Yes, I speaks da Engplish.

Most days I’m greeted by a neighborhood alcoholic who thinks he speaks English fluently: “And da Mozambique is good and da paz is nice, yes?” Translation: “Do you like Mozambique? It is good that we are at peace, yes?” It took me two months to figure that out-- usually amongst four or five onlookers utterly amused by him continuing to yell the same question at me (rather than repeat at a normal decibel) when I stood staring blankly at him. Note: If you are trying to communicate with another person who does not comprehend the words you are using, speaking louder does not make the person understand any better.

Language has been on my mind lately because about 100 people in my neighborhood have asked me to give English lessons. I’m not sure why people who want to learn a language think because another person speaks the desired language that said requester wants to learn---that it means that the speaker actually wants to teach that language or even has the ability to be a good language teacher. But here in Mozambique, as long as you can speak the most basic of English phrases you are considered a good candidate to teach it. So I’ve been thinking about giving an English course and because I’m três Americana I want to be a super duper awesome English teacher. Therefore I’m working hard at trying to translate accurately the nuances that come with language as well as the everyday slang that becomes part of our daily lingo. As I struggle to make adequate translations and actually remember how English grammar works, I realize how differently English is spoken around the world.

I grew up in a Caribbean household and English was spoken in a sing songy accent by our parents and grandparents. When we got our mother upset she would break into her patois to let us know how angry/frustrated she was. She was also quite politically incorrect. For example, if she were driving and someone almost hit her she probably would exclaim: “Oh lawd!! Yuh see how dat fat chiny almost kill muh!” Because of my travels I now know that such incorrectness is not unique to her or her culture. English in developing nations is truly a very politically incorrect spoken language. In 2009 I visited Greater Zimbabwe, a historical site that has beautiful archaeological artifacts preserved in a museum on top of a very large and somewhat steep almost mountain. When I made it to the top, I bent over and put my hands on my knees in order to catch my breath. Everyone got up there before me and the Zimbabwean tour guide says calmly to me: “Yes Aishia. You had difficulty reaching the top. It is because YOU.ARE. FAT.” If you don’t already know, Zimbabweans speak PERFECT English. Almost textbook English. And so he enunciated every bloody symbol in each word, particularly the part about me being fat. My travel companion said it looked like I was going to give the guide a swift kick in the butt.

In other parts of Africa, with the inundation of rap music and hip hop culture into the popular culture on the continent, black American slang has been adopted and sometimes has taken on new meaning. My particular sore spot is the use of niggah. I was sitting in my office in Malawi, and one of the younger national officers came and sat down in a chair, pitched out his legs in front of him and slung one arm over the back of the chair and asked “So. Why do niggahs always wear their pants like that, slouched down below their buttOCKS?” “Umm. Excuse me? The who?” “You know. The niggahs?” “Do you mean the African-Americans you see in rap videos?” “Yeah, you know, niggahs.” “Umm, you know niggah is not another word for black American right?” Blank stare. Then a confused looking around as he tries to sort out how to respond. Then another blank stare. “Ok. I can’t deal with this today. Black American rappers wear their pants like that because….”

There are even stores and minibuses in Malawi and Mozambique named “My Niggah,” “NIGGAHS Store,” or just simply “NIGGAHS.” Of course, I laugh each time I see it, but another part of me feels uncomfortable, as the word is used freely in front of white people—which most of the time people check me off as white. I don’t want some white person to get it in their head that is all good to let that word pass their lips. But then again, it probably is already happening. Once I was sitting on a DC metro bus heading out of my predominantly black neighborhood and when I couldn’t take the “niggah dis and niggah dat” anymore, I turned around to reprimand my young black brothers and sisters. But they weren’t black. They were all El Salvadoran. ‘Nuff said.

The word niggah has even infiltrated the Portuguese speaking world of Mozambique --“Ola, My Man Niggah,”--as well as other English words that are either spelled phonetically to be Portuguese-like but still English, or are completely assimilated into the language and an –ar is just added to make it a Portuguese infinitive. It took me 2 months to figure out that jobar e.g. “Vou a jobar” means “I’m going to work. I’m going to my job.” I was always asking folks, “You going to do what?!?” “Jobar.” “What?” “Jobar.” “Ok. Have fun. Ciao.” But I was still clueless as to where that person was going or what s/he was doing—until B said it himself and I asked him to explain. “Yeah babes. It is English, your language.” Oh. Of course. Another fav here is “Ele gosta a showofar,” meaning that someone is showing off. A tekaway restaurant is one that offers food for Take Away while a kiosk is spelled quiosque. While most people here don’t even say “Estou bem” to mean “I’m fine” anymore, they say “Estou nice,” or “estou full” to mean that they feel full from their meal. I’ve encountered Spanglish in Costa Rica and of course in NYC. But both places where they have occurred---there has been a large English speaking population—so in NYC it is obvious how English gets inserted into Spanish e.g. market + a = marketa to make it Spanish-fied. In Costa Rica Spanglish was spoken in the area where Jamaican migrants settled to work on the banana plantations, and where I first heard “Estoy full,” or “I’m full.”

The only reasons I can think of the infusion of English into the Portuguese language here are first, there are more Mozambicans in Johannesburg than actual South Africans ----so when they come back home, they bring the English they have learned abroad and begin inserting it into everyday Portuguese. Another reason is the invasion of American culture in terms of music and films that often don’t have translations so people pick up words and often invent their own meanings. So niggah here probably means a tough guy or a really cool dude with people clueless to the original meaning and the transformation it has gone through in the African American community. When I try to explain to Africans this transformation and why it offends me that they use it so freely they usually give me a look which could only be translated as “Who dis white bitch anyWAY?”

People also probably do not realize that fuck is a bad word---as they also use it quite freely---as most American films also use it freely. The other reason English is finding its way into everyday language here is economic—the good jobs are those given by English speaking employers: Haliburton, Vale, tourist companies and the plethora of development workers who need domestic help and pay more than their Mozambican counterparts. People begin to learn the basics of English and start using it at home by inserting it into their conversations. People are always trying to showofar their English with me in what they think is a subtle way but is so obvious and wrong that I sometimes have to control myself from laughing. Once when I got on a very crowded bus, a guy took one look at me and very loudly started stating “I am talking Portuguese. I am talking French. I am talking English. I am talking all da languages too nice.” Yes, my friend if you actually said “I can speak English” then maybe, but no cigar this time amigo.

I can’t let it go on—so I hope I can start giving lessons next month. My first cultural lesson will be the many contributions that black, brown and yellow people have made to the American fabric of life—with an emphasis on explanations of Black American exportations found in rap music and hip hop culture. Of course, I know that in the mind of at least one student he will be like “Dang. This whitey sure like niggahs.” Sigh. Keep Calm and Carry On.

Festive Season!

The holiday season in Southern Africa, or as they say here, the Festive season, usually begins around the end of November—which is pretty late when you consider that in Latin America Christmas music the festive season starts around September. By contrast, there isn’t that much Christmas music or decorations as I have seen displayed in the U.S. and in Latin America. Festive season is usually marked by lots of drinking, and more drinking and just a wee bit more drinking as well as folks renting large speakers to host dance parties.

I definitely have to say this year has been much better for me than the last couple of years. In 2011, I spent it absolutely alone due to my job booking my home leave ticket for the 30th of December—pretty amazing that not one person stopped to think and then ask, “Maybe she would like to go home for Christmas and be with her family and friends?” Mmmm. I think in most other places I wouldn’t have minded so much as there is stuff going on, like in NYC. However, most people in English speaking Africa-- if they were not born and raised in a big city---bust out of town as soon as they can to be with family in their home villages. So cities like Johannesburg, Gaborone, and where I lived in Malawi, Zomba, were basically ghost towns. Needless to say it was a day full of spiritual contemplations and conversations with my inner self about who I wanted to be and where I was headed in life. And then I cracked open the wine, half drunkenly roasted a chicken and baked a pumpkin pie and settled in to watch every Star Wars film ever made.

Last year, I was in rural Mozambique but it being Mozambique with their fusion of African and Portuguese culture, I thought it was going to be truly a festive season. Not really. Christmas day was just like any other day. Literally. The slight difference was that there was more drinking taking place as well as kids throwing those fireworks that make that annoying popping sound. Loads of fun to throw it at whitey’s feet as she walked past. Yes, I love that, thank you. BUT people were more friendly and smiling. Everyone was smiling and greeting me “Boas Festas!” (Happy Holidays!). And I thought, “My God…after 4 months in Zobue, I’m finally making head way—people are starting to talk to me and carving a path to friendship.” And so I greeted them with an equally enthusiastic “BOAS FESTAS!” and a smile that could be wrapped around planet Earth. When I told B, he pretty much laughed for an hour, “When people say Boas Festas here it means they want you to give them money or a sweetie, or SOMETHING.” Talk about taking their air out of my happy balloon. But it helped to explain those awkward silences where my Boas Festas greeters stood smiling, expectantly at me and me at them, both waiting for the next step: them, waiting for money, and me, an invitation to their house “to get to know them better.” (Deep sigh)

After a few days, the boas festas stopped and the slight scowl tinged with hostility returned---people realized that I was not giving them anything and were probably calling me a cheap azz bitch as well as wondering why the rich whitey was saying Boas Festas to them, asking THEM for something. Life in a rural area, and I think it may apply to any rural area around the globe, is like the film Funny Farm with Chevy Chase. If you have seen it you know exactly what I’m talking about—hilariously on point. If you haven’t seen it, please do, it really describes what it is like to be an outsider moving into a rural area where everyone in town has grown up together. But B managed to take time off from work and get home for Christmas dinner which was really nice. And we cooked for the five kids of the woman who, for a short time, fetched our water for us (that is until I stopped being her personal bank and supermarket, then she started giving me groundwater. That is when I started lugging my own water from the well.) And we gave each child presents of new clothes—which went down well with kids in addition to Mom and Dad, who we bought traditional beer for on New Year’s Eve—big smiles and boas festas for that! I also learned that Boas Festas continues well into January—as some people in my town didn’t get the news bulletin that my dollar tree was bare and I wasn’t giving out money anymore, and so kept greeting me until at least Feb 1st. Sorry meus amigos.

We are in Maputo this year and Christmas Day went by a lot better and more within the tradition of Mozambique: baking of cakes, barbecues, trips to the beach, lots of dancing, all night parties, stringing of lights and display of those tiny plastic Christmas trees that you find in 99 cent stores….. and general good cheer. And for the most part, when people say Boas Festas, they really just mean happy holidays without expectation of a coin or sweetie. It was nice to walk out on the street on Christmas night to feel the happiness all around us with teenagers using disco lights on the speakers that they got together on to rent and to have their own parties, separate from the adults. There was traffic out on the street, but it was done purposefully, so that people could greet one another and have impromptu dance competitions using their car stereos. Unlike the U.S., there isn’t a strong ritual of gift exchange—perhaps among the more wealthy, but I have found that people here are pretty content with cooking and sharing food that they normally don’t eat on an everyday basis.

In our house we kept it simple, as we went to a wedding in Bots and didn’t get back until Christmas Eve morning. We ate some mafura fruit mixed with sugar, I baked focaccia, banana bread and a simple white cake with icing, and then we made onion rice and barbecued a chicken—and I had a glass of my all time favorite cheapie- can-we-say-headache white wine: Autumn Harvest! My Zomba crew, you know you miss the Crackling!

I’m pretty sure that New Year’s Eve will be more of the same and I hope we can get some dancing in this year by moseying on in any party we see---as most parties here are like most black American family reunion barbecues—you just say you are so and so’s cousin and people let you in. It may be harder here as people are less likely to say to me “ You look EXACTLY like my biracial cousin Pookie.” “Really? Do I look exactly like Pookie?” “You sho’do!” Okay. Since I’m in Maputo I will say that I am Rafa’s half branca cousin from Germany. A lot of people are named Rafa and at least every family has someone who married a Portuguese or German or an American. What always confuses me is that most people think I’m German, and never American and only occasionally Portuguese. How can they NOT think Portuguese?!!? All this hair on my face and my almost Neanderthal like uni-brow screams Portuguese. Anyway, without any expectation of a delectable sweetie: I wish you all Boas Festas and a 2014 full of happy living!

Holy Ghost! Fyah!

While I was living in Washington DC, it suddenly became very important to “get in touch with my spirituality.” Maybe it was living in a new city or perhaps it was because I was still in the throes of culture shock after recently returning from my Peace Corps mission—but I had a feeling I needed some kind of “family.” Or maybe I just felt I was dropped into a den of vipers known as Law School and I needed some spiritual grounding to help me through the next few years. Whatever the reason, I took the advice of a neighbor: “Girl. You need a home church. There are plenty around here.” And she was not kidding.

DC has a church on about every corner, mostly the same denomination but just different enough that if you were to compare them somebody would give you a hearty verbal bitch slap as I was given by an older woman from my building one Sunday afternoon: “DAT aint MY church! WE so different from DAT church!” It looked like the same store/church with metal folding chairs, red carpet and banjo slapping church goers to me—especially if you share the same store/church. So was I really to be blamed for not knowing the difference between the Sunday group and the Wednesday night group?!?! Anyway. I ended up visiting a lot of churches. I mean A-LOOT of churches: Catholic churches, Adventist, Evangelical, Baptist and I even went to a gathering of Ba’hais. After one particular church scouting mission, I decided that perhaps quiet self-reflection with my maker inside of my apartment, to the sounds of drug dealer whistle calls and police sirens, would serve me best.

The church wasn’t far from my house so I ended up walking there and getting there on time for service which was really about 30 minutes early for the service. I decided to sit at the back alongside the only other very misplaced looking person: a tall and muscular man, wearing baggy pants, a marsh mellow puff jacket and Timbalands, hunched over with his elbows on his knees scouring the congregation with a scowl. Great. A church buddy for me. The service started out to meet my expectations. There were greetings, then everyone settling in, a hymn about 20 minutes long was sang by all in the church, I just hummed what I thought was the baseline rhythm and swayed side to side. However, unbeknownst to me, through all those greetings I was spotted as the newbie. And I was not going to---like I had thought and wanted---slide on through the service unnoticed. The pastor asked if there was any one new to the church that day. I slid lower in my seat and looked at my feet. A few people stood up. The pastor repeated it. And when I didn’t stand up, he repeated it again until finally the pressure of eyeballs piercing into my scalp made me look up. A granny two rows ahead of me, with her large black church hat and heavily made up face, yelled out “Pastor, this one here is new,” flapping her hand in my direction. I was forced to stand up. A back and forth conversation ensued between us, the newbies, and the pastor, where we were asked to come up front to “tell our story.” I didn’t have a story like the others who stood up, or as I suspected Timbaland next to me had one, so I shook my head no. The pastor asked me again, I shook my head no and we did this about three more times. I wasn’t giving into peer pressure, no matter how many people were looking at me and that my face turned a cherry red. It went all down-hill after that: a lot more singing with my grumbling tummy adding to the beat, a lot of saying “yes” and “Amen” but instead I just kept swaying side to side. At one point a woman started to run laps around the church half screaming and half singing. I wasn’t sure if she was possessed or happy or if she had “caught the spirit.” All I knew was that I wanted to get out of there. The pastor starts to conclude his sermon. But just before doing so he asks us to turn to the person sitting next to us. In my row it was just me and Timbaland so we turn to each other. And then he tells us to say to one another “God Loves You.” Timbaland opens his mouth and through a row of glittering diamond studded teeth tells me that God loves me with all the earnest sincerity that his heart and soul could muster. I didn’t say it to him right away as I had to do everything in my power not to laugh in his face. Are you kidding me? This guy definitely had a story because I could have sworn he was on my street corner the night before wheeling and dealing. But when he started frowning at me, I got nervous of what he would do to me if I didn’t say it. I did my best match his genuineness and he turned away smiling and happy. Mission accomplished! When I had arrived I had signed-in not really thinking about why they wanted my contact information, but I ended up, thankfully, just giving my email address. I discovered why they wanted that information about a month later. They wanted to send to my house the taped sermons because they saw that I was not attending church and didn’t want me to miss a thing. They also wanted to know if I was sick because the pastor could come visit me—and I’m sure he would visit the heck out of me if he knew where I lived.
Once going through this experience you would think I would have learned my lesson visiting a church like this. But once I was in Africa, I figured, no way, it is so different here, it can’t possibly be the same. Well, it is kind of the same. What I thought was a friend invited me to church about a million times when I was living in Botswana. And being that he was this funky cool chef with butt length dreadlocks and totally gay, I said yes, AND I was about to leave the country permanently. As we walked into the church I could tell that this was going to be a DC repeat performance but instead of Timbaland it was my Jah-Man sitting next to me. I’m not being an ass-- that is what people in the African countries I have visited call you on the street if you have dreadlocks: “Oi..Jah Man! (slight head nod follows).

I really suffered through the service. Especially since it was a Nigerian pastor and I could not make out what he was saying during the 5 hour sermon which was delivered in his high pitch scream way of preaching (“Jeee ZZZUUUzz, loves you!”). He wore what I call the African Church suit, basically a high glossed material in a bright green or yellow leaning toward neon bright, with traditional African cloth lining the lapel and inside jacket. He would run across the stage with a few emphatic mini-jumps inserted to emphasize the spirit of the Lord within him. He also carried a handkerchief to wipe away all the sweat generated by the running and jumping, which he wiped theatrically so that you could take a good look at the fancy bling shining off his fingers. Again, there was a point where we had to turn to each other, but I learned my lesson and as much as my Jah-Man friend tried to tell me God loved me, to the point where he was bending over to look me in my eye, I just kept finding something to keep my attention on—it was not hard with all the theatrics abounding all around me. After the service, we started to move outside, but my Jah-Man friend grabs my arm and started to introduce me to people, and by the starry eyed glances and dreamy smiles they were giving me coupled with “Are you married?” “How long have you been friends with Jah-Man?” I realized that Jah-Man was not “totally gay” and that he was presenting me to “his family” as a potential wifey. So when he asked me if I wanted to go to Fellowship, I overcame my deer in headlights look and said “No, thanks, need to be getting back home now,” and almost tripped over myself running for the nearest mini-bus through thick raindrops and muddy streets. I knew I couldn’t get ensnared into a fellowship meeting which is basically a three hour indoctrination process conducted by the pastor and his faithfuls who try to fool you into joining the church by tempting you with sweet tea or coffee and some Granny’s delicious baked good. As you can gather, I’ve been down that road before and I was too scared, and hungry, to go through it again.

I’ve pretty much stayed away from any kind of religious activity since then. Even when I lived in Zomba, which is the most religious city, I think, outside of Jerusalem. Every Friday night I was kept awake by the All Night Church party, which had very bad drumming and keyboard playing with someone who thought they could sing, non-stop from 7pm until 4am. Where the All Night Church Party ended, the Muslim call to prayer began. And it really was quite a call to prayer, as there are about 100 mosques (with attached megaphones) in the surrounding Zomba area--each with their separate call to prayer, one after the other. Until this day not one Muslim person in Zomba can tell me why the call to prayer needs to be conducted by each individual mosque if they each are within walking distance of one another. Then, right after the call, the nearby military training school would start their recruits’ morning run where they would sing what I thought was old Malawian church spirituals in Chichewa—as they were so soothing and melodic and beautifully harmonized sung in deep man-ly voices. But I found out they were singing songs about having sex--with each other’s sisters. How bloody disappointing. It didn’t end there, because on Sunday, there was a church that sang a call and response the whole day: “Holy Ghost!” (pastor) “Fyah!” (congregation) The. Whole.Day. The only variation would be the rhythm of the call and response. Why the whole day and only that particular call and response? I did not have the cojones to approach the church to find out, as I did not know what I could possibly be getting myself into.

I’ve done my best to stay away from actually going to church while here in Mozambique. There was a Catholic church in Zobue with a very young and handsome priest from Peru. We only got to know him as we were leaving so I didn’t get to find out about all the activities he was conducting for youth. B thinks that he was having sex with Dona Dents the local woman that lived on the church grounds and helped the priest with domestic chores. Dents means teeth--we christened her that because her teeth projected horizontally from her mouth, so B feels that it may be the priest who was actually being taken advantage of. I don’t think he was doing that at all and I hope all those young people at his house were truly there for good Christian reasons. There was another pastor in town who was part of a missionary family from the U.S.—but their religion prohibited girls from being educated after the age 13 and required women to wear long skirts and cover their heads. Yes, come to the African continent and proselytize such restrictions for African women. I think that is what more African nations need, fewer educated girls and women that are told how to dress and act. Umm, yup, that sounds right.
In Maputo I really do not need to go to church as there is one right in front of my house—if I stand at the edge of my property and the pastor of the church walks out of the church we can hold hands. So when they start singing every night of the week, I feel that I am sitting right next to them. B is not happy about the church being there as he says that the land on which the church was built on was obtained in an unscrupulous manner and so every time they begin their service he is reminded of it---he says they are disturbing his right to peaceful and private communion with God on his own terms. He is waiting for the day that we finish building the wall around our property as he wants to hook up huge speakers to his television and play, at the highest volume, pornographic films while service is in progress. I think his bark is stronger than his bite. Well, I hope it is.

My unusual and borderline traumatic experiences with churches, has not left me unappreciative of the attributes of what religion can bring to a community. I love hearing women going to work on their farm plots singing their church hymns as their voices are beautiful and harmonized or that the teenage girl who helps to braid neighborhood girls’ hair and who lives down the lane from us sings her church music with a voice like an angel. It is our bairro’s way of connecting to one another, even when there are other issues they can’t come together on.

I once read in an article that a soldier in Afghanistan hated the Muslim call to prayer as he associated it with ensuing attacks, gunfire and death. But for me, I love the call to prayer as it is a positive memory that I associate with living in Africa—and I miss it when I am back home in the U.S. I don’t understand the words, but what I take from the morning call, is that today is a new day for me to try again. A day that can be filled with love and forgiveness but also that among disappointments, injustices and heartbreak that life can bring beauty and laughter and most of all hope. Hope that today will be better than yesterday and that tomorrow, even better than today.

In all my scouting missions and the spiritual paths I have embarked on, they all have one thing in common it is just each individual faith, church or mosque expresses it in a different way. But I believe that S.N. Goenka, the guru of Vipassana meditation said it best: Be Happy. And that is exactly what I’m doing.

African Justice

I’ve been robbed—a few times, and it has happened again. After an attempted robbery during my first stay on the African continent, I pretty much expect it to happen any time I live here for any length of time (foreigner=rich=”you goin’ get robbed my friend”). So when I saw a FB post by a friend about the killing of criminal offenders, one of which was burned alive, by ordinary citizens in the capital of Malawi I was not as shocked as some of her other friends by the mob style punishment. In some ways, I understand how people could be pushed to react that way, especially when you have lived all your life under a justice system that repeatedly fails you.

My first experience with crime was in Botswana. In the first house I lived in, the thieves were able to enter the property even though we had a high wall and a security guard. Our guard told us that he had actually got his head entirely through the burglar bars and he was watching me: creepy yet admirable at the same time as those bars were pretty narrow. But we were lucky we had such a good security guard on that night as he ran for help and the sound of the police sirens scared the burglars away. Our other security guard would sleep, openly, all night. One night we drove into our driveway, with the car headlights on, all the way up to him as he leaned back on the chair with his mouth open. I mean, the headlights were boring into his eyes as if he were being interrogated by a CIA agent. Dude didn’t flutter an eyelash. Needless to say, he didn’t work for us much longer.

The second experience was stupid and I put myself in danger. It was the night of a 2010 World Cup Final game. I wanted to go watch it at my friend’s house, but I didn’t have cab money to get there. SO I thought I would bus it to her house. Big mistake. There were no buses as everyone was at home or at the pub watching the game (well, yeah, gf!). As I was standing all alone on the street corner a few guys passed by me with commentary—some I could only guess were “Hey baby, can we talk” remarks--- however a few of the older men I’m sure were saying “You dumb-ass white girl, get off the street corner at this time of night!” as they had very concerned looks on their faces which made me worry enough that I started to walk toward my friend’s house. Of course. No, wait. WHAT?!?! Not to my house one block away, but toward my friend’s house many blocks away. Yeah, like I said, dumb, dumber and the dumbest.

I was followed at first at walking pace by two guys, one behind me and another on the other side of the highway. When I started to sprint, the guy across the way fell back but the guy behind me sprinted after me. I ran out into the middle of the road hoping that someone would stop their car to help me—but that never happened. As he got closer, he pushed me hard and I stumbled across to the metal highway stop rail that serves to separate the road from the sidewalk. He picked me up and threw me over it, and then rummaged my pockets--all the while I was hitting him in his face and cursing at him. After all that effort, all he got was a stupid phone which later I would receive texts from his friends as I blocked outgoing calls but was able to keep my number. Could the criminal be more stupid “Yeah, hi, I’m a thief and so I will keep using the number so the police can trace it back to me.” However, I never reported the incident. I couldn’t be bothered with being treated as a delinquent by the police—as a friend of mine earlier in the year was robbed in her car and instead of helping her they treated her as if SHE did something wrong. I’ve been left with a slight problem in my left hip where I landed when he threw me over the rail—but it serves as a reminder never to be so foolish as to walk alone in Africa once it gets dark.

My third brush with crime was in Malawi. I wasn’t in the house when the attempt occurred but my domestic worker was and unfortunately he got a bit roughed up by the burglar when he confronted him. After tumbling through most of my bedroom and throwing everything about, he didn’t get what he wanted as I did a good job of locking everything up in a secured room and closet. I also had my secret hiding spaces. But because they were secret I can’t tell you where they were, as I still use my “think like a thief” tactics wherever I live. But I think if I did share them with you, you would just look at me and say, “Really girlfriend? I don’t think that is such a secret place.” But I digress. The attempt in Malawi taught me that your house is more likely to get burglarized during the rainy season when it is difficult for people to hear a burglar enter for when the rain hits the tin roof it makes a racket. My house was one of many houses hit within a 3 month time span. In the other cases where he (we believe it was the same guy in each theft) managed to take things and the police were summoned, they didn’t arrive until 2 or 3 hours after the incident occurred. The police station was only a few blocks away from us.

When B and I lived in Zobue, in the rural area, we were called to Maputo last year on a family emergency. Guess what happened? Our house was broken into, and regrettably they did take a lot of stuff. Because the emergency was an emotional and traumatic one, we didn’t have the calm to think about how to protect our stuff before leaving the house. Therefore, if your house is going to be robbed, it will also most likely occur if you leave your house completely empty. I had a friend from Barbados who was constructing a house but he was not residing on the property. In a woeful voice and face full of exasperation he told me what happened: “The first time they took all the pipes for the plumbing. The second time they took the window frames and doors. And then you know what they took? Do you!?! My dogs. My. Dogs.” Evidently the night guard was in cahoots with the burglar and would just let the thieves in. So he bought two Rottweilers to patrol the grounds at night. Clearly if pure breed as well as highly trained security dogs could not protect an unoccupied house I’m pretty sure the mangy mongrels that took up residence on our property and our borderline feral cat weren’t going to serve as much deterrence. Well, maybe if we kept a meat bone tied to the veranda just out of their reach they would have been hungry enough to bite those bastards if they came too close.

Soooo…did anyone in our neighborhood or the police close the door and make sure no one else got inside? Negative. Did anyone come to tell us who robbed our house even though they were probably sitting in their front yard sipping away at Chubuku (African moonshine) and watching it happen? Negativo. B is not from the tribe that is predominant in the central region where we were living in Zobue and I’m from the U.S., therefore two outsiders get no help. And clearly the police closing the door and securing it with some string would have hurt someone’s hand too much to make the effort.
I’ve only worked as a lawyer in two African countries but after going through a year-long legal process in a criminal case for a member of B’s family, I feel confident enough to say that the justice system for the average working person is not a viable option. I would venture to say that it parallels the US in that if you are a poor person of color entering into our criminal justice system there isn’t going to be much justice doled out on either side of the table. The lack of financial resources and personnel as well as years and years of corruptive practices imbedded into daily protocol have left citizens without faith in the system and compelled to take matters into their own hands.
The way things were done about hundred years ago is pretty much how people feel confident to keep crime in control today: if you are caught committing a crime you are going to be severely beaten by more than one person and then dumped in front of the police station. At this point it should be taken into consideration that in many African countries if you are an offender that is arrested, and your family has the money to pay the police off and find you a passport to escape the country, you will never be brought to lady justice for the crime you committed. In our neighborhood alone people have been released from jail, I mean completely Scott free, after being arrested for murder, rape and child molestation. And on several occasions the perpetrator was not arrested for the first time for committing these crimes. In the face of a failed legal system, where does your faith lie in seeking justice and putting a stop to repeat offenders, in the justice system or in your own vigilante hands?

Prior to actually being robbed a week ago, we experienced two attempted robberies in two weeks. The first time, three weeks ago, I happened to be lying awake in the wee hours when I saw our window slowly opening, and I yelled out “HULLO” and they ran off. The second attempt was last week. It had rained heavily all night and during the early morning hours therefore we didn’t hear the thief enter into the house. The guy actually walked into our room while we were in bed. If we had not gotten up 15 minutes earlier to use the toilet, we would have been in a deep sleep and he could have robbed us blind. But we weren’t and we both jumped up when we heard the curtain to our door sweep aside. All three of us looked at one another stunned. We at first thought it was B’s brother or one of his friend’s sleeping over, but then it registered, no, this is a bloody thief! It must of registered in his brain “Snap! I’m gonna get a whoopin” at the same time-- because as we scrambled to get out of bed, he ran off in Carl Lewis fashion.
B, his brother and his brother’s friend who was spending the night over, ran out after him, barefoot and in their underwear. B was able to grab a large wooden beam and he said he got about three whacks to his head and back, but when he grabbed him he slipped through his hands because he was slick from the rain. B stepped on a broken glass bottle so wasn’t able to jump the wall the intruder scaled over to get away from him. Not three days later, someone came into our yard and stole one of our ducks. When we told one of our neighborhood Grannies, do you know what her first response was? “Beat them. Beat them hard so they know that they can’t come back here to commit more crimes, that we will not tolerate it here.”

When I am working within the justice system I do my best about advocating for improving the quality of work conditions and increasing police and lower court staff salaries. Improved salaries would lower the corruptive practice of pay-offs and provide more incentive for stakeholders to actually do their jobs. For example, a junior level police officer in Mozambique makes about $50/month but the most basic food basket (rice, salt, sugar, oil, bread) per month is $30 and then rent and utilities have to be taken of. How else will a junior level police officer who is the primary bread winner make ends meet if not finding a way to issue a fine or to receive a pay-off? Southern African people are surprisingly patient when it comes to low level crime but everyone has their limits. Living in Mozambique as a middle class person, rather than a privileged development worker, has made me look at the justice system from many different angles, and in some ways, made me re-define what justice is—a definition that does not necessarily fit into a nice square box to be checked off.
When B went in the next day to talk to a police officer about our duck, the guy on duty was curled up in a fetal position sleeping on a bench at 10 in the morning---I laugh at that now because it was about a duck. But I’m sure a mother looking to remedy the murder of her child would not find such lack of professionalism and duty of care so amusing. Instead, I believe such a display would utterly frustrate a person living like this his or her whole life. And this person could very well be pushed to extreme acts of retaliation like the mob in Malawi, because at some point, a people are going to let you know that they will not be mistreated any longer---no matter what side of the law you stand on.

Fine Dining

I love food. I LOVE IT. If my mother is reading this she is shaking her head saying “You can’t love inanimate objects. You can only like food very much.” Umm, I’m going to have to disagree-I looooove it. What I am going to eat, how I am going to cook it and how delicious it will be takes up a disproportionate amount of EshaG’s brain space—and that has been the case wherever I have lived. So I’m pretty surprised it has taken me this long to post something on food. But I will have to say (and maybe others may say it too) Africa is not known for its culinary delights like say Peru, or India or Thailand. And that is probably the reason I haven’t focused on food as much as I usually do---my diet is pretty basic and has contributed, thankfully, to my weight loss. However that doesn’t mean that the African countries I have lived in don’t have their good eats.

I’m sure some of you think this is going to be something out of an Andrew Zimmerman Exotic Foods episode. Yes, “exotic” foods do exist here—but I haven’t had the opportunity to taste most of them. The most exotic things I have eaten were African game meat (gazelle) and dried mopane or caterpillar. Both were very tasty. In Botswana I ate cow intestine (pretty gritty) and chicken feet (with and without toenails). Chicken feet stew is a big part of my diet now, and I really like them---and yes, I’m an expert hand at removing the nails and rough calluses that form on the soles. In Malawi and northern Mozambique I witnessed the consumption of what most of us, and even some Mozambicans scrunch their noses at: like roasted field mice, fried grasshoppers and ants and snails the size of my hand! I regret not trying any of those foods—ESPECIALLY the field mice---who wouldn’t want some roasted mice hair sticking to their upper lip as they crunch down on it!?!? Yum, yum.

What some in the U.S. may think is exotic or weird or gross is part of the dietary staples in other places. In my own Guyanese culture we eat pig feet and ears, chicken gizzards and livers, tripe (cow stomach), and cow tongue—if it is prepared and seasoned correctly it tastes just like any other part of the cow except it is a lot more tender---just do your best to not think about the cow licking boogers out of its nose with that tongue. So I don’t necessarily see these foods as exotic as most countries go through their evolutions of being poor and therefore do not have the luxury of letting any protein go to waste and then getting richer where society begins to select only the choicest parts of the animal to consume. Most nations in Africa still have a majority of the population in poverty, a thin slice of super rich and a slowly growing middle class---so gastronomic fare is basic to meet dietary and budget needs.
Most of Southern Africa has the staple foods of maize and sorghum. I haven’t eaten too many dishes with sorghum--the one time I did it was in Botswana. The dish was sorghum porridge with sour milk with just a few dollops of condensed milk….but…I used most of the tin of Nestle condensed milk on my porridge. I haven’t eaten it again. The one staple you will find from South Africa to Malawi and even parts of west Africa is a plate of ground maize which is cooked by boiling until it forms a thick consistency and looks like mashed potatoes when still hot and steaming---it is eaten with, usually, stews. It is called pap in South Africa, Botswana and other English speaking countries, but most other southern and central African nations call it chima/nsima. In West Africa they make theirs with cassava and it is called fufu—you can also find this cassava chima in Northern parts of Malawi and Mozambique. In my parents country of Guyana we too eat foofoo but it is made of pounded plantain or yams.

I was never a fan of chima and lost a lot of love for it in Malawi as I ate it often during the office communal lunch with ----what many Malawians like very much and eat often---matemba—the worst smelling fish on the planet. It is a small fish the length of an index finger and it is dried out in the sun, it is something like codfish or as folks say in the Caribbean, salt-fish. It is then boiled where its malevolent odor lingers for many torturous minutes, sometimes hours. I often had a slight gag reflex when my domestic worker would cook it for my dogs. I’m not being a jerk. Even Malawians would tell me they didn’t like the cooking process because of the smell. Thereafter it is cooked as a stew with oil, tomato, and salt (sometimes onions). And that’s it. Malawi is a poor country and so innovations in Malawian cuisine in terms of spices and fusion is not high on the list—but I have to say my favorite Malawian dish that would be just about anyone’s comfort food was futali---boiled Irish and sweet potato in a thick, creamy sauce of groundnut (peanut) flour----absolutely heavenly!

In Botswana, meat is king. I cooked a vegetarian meal once for an all Tswana guest list. When I served the meal there was utter silence until someone quietly said “You know we are a meat eating culture, hei?” I told them yes, but an all veggie meal wouldn’t kill them. Needless to say, along with the many Savannah Dry beverages I guzzled during my time in Botswana, I also chowed down on some of the best meat on the planet—its only rival is probably Kobe beef. And as I have mentioned in a previous post—my body paid dearly for it. Botswana’s traditional meat dish, seswaa, is boiled beef with salt, and then it is shredded. And that’s it. Are you detecting a trend? Many things are boiled or fried. I eat a lot of boiled, and sometimes raw, provisions like cassava or here it is called mandioca and in Latin countries it is called yucca. But of course, along with their delicious meat which was usually braiied, or in U.S. lingo cooked on a barbecue pit, with only the slightest need of seasoning (yes, the meat was that naturally tasty!), I had some other favorites. I loved samp--- it is dried corn kernels that have been stamped and chopped until broken and cooked with beans and butter--- flour dumplings (boiled and huge like the size of your fist) with fried chicken and my all time most favorite, oxtail stew, which is a fav amongst Caribbean people as well.

Mozambique, of all the countries I have been in Southern Africa, has been my favorite country for delicious traditional food—like it makes me want to lick the plate but I control myself in fear of shaming my family. But I’m not gonna lie--- I’ll lick my plate and serving spoon while washing the dishes and no one can see me. Mozambican traditional foods are mostly coconut milk and ground nut (peanut) flour based. And part of the deliciousness is the time, and love, you have to put into cooking the dish —as you have to make your own coconut milk and then watch it carefully as it boils so that it does not over boil. Thereafter you add whatever it is you want to cook in it. Here, they add some sort of vegetable, or vegetable leaf like cassava leaves (matapa), pumpkin leaves (matsavo),collard greens(makofu), and the leaves of the string bean plant (nhangane)---you can also throw in a bit of dried shrimp to give all of these dishes an extra punch. On special occasions or in better off households, fried fish, shrimp and chicken can be added to this sauce. All are delicious in their unique ways. They also have a dish called mafura, which is a native African fruit of the mafureira tree. The mafura is plucked from the tree and soaked in tepid water for a few minutes and is then mashed with boiled sweet potato and sugar. I haven’t eaten yet but I inspect our tree every day for a ripened fruit like a begging dog so that I can make B cook it for me. One of my comfort foods here is pumpkin boiled with groundnut flour and sugar---so simple yet deliciously gratifying. As you can see our diet is full of veggies and the leaves of vegetable plants—when we are not cooking them in groundnut flour and coconut milk we are cooking them with oil, tomatoes, garlic, and onions eaten with rice. I am happy about my diet in Maputo as we are super healthy with a mostly veggie and fish/seafood diet. Although B is a pork fan, meat and chicken are more expensive down south as opposed to when we lived in central Mozambique and ate mostly pork and goat meat.

The Portuguese influence is strong here so Mozambican’s seasoning is wonderful when it comes to all sorts of guisados (stews), fried fish, as well as grilled chicken, fish or shrimp. Mozambicans usually use a Portuguese style marinade of lime juice, salt and lots of garlic before grilling but in the case of Chicken Zambeziano, they use a Mozambican style of marinade that consists of grilling chicken with a coconut milk, garlic and lemon juice baste---so finger licking good! The Portuguese have left a tradition of wonderful baked goods. We eat fresh baked Portuguese bread most days for breakfast, with tea or coffee as well as for lunch alongside a salad of tomato, onions, parsley, lime juice/vinegar, and a Benny packet (powered chicken stock and a primary Mozzie seasoning). My favorite appetizers/snacks are rissois (small croquettes): enclosed pastry rolled in breadcrumbs filled with cooked onions, beef, chicken or shrimp then baked or deep fried. Mozambicans have also adopted samosas into their cuisine and usually eat them stuffed inside of a Portuguese baguette. On the sweeter side there are delicious pastries filled with jams and puddings.

There are a growing number of European, Chinese, Middle Eastern and South Asian restaurants to meet the needs of not just those populations that have migrated to African countries but the increasingly globalized taste buds of nationals themselves. I probably have eaten the most authentic Indian and Chinese food I will ever eat outside of those countries right here on the African continent—and my belief in their authenticity was often proved by the menu,for example, mostly being in Chinese with dubious English translations like “Hairy Egg of the Duck”; “Ants Crawling Up Tree” ; “So Nice Sticky Bun.” Some of the best pizza and pasta I’ve eaten has also been in Africa-----actual homemade pizza crusts and pastas with fillings of fresh herbs, meats and tomato sauce.

But definitely, being part of a community of expats has been a great opportunity for me to learn about other cuisines. I’ve eaten French style beef “the way it should be eaten: nicely bloody” and fresh baked fruit tarts served by French acquaintances; delicious Brazilian banana bakes and the best German potato salad I’ve ever eaten by office colleagues; Louie, a former Peace Corps volunteer introduced me to Filipino beef stew with peanut sauce and my girl SarahWim welcomed me to the wonderful world of Sri Lankan curries. I’ve done my best to share Guyanese dishes like peas and rice (cooked in coconut milk), our style of curries, mettagee (coconut milk, salt-fish, provisions), and cooking my stews with a sort of molasses made from the cassava root called cassareep. I’ve also tried sharing with my host friends and family American favorites like fried chicken, mashed potatoes, mac n’cheese and pumpkin pie---all super hits my house: “comida Americana e doce!”

Of course, this post was inspired by a favorite American holiday, Thanksgiving. I cooked a Thanksgiving dinner once as a Peace Corps volunteer and my host family just stared at all the food on the table and asked “Why do you need to eat so much food?” So I casually mentioned the holiday to B a month ago to see if I would get the same reaction and if it would be something we could do. He looked at me for a moment and then responded “We are AF-RI-CANS. We can eat. If you cook a Thanksgiving dinner here, folks will want you to cook a Thanksgiving dinner every month and then they will never leave our house.” So. We’re holding out for the next time we are back States side.
I wish you all love and peace on this special day of grace and gratefulness! I hope you all are enjoying your Thanksgiving!

Hollywood, Bollywood, Nollywood….We Love It All Up In ‘Dis Here Hood!

The places that I have lived while abroad haven’t afforded me many avenues for entertainment—except for much heavy drinking. While working as a Peace Corps volunteer in Costa Rica I did my best not to partake in public drinking—as I tried to practice what I preached to the kids I worked with: “You don’t need to drink to have fun!” But it sometimes helped so I only drank when I was away from my home site. When I lived in Botswana, I did the bar scene and weekly “sundowners” with a few colleagues from the UN—where sundowners inevitably turned into “sunrisers.” It took me 3 years to lose the Savannah Dry belly that I acquired while living there and I really don’t want to get it back—so for the last 2 years I’ve pretty much given up drinking except for the occasional glass of wine. In terms of my current forms of entertainment, it is confined to conversations with B and whoever strolls into our yard, harassing my kitten, working out, reading and….watching movies.

When I lived in Malawi there wasn’t much to do either as there weren’t that many nightclubs to frequent in the capital, and basically one decent one in my town of Zomba. But I didn’t want to pay $20 to go, literally, 3 or 4 blocks, as the gas crisis there made prices for taxi rides go out the roof. So within my circle of expat friends we ended up trading movies on our external hard drives. It got to the point that we could actually say, for example, “Oh, this is a Tomoko film” as she was a fan of anything to do with conspiracy theories and anime.
Before living abroad, I used to be pretty stuck up about the films I would watch-I only wanted to watch those films that were Oscar nominated or Indie, or foreign—which, regarding the latter, was elitist to the second power as one Norwegian made evident when he asked me: “Why do Americans call any film that is not produced in Hollywood or the U.S. as foreign, as if American films are primary and everything else is on the fringe? ” “Mmmm because we think we are the best at everything we do and usually we actually are the best?” I was just kidding. But I said it sarcastically, NYC style, so he walked away pretty disgusted with me. But I do have my less snobby side: I love vampire films and sci-fi/fantasy—which mirrors my favorite reading genres. So yes I am a Game of Thrones fan (they are doing a great job adapting the book series)!

But since living in Mozambique I am a movie whore: I will look at anything and everything. Bombed in theaters? Bring it. Didn’t even make it to theater and stayed 2 seconds on a Blockbuster shelf? Bring it harder. I am now a kung fu flick expert from 1975 to present as is every other African person on the continent. Really. I’m not joking or being super American by generalizing and stereotyping. Just look at a tussle on any African street corner—it is all kung fu kicks and karate chops—not one Mike Tyson jab. If you don’t believe me, just drive on by my old town of Zobue, you can pay one metical to sit with about 200 kids on a Saturday afternoon and watch a kung fu film dubbed in Chichewa. I can’t wait until I can find one to copy—I know it will be a classic one day. Not the film—but the fact that it was dubbed in Chichewa.

I feel pretty confident that I have watched most of the trash side of Hollywood since being here, especially horror films: Grave Dancers, Drag Me to Hell and Simon Says. Horror or comedy? I couldn’t stop laughing while watching each one. The Wrong Turn sequels (there must be about 100) who knew films about inbred, cannibalistic hillbillies could be so popular?!? Well, now I know. And did you know that RZA not only acted in a film as the protagonist but also wrote the screenplay to it? And Russell Crowe and Lucy Liu co-starred? I guess they were short on cash and needed to make a payment on something. The Man With the Iron Fists--just in case you missed it.

Of course, most of these films are pirated. The Chinese seem to have cornered the market on perfecting how they copy these films because they look like they are directly from the production company—AND they can fit about 20 films onto one DVD---value for your dollar. Gotta love it! But we still get those films where it is someone sitting in a movie theater and you can hear him coughing and rustling around in his popcorn bag. I’m waiting for the day I can hear him sucking the butter off his fingers as well.

But we don’t discriminate in Maputo. We also watch any film that has come out of Bollywood: the colorful saris, the spontaneous singing and dancing and that for the price of a 2 hour film, we get a film that is 4 hours long. Because we never really know what is happening, we make it up as the film goes along. Which is pretty entertaining. I should note at this point that most Mozambicans in my neighborhood do that anyway when American films are not subtitled in Portuguese. Or on several occasions and much to my annoyance, very loud and heated conversations take place while the movie is playing or even better, someone turns the radio on high. Like, bumpety, bump house party loud. And then they ask me if I can tell them what has happened so far. Really?

And of course there is Nollywood. I watched Bollywood films before, as my family is from a country with a large South Asian population, so they are very popular there too. But it wasn’t until I came to the African continent that my introduction to films from Nigeria was really made. Based on the few I have watched and from what I understood, they usually fit into one of two categories with at least one street scene where someone is confronted in a very loud way and then gets a beat down. One category is the depiction of several intertwined love triangles where some money will have to be paid for dishonoring a wife/sister/family. The second category depicts an evil spirit/devil that has possessed a person and that is why s/he is lesbian or gay. What always confuses me about the latter category is that the point of the film is to condemn homosexuality yet the same-sex love scenes---if not for the large animal print blanket covering them-- is borderline pornographic. So in my opinion, if you are against homosexuality don’t make films that will make people either get their groove on or view it out of curiosity.

We also watch telenovelas, or soap operas, either from Brazil or from Mexico, which are dubbed in Portuguese. Well, I should say B watches them while I am on the internet. But in general, EVERYONE watches telenovelas here—B’s 22 year old brother who lives with us will stop what he is doing with his friends to come home and watch his telenovela---as everyone has their favorite. Since Portuguese culture is strong here, I kind of guessed there would be huge fans of soaps just like when I lived in Central and South America—even down to the youngest child of the family. Once, when I lived in Costa Rica, I was in my room reading when I heard a voice outside my window say “No, no Carlos! It’s enough! I can’t take this anymore! Do you love me? DO you!! Answer me Carlos!!!” When I looked out, it was my landlord’s 4 year old daughter reciting a scene from the telenovela from the night before—and not just using her voice she was doing the facial expressions as well!

I’ve decided not to get into that scene as when I lived in Costa Rica—as it is addictive and they are not like our soap operas where story lines never end and characters reappear even after being decapitated 5 years earlier. If you miss one, then it is hard to catch up and the storyline ends within 3-6 months, so you have to pay attention. We also have something along the line of Univision’s Sabado Gigante—called Programma do GuGu. I love it because it is not so much a variety show as it is about people winning money, home appliances and on some occasions, folks getting a makeover for themselves or their home. I hope that one day I can be part of the in-studio audience for both of these shows. Ok, I just don’t want to sit, clap and sing the show’s theme song. I want to make a fool out of myself winning something awesome in my funky Spanish or Portuguese! But until then it will have to be whatever I can get my hands on, which just may be another awful horror film from 1995.

Waste not, Want not

Anytime I refused to eat what was dished out to me for dinner, my paternal grandmother would stare at me intently and say: “waste not, want not.” As I matured, I came to interpret the saying to mean that if you make use of everything that you have, you will always have something to fill your belly, a place to lay your head and a shirt on your back. My parents reinforced this credo of waste not, want not while raising us---as they were really good at using and reusing what they owned until only Jesus himself could convince them that the item no longer had utility.

I always thought that the way my parents managed our house was because they were immigrants, and because I saw other Caribbean immigrant families using their stuff the same way—I figured it was a behavior associated with individuals starting over and holding on to pennies to do better for their kids. I still think this. But now that I have traveled abroad—I also think it is has to do with that fact that many immigrants come from places where there isn’t a lot to choose from—everything is scarce as well as too highly priced because it is imported from the U.S., Canada or Europe—so you learn to beat the life out of whatever it is you own before you purchase a new item: whether it be a refrigerator, a sneaker or even undies. Now that I am living in Mozambique, I can certainly testify that I have a few Victoria Secrets that now look like Granny’s Secrets, and because they are still wearable-- I just tie a knot at my waist.

Once I got into development work, one of the issues that would come up would be folks living off of garbage. I’m not going to lie and be all high and mighty and say the first think I thought of was, “How can I make a difference?” I actually just remembered those 1980sFeed the Children commercials with Sally Struthers, her big girl-self surrounded by hungry looking black and brown kids where I thought,“why doesn’t Sally share some of her food with those kids?” So I wasn’t surprised when I saw people going in and out of our city dump. I understood that they were not city employees.
B and I in fact live on the other side of the city garbage dump. I didn’t realize this as I have always seen the dumpsite from the road where the government has built a large wall, so that people do not have to experience the uncomfortable feeling that comes with seeing little kids going in and out with piles of dirty trash on their heads—as the saying goes, “ignorance is bliss.” And I may have continued to be just as ignorant if B didn’t point it out to me. Of course I started to say how hard it must be to be all knee deep in other people’s dirty, smelly, sometimes literally, shit. B’s immediate response was “NA-DA”(get the hell out of here!) and to translate to my NYC lingo “Those bitches are rich!”and my mouth, literally went ajar. “What do you mean rich?”and he said, “better than telling you, I will show you.”

As he takes me on a walk to the other side of our neighborhood, I comment that I can see in the distance a mountain with misty, morning dew floating above it, “we should go hiking up there one day.” B laughs and says, “No babes, that’s the mound of garbage, it’s higher on this side than on the roadside. And that ‘mist’ is the smoke from the small fires that are the result of instantaneous combustion.” As we get closer, I could smell slight whiffs oftrash, but nothing that would scream garbage dump. But it was a pretty cold day. For a time, I lived downwind from a slaughter house in Costa Rica, and I can tell you that on hot, windy days things probably get pretty ripe around here. But B tells me anyway not to cover my nose as it would offend the neighbors and they could issue me a serious ass kicking. But I do sneak a photo, pretending to take a photo of a house: partly because I didn’t want to offend anyone—this is their way of living and it is enough that I’m walking on their turf but then to document my voyeurism snapping multiple pics was even for me a bit too much. But more so because B said that folks would get pretty angry if they saw me taking photos—as 90% of people on the other side of our neighborhood make a living off of the garbage—they would want compensation over their proprietary rights to the rubbish (if I didn’t have the money, again, I would be issued a serious ass kicking.)“What?!?! How can people have rights over garbage?”, and B just smiles all--my-baby-is-so-naïve--like, and says “you’ll understand.”
When we get to the actual dump site, the mound, as I have already described, is monstrously high. On top of it are just a scattering of old women, some young women, and barefooted kids, holding old rice sacks and sifting through what B calls “sua riqueza” (their wealth): beer bottles, cooking oil containers (that are re-sold to store water which we do in fact buy); and on lucky days discarded construction items like old toilets or sinks to be refurbished and re-installed. The large mound is on my right, and I have to crick my neck to the left to see the top. At this point, B says, now look left, and across from this huge mound is a line of houses. Some are what you would expect, tin shanties. But what was not expected, were some of the actually large, cement houses, with proper walls and driveways that were sitting next to those shanties--and there were more cement houses than shanties. “Those,” B says, “were built by scavenging off of that” and he points to the garbage dump. At this point, the situation is becoming slightly tense, as not too many outsiders come around these parts. People have stopped what they are doing to stare at us, luckily being with B helps and it also helps that we do in fact have another place we need to be, and this is a shortcut B decided to take me through so I could get another perspective of the garbage mound.

As we make our way past the actual dumpsite, B explains that most of the stuff you see for re-sale on the side of the road in Maputo is from the garbage dump. He goes on to say that people make a living and meet their economic needs the best way they can and if the government can’t give people jobs, or put a garbage dump that is not in our backyard, then these folks have every right to take possession over as well as make money off of it. And he is right, as it is rumored that there is actual gas underneath all that garbage, and a private company wants to come in to extract it. But now that people have made a living off of it, can the government really afford to 1) compensate residents when they kick people off the land they have acquired squatter’s rights to? 2) reimburse residents for money spent on building their homes on that land? and 3) compensate individuals for loss of livelihood, in which the government didn’t provide in the first place, hence the reasons they turned to sifting through garbage? I doubt it. And if the issue is pushed, there will surely be a fight—as there will be two parties with vested rights to the dumpsite.

I wanted to dedicate this post to a socio-economic issue that is usually used to show people as helpless and in need of outsiders to relieve their suffering. Instead, I wanted to highlight that many of them do not need others to do anything for them, as they have shown that they can do for themselves when they were tossed to the side---that they not only survive, but they are strong and empowered, and this is evidenced by the food they put on the table, the clothes on their kids back, and the houses they have built off of the waste of others. Of course, efforts to help people stop living off garbage should never end and those who give that $1 a day to feed a child should continue to do so—because maybe without it, we would totally be blind to how some people live and not do anything at all to make it better, deepening inequality even further.

I live in a country rich with natural wealth (e.g., oil, coal, diamonds) but it is accompanied by deep and unnecessary economic and social inequality—it is crazy to witness every day and not be in a position to do anything about it. It is frustrating. It is even more frustrating that I in the past, and sometimes today, am part of the problem because I am part of a capitalist culture of consumerism. I am part of this culture at times voluntarily (who doesn’t love a good NYC shoe sale!) and sometimes involuntarily (when my cheap Chinese made Nokia breaks in 2 seconds I will have to buy a new one).But I am learning a few things in this particular phase and in this particular place, in this journey of life.
First, I’m learning to differentiate between what I need and what I’ve been told I “need”, which is actually just a want. Second, I’m learning to get over my Catholic guilt, and not dropping to my knees and saying a Hail Mary every time I use a plastic fork instead of a washable one. Third, I’m learning to accept the crazy world we live in even when I don’t understand, as sometimes, even when I use a washable fork and tie my Granny panty at the waist, the world just keeps staying crazy. So, sometimes, accepting the crazy, and doing our best not to make the world crazier in our own little ways, is the most any one of us can do in life.