16 Days of Activism Against GBV: Female Genital Cutting

Photo taken from the Bristol Post

Female Genital Cutting (FGC) is not, thankfully, a form of GBV that is practiced in South Sudan. However, FGC is a practice that is forced upon millions of girls and women in Africa as well as other regions. Any act that does not obtain the consent of a girl or woman is a violation of her human rights. Consent can only be given freely, willingly and voluntarily. Consent is not given through coercion or threats like “You will do this. If you do not, you will bring shame to our family.” FGC is perpetuated by families and communities who feel they must conform to social and cultural norms and beliefs governing girls/women’s sexuality and marital fidelity.

Female genital cutting (FGC) refers to all procedures involving partial or total removal of the external female genitalia or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons. Many in the international community refer to it as female genital mutilation. However, I find the term mutilation is inherently judgmental of the culture and social norms that perpetuate the practice. Do any of us in the United States call women who have had their breasts augmented as being mutilated? Yet, the social pressure on women to conform to an idea of beauty that will make her sexually appealing and thus more marriageable, is the same social pressure that girls/women feel in developing nations where they undergo FGC. But more importantly, in my human rights work promoting women's rights and advocating for the end of GBV, the more accusatory and judgmental we are as advocates, the more defensive proponents of a practice become pushing them to continue the very practice I and others are advocating should end.

It is a centuries old practice that has been found in many countries and cultures around the world. For example, the article “How Did Female Genital Mutilation Begin,” (2012) by Rosella Lorenzi points to the practice having origins in ancient Greece and/or in Egypt. The article also highlights that FGC was practiced by gynecologists in 19th century United States and England “to treat various psychological symptom as well as ‘masturbation and nymphomania,’ based on a now discarded theory called 'reflex neurosis,' which held that many disorders like depression originated in genital inflammation.”

Photo taken from Female Genital Mutilation/Cutting (FGM/C) A West African Plague

But what is FGC, exactly? FGC is classified into four major types:
• Clitoridectomy: partial or total removal of the clitoris (a small, sensitive and erectile part of the female genitals) and in very rare cases, only the prepuce (the fold of skin surrounding the clitoris).
• Excision: partial or total removal of the clitoris and the labia minora, with or without excision of the labia majora (the labia are "the lips" that surround the vagina).
• Infibulation: narrowing of the vaginal opening through the creation of a covering seal. The seal is formed by cutting and repositioning the inner, or outer, labia, with or without removal of the clitoris.
• Other: all other harmful procedures to the female genitalia for non-medical purposes, e.g. pricking, piercing, incising, scraping and cauterizing the genital area.

Photo taken from Caring for Kids New to Canada

Is there a health benefit to FGC? FGC has no health benefits, and it can harm girls and women in many ways. Immediate complications can include severe pain, shock, hemorrhage (bleeding), tetanus or sepsis (bacterial infection), urine retention, open sores in the genital region and injury to nearby genital tissue.

Long-term consequences can include:
• recurrent bladder and urinary tract infections;
• cysts;
• infertility;
• an increased risk of childbirth complications and newborn deaths;
• the need for later surgeries. For example, the FGC procedure that seals or narrows a vaginal opening (type 3 above) needs to be cut open later to allow for sexual intercourse and childbirth. Sometimes it is stitched again several times, including after childbirth, hence the woman goes through repeated opening and closing procedures, further increasing and repeating both immediate and long-term risks.

UN Dispatch Map of the Day, July 22, 2013

The specific causes include a mix of cultural, religious and social factors within families and communities.
• FGC is often considered a necessary part of raising a girl properly, and a way to prepare her for adulthood and marriage. By enduring the pain without screaming or crying, a girl demonstrates that she has the maturity to endure the hardships of being a wife and mother.
• One of the strongest factors pushing families and communities to continue the practice is the idea of sexuality purity and modesty (the idea of being clean, the removal of the clitoris, an unclean “male” part) and/or marital fidelity. FGC is in many communities believed to reduce a woman's libido and therefore believed to help her resist "forbidden" sexual acts. When a vaginal opening is covered or narrowed (type 3 above), the fear of the pain of opening it, and the fear that this will be found out, is expected to further discourage sexual intercourse among Type 3 FGC women before or outside of marriage.
• No religious texts advocate the practice. FGC is practiced as much in predominantly Christian countries as it is in predominantly Muslim countries. Thus, religious leaders take varying positions with regard to FGC: some promote it, some consider it irrelevant to religion, and others contribute to eradicating it.
• Structures of power and authority, such as community leaders, religious leaders, circumcizers, and even some medical personnel can contribute to upholding the practice.
• The practice is mostly carried out by traditional circumcizers, who often play other central roles in communities, such as midwife or birth attendant. However, more than 18% of all FGC is performed by health care providers, and the trend towards medicalization is increasing (UNICEF).

On a positive note, an adolescent girl today is about a third less likely to undergo FGC than 30 years ago. Kenya and Tanzania have seen rates drop to a third of their levels compared to three decades ago through a combination of community activism and legislation. In the Central African Republic, Iraq, Liberia and Nigeria, prevalence has dropped by as much as half. (UNICEF)

What can I do?

“The most common way people give up their power is thinking they don’t have any.” –Alice Walker, African American Author

If this is an issue you are passionate about use your personal power to support advocates, organizations and campaigns that are working to end the practice:

Globalizing Gender, founded by my friend Natasha Johnson, a longtime and passionate advocate for GBV survivors.

End FGM European Network

Stop FGM Now.com

Juba Airport

Everything looks absolutely normal on the surface of Juba city: congregations of tall, lean men in business and casual attire lounge with their long legs crossed under the shade of an acacia tree or even under the open ground floor space of a building being constructed (as long as there is shade). They wait to be served tea by equally long limbed girls and women, with their colorful sarongs and glittery head scarves. Kids are running barefooted on dusty side streets playing with footballs made out of rubber bands. Sheep and goats graze along the side of the road sometimes darting into the middle of traffic congested with motorbikes and land-cruisers blazoned with organizational logos. But underneath it there is a pulsating tension because of the worsening economy, the rising crime rates, and increased skirmishes that are happening in the conflict affected areas. We are all waiting to see what will happen with the peace process over the next few days to weeks. But I can’t get into it today…I’m thinking about when I will have to make another dreaded trip through Juba airport.

Upon arrival to Juba airport, if you are lucky, a bus will meet you on the tarmac, as the actual terminal is from, maybe, the 1970s and cannot accommodate planes at the actual terminal. Ok, that is reasonable, many airports are still stuck in the pre-historic era---like LaGuardia airport in NYC. But even if there is a crazy African torrential downpour, you better have something to cover your head because you cannot count on the little bus to come and get you at the plane. But most of the time the sun is scorching hot to the point that you feel as if it is melting the skin off your bones.

By the time you trek across the tarmac and park yourself on line for the Ebola check, things are getting pretty steamy under the collar. As you stand on line you are most likely juggling your laptop, maybe your handbag, a folder with work related reading and most likely some other bag between your hands and armpits as you try to wash your hands with the Ebola-Killing-Soap at the small, small blue plastic water dispenser. At the same time, you are doing your darndest not to knock over said dispenser or step into the muddy, soapy water pooling around the basin underneath the dispenser. Then you walk a bit more to the big white tent to fill out a form saying you are not infected and have not traveled to an infected country in the last 21 days. Yes, we must be safe, because Ebola is one helluva virulent pathogen—and why the next paragraph actually terrifies me.

You are now standing on another line underneath this tarp, pretty much roasting and by the time you get to the white robed mask wearing temperature taker---you should have something simulating a raging fever and thus a good candidate to be pulled aside for Ebola Queries. I’m usually told to move to passport stamping and when I look at my stamped form I have a temperature approximating 4 degrees Celsius---pretty much the temperature of a corpse that has been sitting in a morgue—I should both be dead and very cold to the touch. Which of course I am far from either. SO. How well are these instruments at spotting infected persons? I try not to dwell on it, I have other things that make my hypochondriac behind toss and turn at night.

I’m now inside the terminal and waiting to be inspected—which I feel is happening every single time I perch up on my tippy toes to talk through the tiny hole in the plastic window. And on one occasion my suspicions were correct. “You cut your hair.” “Excuse me?” Passport Guard 1 shows me my own passport photo with a longer hairstyle. “Ah, yes, I cut my hair.” “You are pretty with long hair. You should have long hair” I ignore him and continue to fill out more paperwork. Passport Guard 2 “But she looks nice with short hair too.” “But women should have long hair,” Passport Control 1 states. “But if a woman wants to have short hair she can do so. It is her hair,” Passport Control 2 says smiling broadly at me. “But look at how nice she…” I cut them both off with a tap on the plastic window with index finger, “Hello, yes, well it is very hot in Africa and I sweat a lot so I cut if off. I don’t want pimples on my back. Are you done with my passport?” “Yes. Grow your hair back.” Thank you Passport Control 1 and 2. Happy day.

You are now ready to claim your baggage but first you must get by some men sitting up on some high stools, staring down on you very hot, tired and unsmiling. This man is usually flanked by two or three men who I can never tell what their job is exactly. The one perched on the stool is, most times, in some semblance of a uniform but the rest look like they came to chat and have a cup of tea, yet they all take a look at your passport “Keef (how are you?)?” I am asked. “Tamam (I’m fine.),” I say. “Something, something more in Arabic.” I stare blankly, and then I reply “Maafi arabe (I don’t speak Arabic).” “Why don’t you speak Arabic (pauses as he looks at my Arabic/Middle Eastern name again)” “Because I don’t want to.” I’m literally soaked through with sweat as two hundred people crowded into the space of a large elevator press behind me—because of course it is Africa and there is no such thing as personal space. Something shows the testiness in my face and he hands back my passport “You should learn Arabic” Juba airport is just full of folks who are specialists on what my behind should and should not be doing. From here it is pretty straight forward….you wait as your bags are taken from the plane, to the baggage claim area to a conveyor belt and a woman (I always get the same exact woman) sometimes in a uniform, sometimes in a dress, marks your bag with a piece of chalk after she peeks inside your bag—now you can leave, because that chalk marking is all very official that your bag has been properly inspected. But strangely enough, it is not arriving to Juba airport that is the bane of my existence but it is taking off from it that makes me cringe.

Leaving on a Monday morning is the worst because they have the commercial and the UN Humanitarian Airline Service (UNHAS) flights leaving from the same terminal. Oh yes, I forgot to mention THERE IS ONLY ONE freakin’ terminal. UNHAS services all domestic flights because there is a conflict and it is the only way we can travel safely around the country. Depending on what flight you are going on, there is some queueing, pretending to really check your e-ticket and ID and then a wave of a hand to pass through a door made for one person at a time, but of course we all try to smash through it like uncivilized beasts because we want to get to the UNHAS counter before everyone else to get our bag weighed and our plastic boarding card. But you can never get there early enough. There is always a herd of people crowded inside the small, small, small space that houses the airline counter, immigration windows, scales and conveyor belt: a space that should really accommodate 20-30 people has about 150. So we all push our way through like cattle going to the slaughter, eyes lolling to the back of our heads as we squeeze through people, bags just parked in the middle of everything, 5L water containers, food parcels, medical equipment and just about everything you will need to go to the field. If you can manage to get through check in, where we basically body slam each other to get to the scale first—because that is the most important part, making sure you have exactly 20kg.

And after all that hard work, I mean literally, I am drenched in sweat and any evidence of a morning shower are long gone by now: once a ray of sun hits my skin or I am in a tightly enclosed space for more than 10 seconds my pores are gushing sweat like a rotating sprinkler. Really. This tight hot space is my worst nightmare, I feel like my brain will explode out my eyes with the heat of the African sun and humans vacuumed into our tiny check-in area. You would think that all this pushing and defense football line-backing is because we are rushing to get a flight that will be leaving shortly. Nope. We are flying, most likely, a World Food Program (WFP) plane which I fondly call Waiting for the F@#$in’ Plane---because you could literally be there waiting for 3 hours for a flight that may take only 40 minutes. Once in the field and you are ready to return to Juba, you usually have to drive out to a dirt airstrip and wait up to 3 -6 hours for your flight with the WFP staff sometimes walkie-talkie-ing to say “Flight canceled.” What?!?!? Dear jeee--zuz. (deep sigh)….TIA (This is Africa) is now TIJ……This is Juba.

Yes, I speaks da Engplish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Festive Season!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Ghost! Fyah!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

African Justice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waste not, Want not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

International Perambulator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vermin

I think most of you who know me, know that wherever I have lived I have had my battles with vermin. In Washington DC, they grow as big as cats and they run in packs in the small alleyways behind houses, duplexes and apartment buildings. Once, while studying while seated on my rug, one came strolling out of the wall vent, stopped, looked at me, and kept creeping along the wall, until I started chasing it with a wooden clog and it disappeared into the bathroom. I then shut my mind to the possibility that it escaped down the toilet because that would have brought to life a dreaded urban myth of it coming back out of the toilet while I was seated on it. In NYC, rats have no boundaries as well. I’ve seen them on subway trains and platforms and I’ve even had one run across my foot as I was walking.

Once in a new place, I go into full combat mode. I make a series of heated and strongly worded phone calls to the building management about their schedule for exterminating the filthy creatures and I grab my one size too big yellow rubber gloves and get to cleaning. I clean the whole apartment as well as place white bicarbonate soda along the edge of the whole apartment for roaches, including outside my apt door (very voo doo like, ne?). But I’ve learned, especially in DC, that both roaches and rats actually eat cleaning detergent---it’s like dessert or something. So all that cleaning was for naught. But I still do it. Even when abroad.

When I was living with afamily in Costa Rica as a Peace Corps volunteer, I went into full cleaning mode on the day I moved in and one of my family members just stared at me, and laughed while eating a plate of rice and beans in front of me. Without a shirt, grossly overweight and sweating—dropping grains of riceat my door.Lovely. He laughed because he knew what I didn’t know at the time. His sister would leave her unfinished plates of food under her bed while watching her telenovelas. So the rats would dine in her room and then come into my room to exercise and frolic in my nice clean room, with their teeny, tiny dirty feet--well into the next day. It was the first time I really saw them scale walls, and jump, very, very high, from the floor to my closet, onto my clothes.

I didn’t use poison when I was in Costa Rica. I wanted them to die, not to suffer by burning from the inside out.I only had a shoe, a broom, traps or that awful sticky paper.The Sister refused to get a cat as cats could prevent her from having children. But she had a child. A child she didn’t plan and didn’t know she was pregnant with until the 7th month because she too was grossly overweight and evidently didn’t know she had had sex to conceive her (What? Really?). And she hated the child’s father and most other men walking the planet as evidenced by the scowl and sharp words she gave to every man that crossed her path. Yet, she was scared her chances of getting pregnant would be in danger. Yes, made perfect sense. I left that house with a slight nervous tick as I would be awaken with a start every night as they would jump and scamper around my room with their teeny, tiny dirty feet. (Some rats get really fat, as well as their tails, yet their feet stay so teeny, tiny--that irks me, so I repeat this fact often.)

So, you would think here in Mozambique I would have learned some lessons about these critters. No, not really. I went straight into cleaning mode once we returned to Maputo from the US in July. And finally, at around 2AM, I allowed my boyfriend to go to sleep, secure that we brought no food into the house and the room was clean—so why would any rat want to come in here? Ummm.Umf.

Well, yes, of course they came because they are not really rats they are humans in rat form. Yes, of course…wait, what? So a twist here in Mozambique (and maybe other parts of Africa), is that many animals are actually hungry witches that take on human form so they can eat what they can’t get for themselves or be given as humans during the day. I tell my boyfriend this is nonsense. He tells me I am rejecting African culture. I tell him that I reject that part of African culture. He ends with, “one day you will believe.” I try to get the last word, “No, I will never believe.” “Yes, you will,” he screams as he runs out the door with the last word. (I hate not getting the last word.)

These dirty animals played romp a room all night. Jumping all over the place, and stopping to look at me in my bed to see if I was awake. I didn’t know that they could tell that our eyes were open. I felt safe that I was high up on the bed until B tells me they climb up on the bed if they need to get to one side of the room to the other. “Como?!?! I thought you said they wouldn’t do that.” “No, I said that they wouldn’t bite you if they climb up on the bed.” Biting or no biting, they are on the bed dude that is enough. So we sleep with a mosquito net every night although it is winter and there are no mosquitos and most particularly because rats can’t bite through a sheer mesh net and thus I will be protected under my blue mosquito net force field.

In Zobue, we didn’t have a rat problem as they were eaten by my cat as well by the people in my neighborhood (that is another blog altogether about food). But my cat died while I was away and I can’t think of getting another cat just yet. But here in Mozzie, they have very powerful rat poisoning. Evidently if the poison falls on my skin it will start to bubble up with blisters and cause extreme agony. Perfect—to hell with animal cruelty and possible self-disfigurement. I need to sleep at night; as well as not spend each day re-washing all my personal belongings. The thought of teeny, tiny rat feet impressions on my things gives me the creepy crawlys.

We put the poison on bread and then placed pieces of the bread throughout the room. That night as I layin my bed I could hear them chomping on the bread. Yes, my dirty friends, eat your little rat hearts out. The next day every single piece of bread was eaten. That night I thought we would do the same. But no, my boyfriend asks, “Don’t you know how smart rats are?” “ No,” I answer, “I just know they are dirty.” “No, they got sick or died from the bread—so they, if they didn’t die,or the others,are not going to eat the bread again.” We take leftovers from our dinner and place it into egg carton scraps and mix it with poison. That night their teeny, tiny dirty nails scratched away at those cartons, gormandizing themselves. One week later no more rats and I am sleeping soundly and safely.
I had to travel all the way to Africa to figure out how to definitively get rid of these suckers: I just had to put poison in all the foods I actually eat that way they will never go near that food again. I guess they aresmart--smarter than me anyway.

(I’m still sleeping under my blue force field every night. You never know.)