a bus. My first time to be touched due to my skin color and hair texture was when I was living and traveling in the UK. Once, I told this man in Ireland as he was massaging my arm to the point that I was getting carpet burn, “You know that it doesn’t ruboff?!” Also at that time my hair was quite curly, and for some reason people thought that it was ok to just walk up to me in the supermarket and exclaim “I love your curls!” as they would tangle my hair with their fingers. So when children started to stroke my hair and skin here in Maputo as I sit on a bus or wait on line at the bakery—I’m a lot calmer and understanding about it. And because I’ve lived in Latin culture (as Mozambique is a unique blend of African and Portuguese culture), I’m better about the random acts of touching: in Costa Rica neighbors or colleagues would pop a zit on my back or pick a dried bugger from my nose. Here, when I’m working out, men who think they are professional trainers see nothing wrong with slapping my legs as a way to “instruct” me to stretch better or run faster. I’ve also had a woman who was trying to sell me a bra on the street squeeze my breast to see if I was the right size, “Aepa, mami, nao, voce e grandeparaesste!” (No mami you are too big for this one) I think she just wanted to cop a feel on my boobies.

In the rural area I walk because there wasn’t much of an option not to—it is just how you get around. But in Maputo, I avoid it when I can because getting on the chapa, unlike other places I’ve lived, is a contact sport: there is a lot of pushing and elbows to the head all to end up in a spot where you are standing pressed up on the buttocks of some person and crouched over with your head and back pressed up on the roof of the minibus.

But I have to say that although walking in the developing world can really be slightly dangerous, hot and sweaty and at times annoying the NYC girl in me still really likes it---I learn so much more about my community, and for pretty obvious reasons where there are such vast differences in wealth and wealth is associated with lighter skin color—it is nice to hear people say that I’m not so different than themlike they thought. As one Mozambican told me after B and me walked and chatted with a man for about 30 minutes to get to the nearest “bus stop” and then sat for a harrowing ride on the back of a pick-up truck: “ It is good. It is good you travel like us. To be like us. Now you are a Mozambican!”