Dog Days of Summer

As a kid, summer was my all time favorite time of year, not just because my birthday falls during the summer, or that I could spend my days being a geeky band camper, but because I got to go to the beach. Some of my first memories of family holidays are those spent at Coney Island, and later when we moved to Long Island, Jones Beach. My older brother liked to call us the Gaddafi bandwagon because when we traveled we traveled all together, this was particularly so when we made a beach trip. My parents, my brothers, my grandparents and any other relative that was staying with us at the time and of course moi would wake up at the crack of dawn and head to the beach.

We would pile into our 1970 something, puke green Volkswagon and because food at the beach was absolutely off limits, we would load up our huge red cooler and other beach bags with what you could probably feed an army with: chicken, hotdogs, hamburgers, potato chips, potato salad, macaroni salad, assorted sandwiches, Pathmark brand crème and pineapple sodas, Kool Aid fruit punch, fruit, water and of course, the grown-ups had beer. We had a small, round grill that stood on a tripod that my parents probably bought when they first got off the boat and we still had until my mother sold her house in 2001---like I said in my post Waste Not, Want Not, immigrant folks don’t throw anything away until JC himself tells them that the item has exhausted its utility. We would usually get there around 8 or 9 am and then not leave until well after the sun had set.

We spent our days building sand castles, jumping waves, throwing sand at each other and what I now know, driving my parents up the wall---but I’m sure the beer helped dull the nerves that we were constantly hanging on. Now that I am an adult, not that much has changed about my trips to the beach. I still carry my food rather than buy anything at the beach and I still love jumping waves. So I was pretty excited when we moved to Maputo, and to find out that we were only a 15-30 minute bus ride from the city beach, Costa de Sol. Most times we do take the chapa, but once in awhile, we get up early and we strap on our backpacks filled with a bottle of ice water, UNO playing cards, and French fries and egg omelette sandwiches to run the 5-6 miles it takes to get there.

I have visited my fair share of beaches and I have to say that Costa de Sol has been one of the more unique ones that I have been to. Back in the day, under the pretty authoritarian leadership of Machel Samora, the beach area and swimming was prohibited. In fact, policemen were posted there to stop people from swimming but also to monitor any illegal activity, such as drinking alcoholic beverages. One positive effect, as B describes it, was that the beach was a pristine white sand paradise with crystal clear blue-green water. Much has changed since those days and the beach is more on par with Coney Island during the 1980s, sans the hypodermic needles.

Today, there is much beer drinking at the beach as evidenced by the amount of broken beer bottles and their jagged pieces buried into the sand: on the beach and on the ocean floor. Needless to say one must tread lightly when walking. People also leave their garbage behind which leads to it being swept in and out to sea. Sadly, some years back, an oilrig sunk and its contents transformed that crystal, clear blue-green water, to a swimming area that is clean, and swimmable, but is murky and very much lost to what it once was.

When you arrive to the beach there are many food vendors with huge barbecue pits made out of large metal garbage cans that are cut into half and outfitted with grills. They sell either fish or chicken served with French fries or chima. There are of course many vendors selling beer and other refreshments. Women and small children walk the beach selling roasted peanuts, the seasonal fruit, cookies and at times, ice cream. While other people are selling their crafts: jewelry and home items made out of shells. And there is always the random vendor selling DVDs, q-tips and soap.

The time of day that you visit the beach brings in a tide of distinct groups. When we go in the morning, we are met with the street children and other homeless people who sleep at the beach at night. This time of the day can actually be the most dangerous in terms of theft as you may think that the beach is pretty deserted and secure and it being so early, that your things will be safely waiting for you after a dip in the water. But in fact, this is actually when your stuff will most likely get stolen—so B and I usually take turns cooling off after our run. At this time of day you are also most likely to see fishermen going out to cast their nets and market women with large baskets who will sit for them to come back in order to get the best picks of the fishermen’s catch.

The morning also brings the healers and members of the Zion church. The ocean’s waters and salt are deemed to be cleansing properties and are very holy to both the traditional healers and the Zionists. Recently, we saw a woman who, according to B, had an evil spirit that needed to be expelled. The healer tied a chicken to a small shrub and then he started a small fire close by. Thereafter, he passed a stick he was holding over the woman that had some sort of animal hair tied to the end. After saying some prayers with this stick, he accompanied her to the sea and sat her in the water, and then continued reciting prayers while passing the stick over her body. The evil spirit was being transferred from her body to the chicken. And the water was cleansing her soul to be reborn new again. When I saw them leave I saw that they left the chicken and asked B why they weren’t taking it with them. “They have to leave it so the spirit that is now in the chicken does not find her again. The thieves hanging about here will catch it and eat it.” “Well won’t the spirit pass into them?” “Chickens don’t have a soul for an evil spirit to corrupt.” “How do you know, are you a chicken?! Maybe it will be an evil chicken, pecking people all the time, because the evil spirit is trying to get out or something.” “Ok. We are not going to have this conversation. The street kids eat it and then they continue doing the bad things they are already doing but worse because the evil spirit is in them now.” “Ok. Thanks.”

The Zionists also conduct their services on the beach during early morning hours. There are usually several groups of 4-6 people—although they are of the same religion they all attend “different” churches. The fact that they deem each church different form the other is a bit confusing to me because their church services are on the beach and held literally in the water with only about 5-10 feet between each “church.” It would be nice to know what each group is doing differently from the other. When they enter the water, they make a circle holding hands, and at least one member is in the middle. The middle person usually has a spirit in them of someone who has passed on and the spirit is using him or her as a vessel to send a message. There is usually a lot of screaming and thrashing in the water. It all looks very scary and violent. Many are known to speak in tongues during one of these possessions and thereafter not have a clue of what they said or did.

The late morning to early afternoon brings families with their young kids: there are lots of coolers, beach toys and kids getting on their parents nerves---and sometimes on mine as well. Some beach goers play soccer, some are parasailing while others pretend they know how to play capoeira by doing some turn like kick motions, beating on a drum and plucking at the berimbau. But I’ve been to enough play sessions to know the real thing from the “I want to impress you so I can snog you later on under a starry night” kind of capoeira.

The late afternoon moving into the evening brings couples, partiers and the police to catch the couples and the partiers who will most likely hook up on the beach. The police are not there to control such illicit sexual behavior---but to catch people in the act so that the couple will pay them something for not issuing a fine. Long gone are the days of Samora’s police force: in some ways that is good but in others, not so much.

We only have a few more weeks before our summer is over as the strong winds have arrived and mornings have gotten quite chilly, with the sun rising later and later each day---sure signs that winter is coming. We can still go to the beach and swim, as the water is always warm to hot—but when you get out is when you will freeze your butt off, as the temperature does drop quite low here in Southern Africa. I have to re-program my mind to look forward to winter days where we can just sit and watch the tide as the sun sets, play some UNO and if the police are not out and about, make a small bonfire to warm ourselves up. One thing I do know, there will always be something interesting happening to keep me entertained.

An Africa Survivor Lesson: Spotting the Bribe and Weaseling Your Way Out Of It

My good friend Tomoko and her husband donated a second hand laptop to me and sent it to me here in Maputo. I think in most other places the process of retrieving the package would have been fairly simple albeit a few procedures to be followed, but not here in Maputo.

We were notified by text message that the package had arrived. We decided to go the next morning. I awoke with a worried look and B said “Tranquila. It will be fine” “But aren’t they going to open it and charge us something ridiculous?” “NA-DA. They don’t have a right to---it is used, not a new import.” “Okay. If you say so.”

When we arrive we let the postal worker know that we have received a package and show her the text message. “Who is that? We don’t know if that is from one of our employees?” Ummm, ok. So we had to call the number to prove to her that it was an actual employee of the postal office. At this point B is starting to get irritated “Why would one of your workers send us a text message without giving us the package number or code or without giving his name in the text message? What kind of operation are you running here?” (Aishia lays her hand gently on his forearm to signal that I want the laptop not a fight.) An employee brings out our package but instead of giving it to us he carries it to customs. My right eye starts to jump---sure sign of impending irritation headache.

The customs official opens the package and starts to go through its contents. And then looks at the U.S. postal form pasted on the box that states clothes, toys and household items. “Toys? Where?” I ignore him and start admiring the Jiffy Pop instant popcorn my friend threw in for me. “What is this?” pointing to the laptop covered in tissue paper, “It’s a used laptop.” He immediately whips out a piece of paper and a calculator. “How much did you pay for it?” “Why?” I ask. “It is an import.” “How so? It is my laptop for personal use that broke here and I took with me to the US to be fixed.” “You are bringing in a new laptop.” B’s brows burrow way deep into his forehead and he says “It is not an import. It is her laptop that she brought with her. It is old. “ He is now using his outside voice at volume level 10. “How much did you buy it for?” the custom official asks me in a skeptical tone of voice “I bought it in 2002 or 2003. The value of the computer has diminished. You cannot charge me for the value of something bought almost 10 years ago!” I say to him “How much?” he asks again. Ok, he wants to play it like this. FINE. “$100 or $150.” (In Mozambique they cannot charge you for items under $100 in value) “You paid $100 or $150 for a laptop?” “YES. I bought it in 2002 or 2003 and I only bought the hardware. The software is what raises the price. My cousin gave me the software.” Ugly, old custom official with a scowl permanently on his face begins to poke at his 1983 calculator and starts chicken scribbling on a piece of paper. Not a piece of paper with official logos, or stamps or formulas to show how he will arrive at the fee, just some random piece of paper that he probably found on the floor.

At this point, B is repeating over and over how the computer arrived and how it left the country: "She worked in Malawi, she moved to Mozambique, when the computer broke we took it with us to the US where we attended her brother’s wedding. Her cousin (dat be you Mustafa) did not fix it before we left so he sent it by mail.” Ugly, old customs official’s scowl is even more scowly-like and he calls over a tall, youngish man with a big ol’ beer belly---he is evidently living well off his bribes. Young customs official is belligerent and tries to bully us. The fee that the old ugly customs man came up with was $50 and both B and I argued simultaneously to a now crowd of four customs officials: how can you charge us a tax for an item that is second hand AND at the original price it was purchased at almost 10 years ago? Their argument: you did not declare it upon departure (which is bulldoody as no such rule exists) and you do not have the receipt (from 10 years ago?!?!). Big Belly Bully then says “Ok, wrap it up, send it back and when they are ready they will pay the fee.”So the postal worker starts to tape the box and I grab the tape from him and say “Fine” with the words squeezing my gritted teeth. I start taping the box up with layers and layers of tape so one of the officials says “Senhora, you are finishing our tape.” I notice B step out and at the time I thought he was looking for another postal worker but he said he had to step out and laugh. I was so irritated—I wish I had used up all their bloody tape. I answer the customs official with “Well I want to make sure this box is secure and the laptop doesn’t ‘disappear.” B leaves again.

I collect my nerves and notice another customs official wrapping things up with another customer and who has not been part of the fracas. I explain to him in a cool and calm voice the situation we are in and that all I ask is that they give me an official form that states how they are arriving at the fee they arrived at (OF course they were not going to do that because then they would have to actually hand the money over instead of line their pockets with it). He gives me a deer in headlights stare, but is listening and that is good. Another official comes over, again one that was not part of the original fracas. B is back and is now calmer and he explains the situation. Things are looking better as these two officials are seeing our point of view and are also nervous that we are asking for an official form. Big Belly Bully rushes back at us with our package slip and a stamp and says “Just go. GO.” The official speaking with B says, “No, no, we have to explain the procedure so we don’t have to have this conversation with them again in the future.” What flippin procedure? Ok, we continue the charade. Big Belly Bully goes back to his desk and yells out to B “Are you Changana?” and B answers yes and they converse a bit. B later tells me that Big Belly Bully says “Of course you are, that is why you are so hard headed.” Translation: their scare tactics didn’t force us into paying his beer money for the night. We left paying only the official $5 postal fee for packages. Dear Jeezus. I welcome packages anytime. But send it to B instead of me---because a package from the U.S. to an American recipient is just too much for the customs officials to handle. Their eyes light up like a Christmas tree shaped in dollar signs.

Living on the African continent never ceases to amaze me at how I am honing my survivor skills: bullsh#$ing my way out of a situation and getting what I want to boot. Cheers until the next Africa Survivor Lesson!

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.

Modern Conveniences

I’ve been in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique for about 2 months now. And in that time I have been blessed with the modern conveniences that most of us at home take for granted: water from a pipe and a freezer. The other 11 months I lived mostly in a rural area, Zobue, Mozambique, located on the border of Malawi. I’ve never lived in a purely rural area before. So it is fair to say that theoretically I knew what I was getting into but in practical terms I had not a bloody clue. The biggest hurdle for me to get over was not having indoor plumbing and electricity and thusno refrigeration.

My days in Zobue usually started around 5am. The chickens wake you. The dogs wake you. And at times the man next door fermenting traditional beer (chubuku) would wake the whole neighborhood.Evidently when you make home brew with 120% alcohol content you need two colossal sized speakers that blast the same song for a 20 hour period. Well, at least I thought most everyone got up at 5 am like me. Most women in my immediate vicinity got up about 2 am to place a tin cup, a coffee cup, anything basically, to identify their spot in the line to pump water from the nearer well at the school. But my day would start at 5am with me lugging three20 liter containers to the farther placed well, at the church , a five minute walk with an empty container and then a ten minute walk when lugging them, one by one, perched on my shoulder (alternately), back home. The process took about a hour each day. I was usually stared at---uzungos (white people/foreigners) are deemed not able bodied enough to fetch our own water, that must be the reason why we pay Africans to fetch it for us. Ummm. No, we just have more money and we are lazy. I was not so great at first learning how to use just 60 liters of water to meet all my personal and household needs: bathing, cleaning the house, washing laundry, cleaning dishes, watering our vegetable garden, cooking, and of course, drinking it. But I learned. I also learned to buy food every single day and cook just enough for that day. And I learned to not use electricity to cook—as there were so many blackouts that it was a necessity to use a one pot charcoal fogao (stove). At first it would take me 30-60 minutes to light it. I ended up losing weight because I just couldn’t bear the thought of lighting that thing more than once a day to cook so I ended up eating a lot of bananas and mangoes from my tree out back, especially when my boyfriend was off doing his work in another site.

So I repeat, we didn’t have refrigeration. But you know who else didn’t have it? Meat vendors.I oncebought day old meat in Zobue. Day old meat in Africa.In the hottest and dustiest region of Mozmbique.ReallyAishia? But we hadn’t eaten meat in a long time and I really wanted it.Our primary choices were pork or goat meat and occasionally beef but you had to run like Carl Lewis to get that as it only happened about once a month, and if you didn’t’ sprint and form the line by 6:30am—all the meat was gone by 7am—or you could fight the strays for the entrails Yum. So, they slaughter the pig or goat and then put chunks of it on a bamboo like table and swat the flies away with either a stick with strips of cloth, or plastic strips from old rice sacks or just a rag. I don’t know where that rag has been but it’s always dirty looking. So on the day I’m buying this meat, I look at it and I see the flies and the slightly crusty, congealed blood. Me: “That’s old meat” Bored looking vendor: “Nao, senhora, we killed it today.” I look at him, and then I look at the meat. He looks at me, swatting, swatting away, and then looks at the meat. Me: “Ok, 1kilo.” Yeah, it was old…. and my boyfriend sure took to it—I ended up giving him my portion as I could taste the rottenness of it. Evidently it is some kind of delicacy here to chow on rotten meat. Another lesson learned: Flies, congealed crustiness = no buy. So with that said life is easier with better access to electricity---in that we now buy meat in bulk and store it in our freezer. But I have to say we are still living the same way in that I cook one big meal a day and for the most part I will go to market to get my veggies on a daily basis—the energy still cuts off and so I’m stuck with my fogao (we source the energy to other countries in the region, but we the actual residents don’t get good service. I will never get it—no matter how many times an economist explains it to me.). As for water in Maputo, amazingly enough, there are still many households in this big city that don’t have indoor plumbing, or if they do, the infrastructure was so neglected during two wars (one for independence and another 30 year civil war) that it really doesn’t function all that well. So we finally dug our own ditch and placed the pipe for water—and we have fresh water anytime we want—except when the government shuts it off between 5-8pm, usually 3-4 times a week.

But not having indoor plumbing is not the most horrible thing in the world, terribly inconvenient and frustrating at times, yes, but not horrible. I got caught once in a downpour on the way back from the market one day in Zobue. And as I was crossing the Catholic churchyard to the road to my house, I saw a group of children laughing, jumping and just having all around kid fun in the rain. But when I looked closer through the giant raindrops, I realized that they were having fun but at the same time they were completely naked because they were bathing themselves from the runoff of the church roof—like their own personal shower. They froze and stared at me. And I stopped and stared at them. Then I raised my hand, smiled and waved. They all started to play again, laughing and chanting some song with uzungo in it. On that day….it was the most beautiful part of not having indoor plumbing.