I love the movie High Fidelity with John Cusack, especially when he does his Top 5 Lists. I realized the other day that I was coming up with my own Top 5 lists for living here in Mozambique as well as abroad. Please feel free to comment about your own Top 5 lists. And here they are…
My Top 5 on Eating While Abroad… (of course this is the first list folks!)
5. I Heart Meat. It is usually organic and so I don’t have constant panic attacks about what I’m doing to my body. I also like that it is served in normal portions rather than American portions (portion for one person=that of 3 people in other countries). I don’t have to feel guilty about chowin’ on fried chicken and hamburgers or that I turned my back on 10 years of vegetarianism the minute I stepped off the plane to live abroad many moons ago.
4. Ketchup and mayonnaise with my French fries. As a teenager people would always look at me like I was crazy combining the two on my fries when in fact half of the globe eat fries with ketchup and mayonnaise. It’s tasty…try it if you haven’t already!
3. Eating at foreign restaurants. While in Africa I have absolutely loved eating at Indian, Chinese and Italian restaurants as the food is as good as anything you will find in the home countries of the people serving it to you. In Central America and the Caribbean I love how the dishes are really a fusion of, say, Chinese and the host country cuisine---Caribbean and Cuban Chinese is yummy, yummy, yummy!
2. Carbohydrates. They are a must in any foreign country and instead of looking at me like I’m a fat cow when I put more than a tablespoon of rice on my plate I heap it on until you can only see my eyes over the pile.
1. Fruits and Vegetables. They have flavor as they are not force ripened. For all of you bearing the brunt of snowy and cold winter days and nights right now—just to let you know I’m enjoying watermelon, pineapple, and mangoes. They are so sweet I only have to add water to make my own juice!
My Top 5 Favorite Past Times…
5. Watching B movies (in every genre)……………
4. Putzing around in my garden. I like to think that I am greatly contributing to our very small garden. But all I really do is check to see if anything is coming up---and occasionally helping B water and pull weeds. The hardcore work I did in Zobue has traumatized me so I leave the heavy duty stuff to B.
3. Trying to get through P90X Pylometrics without having a heart attack. No explanation needed.
2. Acting like I’m a national geographic photographer. I have many photos of my animals from strange angles. It makes me feel I’m “capturing” a moment. Some are decent, most are “why did you need to be that close to a duck’s butt?” I’m sure you may ask why I haven’t posted these photos. First, do you really want to see 100 angles of my cat looking at me as I say “psst”? Second, uploading photos eats up a hella lot of credits. Lastly, I’m afraid that the laptop I’m using will erase my pics as it recently did of my photos from my Christmas Gabz trip (shame). I’m waiting for parts to repair my laptop that was damaged in November. But until then I continue to take pics from weird angles of both animals, humans and things that catch my eye while roaming around in Maputo city centre.
1. Observing animal behavior. I enjoy observing the animals on our property (6 ducks, 21 duckilings, 3 cats and at one point 3 chickens and 2 roosters. But someone ate the chickens and the rooster). I didn’t know there could be such drama going on with animals. Watching my cats play fighting with one another as well as getting themselves in sticky situations brings me much laughter and entertainment to us.
The Top 5 Most Disgusting Things That Have Happened To Me…(well….so far)
5. Dropping part of our dinner on the ground. I dropped boiled potatoes where people and animals tramp past as well as randomly take a whizz. I had to pick it up, dust it off and splash some boiled water on it to kill the infectious dirtiness that was lingering there because we didn’t have anything else to eat and in the rural areas there aren’t ‘Open 24/7’ anythings…
4. Dropping my toothbrush in our pee pee basin. In Zobue, it was too dangerous for me to go out at night to the outhouse so we used a basin inside at bedtime. One morning I dropped my dang toothbrush in the basin. Which I’m not surprised I did as I’m always dropping things in the bloody toilet (make-up, flatirons, cell phones etc). But you would think I would have taken better care in this situation. We didn’t have any spares and we had just made our monthly grocery run to the city so I had no choice but to boil it and keep on using it. Oh yes, so fresh, so clean…
3. A roach crawling on my face. When I was a Peace Corps volunteer I was staying as a guest in a friend’s house and all there was for me to sleep on was a sponge mat. I woke up with a creepy crawly feeling. No Aishia! It wasn’t just a feeling it was actually a creepy crawley on my face: a huge roach the size of my palm scuttling from one side of the room to the other. Yay! I now know that roaches are attracted to spongey like objects.
2. Getting vomit splashed on my face. While seated on a chapa that was traveling at high speed (well, is there any other speed they travel at?), a kid in front of me opens the window to barf. She didn’t ask the driver to stop so the wind blew it back into the minibus. I got a few nice chunks on my bottom lip. Mmmmm…nothing like chima porridge.
1. Getting poo-poo backsplash on my calf. I was crouched down in our outhouse having a hard time getting my business done----so I gave an extra hard push. Well, that sucker came out good and hard and back-splashed I don’t know how many people’s (over how many months) dookie doo doo onto my calf. Dear Jesus. My eyes started to tear up. I washed my leg about 100 times that day. I’m feeling disgusted just remembering it. Let me stop talking about it now or I may vomit.
Thank you, and good night...until the next Top 5 List.
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Friday, 17 January 2014
Cemetery Visit
The other day B, myself and his two brothers and Mum went to pay our respects to family members who, as my peeps in the Caribbean say, have “gone home.” Basically, death is a big deal--not that it isn’t a big deal anywhere else in the world—but I’ve never heard of anyone going bankrupt to send someone “home.” I’ve had friends in West Africa tell me that they have gone to funerals where the coffin is actually blinged out in gold and precious stones. While for some other people, there is something to be gained just by their mere presence at a funeral. My Mum told me that when she was growing up in Guyana, that if a deceased person was not liked and therefore not that many people would show up to the funeral, a family could pay “mourners” to sit up front at the church and cry. They usually could be identified by the over the top theatrical performance they would put on. I haven’t had anyone tell me about paid mourners here in Southern Africa, but I have had folks tell me that people, and sometimes just random people attending the funeral, “get paid” in the amount of food they are served: the more tears shed, and vocally done so, the more food is dished out onto their plate.
In the U.S. and many other countries, a funeral is a time for people to help families through their grieving period by bringing food on the day of the funeral, and even the days after the funeral--not so in Southern Africa. Usually the family of the departed must provide food for any person that shows up. When I went to a funeral in Botswana, it lasted one day and I saw it as pretty reasonable until I saw that food was served to any person that stood on line which from my perspective looked like the whole village, even down to the local beggar man. So funerals in Africa are kind of like Hindu weddings in Guyana: you show up, grab a banana leaf, and wait your turn for some tasty veg curry. But in Mozambique, they definitely take it to another level as the grieving process is ten days and the family for the departed not only foots the bill for the obvious things, but also ALL the food.
When a person has passed on it is usually women that remain inside the house during the mourning period. Men sit outside eating, chatting and of course, drinking beer (so not fair!). Inside, the women sort through the possessions of the loved one who has died in order to burn them, as it is believed by many here that the spirit of the deceased remains in his or her possessions. If these items are not burned and are given to someone, then the spirit of the deceased could pass into the new owner of the item. B’s grandmother’s capalanas are stored in a beautifully carved wooden trunk in our house. So I asked if I could use the trunk and the capalanas inside. B said “Trunk, sim. Capalanas, não, não, não.” “Why not, babes?” “Do you want to become a curandera and midwife?” and the birthing doula in me answered “Yes! That would be lovely to heal people with herbal medicines and bring bebês into the world. Awesome!” “Não. You will literally take on her spirit, like you will have to do her will, not yours.” And I respond all arrogantly skeptical “Okaaaay,” “I know you don’t believe in our Africanismo, but just listen to me. It will save us problems with family down the line. I’m going to burn them when the time is right for me” And with much more understanding and sympathy, I reign in my Western know-it-all-ness and say, “Okay. I won’t touch her things.” Now I understand why many people here don’t have family heirlooms like we do in the West.
At the cemetery, you wait until the body arrives from the morgue, and thereafter women in their capalanas--covering their legs and heads---begin to lead the procession behind the men carrying the coffin on their shoulders and everyone sings spirituals in Changana. At the actual grave, a sermon is given by a pastor, and as you can imagine there is much crying and wailing, and at some point, someone may try to throw themselves into the coffin as well. Thereafter, items that the person liked are placed with him or her as well as sprinkling the body with perfume or cologne. Then the coffin is sealed and lowered into the grave, and everyone in attendance throws a handful of dirt onto the coffin. The men in attendance then bury the coffin and afterwards family members plant flowers and other shrubbery and then these plantings are watered by everyone in attendance. Thereafter, back at the house, people come and go to pay respect to the family over the next seven days and at all times food is served: usually, rice, matapa, feijoada and if the budget permits, roasted or stewed meat. (See my post on Fine Dining to see more about those dishes)
Basically, that was my experience of a Mozambican funeral as I remember it happening for one of B’s older brothers who died in 2012. There was much to do over a short period of time and it occurred within the first months that I arrived in Mozambique . My Portuguese that time was not great and my Changana, nil---so trying to balance the dynamics of culture, family and being an outsider on many levels, those were the details I remembered best. So on this visit, there was much more happiness and levity and time to take in what was happening at the cemetery itself, and as I came to realize, there was so very much happening. First, getting to the cemetery on the weekend, when most people visit, one must get up at the crack of dawn to form the queue for the bus. The cemetery is in the city and is not far at all from our house, but because many people go on their only day off of work, which is usually Sunday, the great number of people going creates lines for the bus passing the cemetery. Once we get there, there are men and women selling tiny bunches of flowers for 10 meticais (30MT=1USD) or 20MT, while others are selling bigger and pricier bouquets as well as flowering shrubs to be planted on the grave. Also outside the grounds are men and women selling five liter jugs of water, as a visit to a grave always requires one to pour water on the grave. I asked B if this was for the plants or if there was some kind of spiritual significance to it. He said that actually, not too many years back, people left both food and water, as the grave site was considered to be the second home of the deceased. But with each generation, people change parts of customs or completely abandon them altogether. The jugs of water cost 20MT a jug. Technically, the water should be free, but the manager of the grave site and the water sellers evidently have some kind of agreement, as the water taps inside are ALWAYS turned off, so that if you want to use water at the cemetery you can’t, and most people are not going to carry three to four 5L containers of water.
Once inside, it all looks slightly chaotic, as there are people EVERYWHERE: walking, marching in procession behind coffins, weeding, watering, sitting and chatting…..mind you none of these activities are done with any quiet solemnity. The randomness of plot placement also contributes to the chaotic feel. The cemetery is quite old, but it is not the oldest, which is located in Maputo city center and dates back to the founding of the city. B will not enter that one, because he says 1) too many colonial Portuguese spirits are wandering about in there, 2) the vast amounts of garbage accumulating in there is germinating all types of diseases and 3) he doesn’t want to step on a massive pile of duque as people use it as a public toilet. The only cemetery I’ve been to in the U.S. that parallels this one in appearance is one I visited in the Old French Quarter of New Orleans. There are burial vaults dating back to the 1500s, many of which have been broken into to be robbed and vandalized: the doors swing open and the stained glass windows are all shattered. Although many of the coffins are still sitting inside, they appear to be still sealed, thankfully. The cemetery also has old tombstones of archangels and the Virgin Mary, as well as newer tombstones with pictures of the dearly departed smiling back at you. Weird…. and creepy. Other grave sites are simple dirt piles with a number for those whose families can’t afford to build a cement block around the grave once the earth has settled after burial. The cemetery is jam packed with graves. The most space between each plot is perhaps the width of a human foot so that, it appears that, people are buried one on top of the other.
Because each grave is maintained by the family of the deceased, there are varied degrees of maintenance at the cemetery. If you are financially able you can procure the employment of young boys and girls hawking their services of tombstone maintenance for a fee. Thus, some plots are well taken care of and plants are trimmed and watered, and tombstones are washed of dust. While others are rarely taken care of or never visited again, so that 80% of the cemetery has tall weeds and flowers, even tall sunflowers, growing sporadically around the cemetery, which sometimes poses a problem of actually finding a grave if you don’t remember the plot number.
After visiting B’s brother’s grave, which we found easily, we started walking to find his grandmother’s grave—which was on the other side of the cemetery, way, way on the other side, and amongst many, many tall weeds, flowers and shrubs. We were able to get into the general area of the plot, but OF COURSE we didn’t remember the bloody plot number—we could only remember the last three numbers, rather than the first three which we needed. We also knew that the grave would be well tended, as B’s father visits it every week, but OF COURSE none of us had a phone charged to call him to ask him where it was. So we break up into individual search parties, with our heads popping up from the weeds every so often to yell across plots, “DID YOU FIND IT?” “NÃO!” I was glad to see that we were not the only ones wandering around aimlessly under the hot sun, as other people had the same confused look on their faces as well as beads of sweat on their brows from sweeping aside weeds and bending to scrounge around in the dirt looking for the metal signpost with the plot number on it. After 40 long sweaty minutes we finally find it. B, who is quite a preacher, gave a moving prayer in Changana, (even though I couldn’t understand the words, I felt the emotion and could tell everyone else was moved by the many, many Amens that were offered), and then we watered the plants and sprinkled the tobacco she liked to chew over her grave. We then started to make the trek out, and one of B’s brother’s tells us to watch out for scorpions. My eyes immediately bolt to the ground to be careful not to step in dark, weedy spaces, and what do my eyes cast upon? Part of a human skull sticking out of the ground-- a row of crooked and broken teeth staring at me. I’m so not joking. So I say “B. Look!” B looks down and says “Jeeezus. A. Christ.” “Babes. Why is that skull sticking out like that?” “It is one of two things. Either black magic witches were in here looking for human parts and they just took the part of the head/skull they wanted and left this behind. OR, most likely, the grave has been abandoned for some time so the cemetery managers have re-sold the plot and didn’t do a good job of getting rid of the body buried there before.” Lovely.
I hope to make a trip back to take a closer look at the colonial catacombs as well as maybe pop in to the oldest cemetery in the city center. I’m a bit curious to see what will be sticking out of the ground staring back at me. (wink)
In the U.S. and many other countries, a funeral is a time for people to help families through their grieving period by bringing food on the day of the funeral, and even the days after the funeral--not so in Southern Africa. Usually the family of the departed must provide food for any person that shows up. When I went to a funeral in Botswana, it lasted one day and I saw it as pretty reasonable until I saw that food was served to any person that stood on line which from my perspective looked like the whole village, even down to the local beggar man. So funerals in Africa are kind of like Hindu weddings in Guyana: you show up, grab a banana leaf, and wait your turn for some tasty veg curry. But in Mozambique, they definitely take it to another level as the grieving process is ten days and the family for the departed not only foots the bill for the obvious things, but also ALL the food.
When a person has passed on it is usually women that remain inside the house during the mourning period. Men sit outside eating, chatting and of course, drinking beer (so not fair!). Inside, the women sort through the possessions of the loved one who has died in order to burn them, as it is believed by many here that the spirit of the deceased remains in his or her possessions. If these items are not burned and are given to someone, then the spirit of the deceased could pass into the new owner of the item. B’s grandmother’s capalanas are stored in a beautifully carved wooden trunk in our house. So I asked if I could use the trunk and the capalanas inside. B said “Trunk, sim. Capalanas, não, não, não.” “Why not, babes?” “Do you want to become a curandera and midwife?” and the birthing doula in me answered “Yes! That would be lovely to heal people with herbal medicines and bring bebês into the world. Awesome!” “Não. You will literally take on her spirit, like you will have to do her will, not yours.” And I respond all arrogantly skeptical “Okaaaay,” “I know you don’t believe in our Africanismo, but just listen to me. It will save us problems with family down the line. I’m going to burn them when the time is right for me” And with much more understanding and sympathy, I reign in my Western know-it-all-ness and say, “Okay. I won’t touch her things.” Now I understand why many people here don’t have family heirlooms like we do in the West.
At the cemetery, you wait until the body arrives from the morgue, and thereafter women in their capalanas--covering their legs and heads---begin to lead the procession behind the men carrying the coffin on their shoulders and everyone sings spirituals in Changana. At the actual grave, a sermon is given by a pastor, and as you can imagine there is much crying and wailing, and at some point, someone may try to throw themselves into the coffin as well. Thereafter, items that the person liked are placed with him or her as well as sprinkling the body with perfume or cologne. Then the coffin is sealed and lowered into the grave, and everyone in attendance throws a handful of dirt onto the coffin. The men in attendance then bury the coffin and afterwards family members plant flowers and other shrubbery and then these plantings are watered by everyone in attendance. Thereafter, back at the house, people come and go to pay respect to the family over the next seven days and at all times food is served: usually, rice, matapa, feijoada and if the budget permits, roasted or stewed meat. (See my post on Fine Dining to see more about those dishes)
Basically, that was my experience of a Mozambican funeral as I remember it happening for one of B’s older brothers who died in 2012. There was much to do over a short period of time and it occurred within the first months that I arrived in Mozambique . My Portuguese that time was not great and my Changana, nil---so trying to balance the dynamics of culture, family and being an outsider on many levels, those were the details I remembered best. So on this visit, there was much more happiness and levity and time to take in what was happening at the cemetery itself, and as I came to realize, there was so very much happening. First, getting to the cemetery on the weekend, when most people visit, one must get up at the crack of dawn to form the queue for the bus. The cemetery is in the city and is not far at all from our house, but because many people go on their only day off of work, which is usually Sunday, the great number of people going creates lines for the bus passing the cemetery. Once we get there, there are men and women selling tiny bunches of flowers for 10 meticais (30MT=1USD) or 20MT, while others are selling bigger and pricier bouquets as well as flowering shrubs to be planted on the grave. Also outside the grounds are men and women selling five liter jugs of water, as a visit to a grave always requires one to pour water on the grave. I asked B if this was for the plants or if there was some kind of spiritual significance to it. He said that actually, not too many years back, people left both food and water, as the grave site was considered to be the second home of the deceased. But with each generation, people change parts of customs or completely abandon them altogether. The jugs of water cost 20MT a jug. Technically, the water should be free, but the manager of the grave site and the water sellers evidently have some kind of agreement, as the water taps inside are ALWAYS turned off, so that if you want to use water at the cemetery you can’t, and most people are not going to carry three to four 5L containers of water.
Once inside, it all looks slightly chaotic, as there are people EVERYWHERE: walking, marching in procession behind coffins, weeding, watering, sitting and chatting…..mind you none of these activities are done with any quiet solemnity. The randomness of plot placement also contributes to the chaotic feel. The cemetery is quite old, but it is not the oldest, which is located in Maputo city center and dates back to the founding of the city. B will not enter that one, because he says 1) too many colonial Portuguese spirits are wandering about in there, 2) the vast amounts of garbage accumulating in there is germinating all types of diseases and 3) he doesn’t want to step on a massive pile of duque as people use it as a public toilet. The only cemetery I’ve been to in the U.S. that parallels this one in appearance is one I visited in the Old French Quarter of New Orleans. There are burial vaults dating back to the 1500s, many of which have been broken into to be robbed and vandalized: the doors swing open and the stained glass windows are all shattered. Although many of the coffins are still sitting inside, they appear to be still sealed, thankfully. The cemetery also has old tombstones of archangels and the Virgin Mary, as well as newer tombstones with pictures of the dearly departed smiling back at you. Weird…. and creepy. Other grave sites are simple dirt piles with a number for those whose families can’t afford to build a cement block around the grave once the earth has settled after burial. The cemetery is jam packed with graves. The most space between each plot is perhaps the width of a human foot so that, it appears that, people are buried one on top of the other.
Because each grave is maintained by the family of the deceased, there are varied degrees of maintenance at the cemetery. If you are financially able you can procure the employment of young boys and girls hawking their services of tombstone maintenance for a fee. Thus, some plots are well taken care of and plants are trimmed and watered, and tombstones are washed of dust. While others are rarely taken care of or never visited again, so that 80% of the cemetery has tall weeds and flowers, even tall sunflowers, growing sporadically around the cemetery, which sometimes poses a problem of actually finding a grave if you don’t remember the plot number.
After visiting B’s brother’s grave, which we found easily, we started walking to find his grandmother’s grave—which was on the other side of the cemetery, way, way on the other side, and amongst many, many tall weeds, flowers and shrubs. We were able to get into the general area of the plot, but OF COURSE we didn’t remember the bloody plot number—we could only remember the last three numbers, rather than the first three which we needed. We also knew that the grave would be well tended, as B’s father visits it every week, but OF COURSE none of us had a phone charged to call him to ask him where it was. So we break up into individual search parties, with our heads popping up from the weeds every so often to yell across plots, “DID YOU FIND IT?” “NÃO!” I was glad to see that we were not the only ones wandering around aimlessly under the hot sun, as other people had the same confused look on their faces as well as beads of sweat on their brows from sweeping aside weeds and bending to scrounge around in the dirt looking for the metal signpost with the plot number on it. After 40 long sweaty minutes we finally find it. B, who is quite a preacher, gave a moving prayer in Changana, (even though I couldn’t understand the words, I felt the emotion and could tell everyone else was moved by the many, many Amens that were offered), and then we watered the plants and sprinkled the tobacco she liked to chew over her grave. We then started to make the trek out, and one of B’s brother’s tells us to watch out for scorpions. My eyes immediately bolt to the ground to be careful not to step in dark, weedy spaces, and what do my eyes cast upon? Part of a human skull sticking out of the ground-- a row of crooked and broken teeth staring at me. I’m so not joking. So I say “B. Look!” B looks down and says “Jeeezus. A. Christ.” “Babes. Why is that skull sticking out like that?” “It is one of two things. Either black magic witches were in here looking for human parts and they just took the part of the head/skull they wanted and left this behind. OR, most likely, the grave has been abandoned for some time so the cemetery managers have re-sold the plot and didn’t do a good job of getting rid of the body buried there before.” Lovely.
I hope to make a trip back to take a closer look at the colonial catacombs as well as maybe pop in to the oldest cemetery in the city center. I’m a bit curious to see what will be sticking out of the ground staring back at me. (wink)
Friday, 10 January 2014
Mr. Rogers, won’t you please be my neighbor? Yes?!?! Great! Please leave any hateration at the door. Thanks.
I’ve always considered myself a pretty good neighbor: quiet, respectful of others’ space and fairly helpful when a neighbor has been in need. The worse neighborly thing I could be accused of would have to be stealing internet access—I sat many a night on top of my toilet tank trying to increase the number of bars on my next door neighbor’s internet service. But I always promised that once I had enough money to get my own access I wouldn’t block others out by naming my internet “No Access For You—Cheap Ass Loser”---people can be so mean. I’ve tried to live by my good neighborly creed while living abroad and for the most part it has worked out ok for me--until I moved to Maputo with B.
I naively thought that my reception would be open and warm but it in fact has been quite the opposite, which I would say is out of the norm for Mozambicans----outside of my neighborhood, people are pretty hospitable folks. I’ve lived in my Maputo hood now for six months and it is pretty safe to say that people do not like us nor do they really want us here. Which is weird because B grew up in this neighborhood and some of his neighbors are related to him either by blood or marriage. So why the hater-ation? Jealousy, envy and greed. Although we are living the same exact way and compared to some of his neighbors, not as well, we are considered rich or rather, people look at his American wife and see a future for B that has a halo of dollar signs floating over his head. The hate mongering started just about one week after we started construction of a wall around his property back in August. We were tired of people using our property as a cut through to get to the next street which leads to the market area. Since we use an outdoor area for the kitchen, we were also tired of folks coming to “borrow” our kitchen ware and “accidentally” losing it or “lending” it to another neighbor.
It was also weird to have people just walk on the property to come take their morning dump—I’m not sure what is so different or special about the hole in the ground on our property, but there you have it, many a morning I had to form a queue to my own dang bathroom (well the wall is not done so I still have to wait for someone to come out). It was also getting kind of boring having people just literally sit and watch us. How exciting can it be to watch the yankee gal brush her teeth? I’m mean, really? A good high wall was more than overdue. We did our good neighborly duty and informed folks of our intentions and there were smiles and good wishes all around. Not one objection. Nottaone. Not even a single mmf. Until we started to actually dig the ditch and placing the cement blocks into the ground. Then the grumbling started about how we were “stealing” more than our share of property, which was just some crazy talk. Surrounding us are 5 neighbors—all of which were given permission by B’s grandfather to build temporary homes back in the day, which eventually became their permanent residence and it has been in fact THEM who has encroached, little by little, upon the land that comprises B’s property. We also had to cut down a coconut tree to build the wall and it suddenly became a precious part of the family---so much so we were accused of “basically cutting down a person.” I of course was not getting the nuances of what was being said. Out of our 5 neighbors the two who were making the most noise are also known in the neighborhood to be witches and their accusations were subtle threats of using black magic against us. At one point these two women lodged complaints against us with the local community leader who solves neighborhood disputes—and after about five minutes into the meeting the leader of the community committee looked at these women and told them to stop harassing us---that we were a nice couple doing a good thing at not one penny of cost to them---one woman on the committee that attended said that they needed to calm down because they were only upset that they couldn’t spy on us anymore—as our construction is not just of the wall but also of a dependencia: bedroom with ensuite bathroom, living room and a kitchenette. Basically what we have achieved in six months most people don’t achieve in five years and people want to see how were are doing it and how much we are spending--hence the hardcore hating that is taking place.
This is the first time I can say that I haven’t been a good neighbor. At one point I was actually yelling at a total stranger (one of the witch ladies that lives behind us)---nothing we did satisfied this woman, so I just got to the point where I was like “Lady, what do you want? It looks like you just want to create a new problem each day to cause us stress and misery!” Silence and a stone cold stare. Two weeks later is when she lodged the complaint against us. But I was happy that the community leader and his committee were reasonable people and things went our way---as it could have easily gone her way and it would have been months of jumping hoops to compensate her for “her loss.” I have to admit that I haven’t, in general, demonstrated good neighborliness in Maputo as I’ve discovered that as a foreigner here in Africa it often opens the door to petitions for money, material things, a job,….marriage proposals…. requests for hot sex — “I can see you are naughty Aishia” Some man actually said that to me once—basically things that I am in no position of giving or offering. I’ve been courteous and friendly but just not my normal Peace Corps self, i.e. introducing myself at each person’s home, inviting people for tea, etc. I’ve found that some folks on this lovely continent just don’t know when enough is enough or as one Malawian colleague said to me once “Aishia, we don’t get opportunities here, so when one presents itself, in whatever form be it professionally or personally, we squeeze and squeeze, like a water logged sponge, until there is not one drop left to squeeze out.” Interesting approach to life. I get it but it does not necessarily work well when trying to develop good neighborly relations. Likewise, whatever it is about our faces, we are like the neighborhood counseling service—people just like to bring their problems to our door.
The other night we were walking to the market and a girl walks up to us and says, laughingly and all smiles, she is “scared to visit” and I was like “Why? Just come and visit.” I thought she meant a “let’s tell some jokes and drink some mango juice” kind of visit. She ended up placing some heavy duty personal issues on my lap—B said I looked like I was hit by a truck, eyes all big and round with mouth slightly ajar. And I don’t know why I had that expression?!? I should be used to it by now as people are always laying some shit on me when I wait for subway trains in NYC---I once had a dirty homeless white man with no legs, roll up on his skateboard and caress my knee and thank me for my kindness (I gave him my left over restaurant dinner) and listening to him. But I have to admit that my first internal response was not “Oh, thank you” or “You are welcome” it was “Oh my goodness. I’m gonna need to disinfect my leg now.” But I must just have that kind of face. And I do treat people like human beings i.e. I look them in the eye and wait for them to finish their sentence before saying “Yeah, I gotz to go now, good luck with that.”
I am now trying to be better about visiting people albeit with a deer in headlights look as I never know if I am going to be either hit up for money, accused of doing something I shouldn’t have or told I’m fat. In that order. All during one visit. I’m still not talking to one of the complaining ladies, as she is just a mean, mean person and I don’t see the need to pretend. But I’ve started saying good morning to the other complainer—I realize she is just old and lonely and complains as a way to get some attention. B really doesn’t like her—not one bit— because she practices witchcraft. He has requested I not visit her or eat anything she gives me. So I found it quite amusing that a cat that I named Auvitaniwanga, which means in Changana One Who Has No Invitation To Enter My House, randomly entered our house started to sleep curled up against B’s back alongside our own cat. It ends up that it is the old witch’s cat. HA! So we have to be good neighbors and continue to feed her and treat her like our own…and I guess at the end of the day that is how we should, ideally, treat our neighbors anyway. I hope that some of my neighbors get that news bulletin soon.
I naively thought that my reception would be open and warm but it in fact has been quite the opposite, which I would say is out of the norm for Mozambicans----outside of my neighborhood, people are pretty hospitable folks. I’ve lived in my Maputo hood now for six months and it is pretty safe to say that people do not like us nor do they really want us here. Which is weird because B grew up in this neighborhood and some of his neighbors are related to him either by blood or marriage. So why the hater-ation? Jealousy, envy and greed. Although we are living the same exact way and compared to some of his neighbors, not as well, we are considered rich or rather, people look at his American wife and see a future for B that has a halo of dollar signs floating over his head. The hate mongering started just about one week after we started construction of a wall around his property back in August. We were tired of people using our property as a cut through to get to the next street which leads to the market area. Since we use an outdoor area for the kitchen, we were also tired of folks coming to “borrow” our kitchen ware and “accidentally” losing it or “lending” it to another neighbor.
It was also weird to have people just walk on the property to come take their morning dump—I’m not sure what is so different or special about the hole in the ground on our property, but there you have it, many a morning I had to form a queue to my own dang bathroom (well the wall is not done so I still have to wait for someone to come out). It was also getting kind of boring having people just literally sit and watch us. How exciting can it be to watch the yankee gal brush her teeth? I’m mean, really? A good high wall was more than overdue. We did our good neighborly duty and informed folks of our intentions and there were smiles and good wishes all around. Not one objection. Nottaone. Not even a single mmf. Until we started to actually dig the ditch and placing the cement blocks into the ground. Then the grumbling started about how we were “stealing” more than our share of property, which was just some crazy talk. Surrounding us are 5 neighbors—all of which were given permission by B’s grandfather to build temporary homes back in the day, which eventually became their permanent residence and it has been in fact THEM who has encroached, little by little, upon the land that comprises B’s property. We also had to cut down a coconut tree to build the wall and it suddenly became a precious part of the family---so much so we were accused of “basically cutting down a person.” I of course was not getting the nuances of what was being said. Out of our 5 neighbors the two who were making the most noise are also known in the neighborhood to be witches and their accusations were subtle threats of using black magic against us. At one point these two women lodged complaints against us with the local community leader who solves neighborhood disputes—and after about five minutes into the meeting the leader of the community committee looked at these women and told them to stop harassing us---that we were a nice couple doing a good thing at not one penny of cost to them---one woman on the committee that attended said that they needed to calm down because they were only upset that they couldn’t spy on us anymore—as our construction is not just of the wall but also of a dependencia: bedroom with ensuite bathroom, living room and a kitchenette. Basically what we have achieved in six months most people don’t achieve in five years and people want to see how were are doing it and how much we are spending--hence the hardcore hating that is taking place.
This is the first time I can say that I haven’t been a good neighbor. At one point I was actually yelling at a total stranger (one of the witch ladies that lives behind us)---nothing we did satisfied this woman, so I just got to the point where I was like “Lady, what do you want? It looks like you just want to create a new problem each day to cause us stress and misery!” Silence and a stone cold stare. Two weeks later is when she lodged the complaint against us. But I was happy that the community leader and his committee were reasonable people and things went our way---as it could have easily gone her way and it would have been months of jumping hoops to compensate her for “her loss.” I have to admit that I haven’t, in general, demonstrated good neighborliness in Maputo as I’ve discovered that as a foreigner here in Africa it often opens the door to petitions for money, material things, a job,….marriage proposals…. requests for hot sex — “I can see you are naughty Aishia” Some man actually said that to me once—basically things that I am in no position of giving or offering. I’ve been courteous and friendly but just not my normal Peace Corps self, i.e. introducing myself at each person’s home, inviting people for tea, etc. I’ve found that some folks on this lovely continent just don’t know when enough is enough or as one Malawian colleague said to me once “Aishia, we don’t get opportunities here, so when one presents itself, in whatever form be it professionally or personally, we squeeze and squeeze, like a water logged sponge, until there is not one drop left to squeeze out.” Interesting approach to life. I get it but it does not necessarily work well when trying to develop good neighborly relations. Likewise, whatever it is about our faces, we are like the neighborhood counseling service—people just like to bring their problems to our door.
The other night we were walking to the market and a girl walks up to us and says, laughingly and all smiles, she is “scared to visit” and I was like “Why? Just come and visit.” I thought she meant a “let’s tell some jokes and drink some mango juice” kind of visit. She ended up placing some heavy duty personal issues on my lap—B said I looked like I was hit by a truck, eyes all big and round with mouth slightly ajar. And I don’t know why I had that expression?!? I should be used to it by now as people are always laying some shit on me when I wait for subway trains in NYC---I once had a dirty homeless white man with no legs, roll up on his skateboard and caress my knee and thank me for my kindness (I gave him my left over restaurant dinner) and listening to him. But I have to admit that my first internal response was not “Oh, thank you” or “You are welcome” it was “Oh my goodness. I’m gonna need to disinfect my leg now.” But I must just have that kind of face. And I do treat people like human beings i.e. I look them in the eye and wait for them to finish their sentence before saying “Yeah, I gotz to go now, good luck with that.”
I am now trying to be better about visiting people albeit with a deer in headlights look as I never know if I am going to be either hit up for money, accused of doing something I shouldn’t have or told I’m fat. In that order. All during one visit. I’m still not talking to one of the complaining ladies, as she is just a mean, mean person and I don’t see the need to pretend. But I’ve started saying good morning to the other complainer—I realize she is just old and lonely and complains as a way to get some attention. B really doesn’t like her—not one bit— because she practices witchcraft. He has requested I not visit her or eat anything she gives me. So I found it quite amusing that a cat that I named Auvitaniwanga, which means in Changana One Who Has No Invitation To Enter My House, randomly entered our house started to sleep curled up against B’s back alongside our own cat. It ends up that it is the old witch’s cat. HA! So we have to be good neighbors and continue to feed her and treat her like our own…and I guess at the end of the day that is how we should, ideally, treat our neighbors anyway. I hope that some of my neighbors get that news bulletin soon.
Friday, 3 January 2014
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.
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.
Friday, 27 December 2013
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!
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!
Thursday, 12 December 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, 7 December 2013
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.
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.
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