Thoughts on Beauty....

(If you are interested in hiring the model in the photos, please contact me.)

There is a young woman in my neighborhood that is stunningly pretty. The first time I saw her I thought: “That girl could be a high fashion model.” As you can see from the cover photo to this post, I speak no lie. So I wasn’t surprised when one day a few months ago she walked into our yard asking me if I could help her achieve her dream of becoming a model. We are taking baby steps and crossing fingers that they will lead to bigger, grander steps to making that dream come true.

I had to do some research into things like make-up, clothes, and posturing in order to do our mini photo shoot. My fashion and beauty research got me to thinking about what is considered “beautiful,” as the concept is ever changing and is, of course, culture specific. However, globalization has shaped, and continues to shape, the concept of beauty so that it conforms to a western ideal, specifically, white tall and thin unless you fall into a category that is deemed “exotic.”

I wasn’t surprised when I came to the African continent and found that there are many attempts of adopting western imposed forms of beauty such as light skin and straight hair---as people of color living in the U.S. and other Western cultures, are also told that these are forms of beauty that we must aim to achieve. What I identified immediately as this young woman’s strong points to become a model, I’m sure , are what she has been over looked at in being considered beautiful in Mozambique: she is dark skinned and extremely thin (a sign of poverty). Many women in Mozambique, as well as other parts of Africa, the Caribbean and India (and surely everywhere else where darker skin is the dominant feature of the population), use skin lightening cream. These creams can have terrible effects if used over a long period such as hardening the skin to a rock hard texture. Many of the women I’ve seen using it, use it only on their faces. I suppose these creams don’t come cheap so it would get expensive putting it all over on’e body thus the effect is that women have very light skinned faces but then one can see the contrast with their darker skinned hands, feet etc. The original intent of these creams was to even out skin tones which often happens amongst darker skinned people---it was not developed to be used (and abused) to change one’s skin color.

Hair, on the African continent, and amongst most black folks outside of Africa, can be a contentious topic. I don’t believe women with curly or kinky hair (that includes women with Jew Fros) should feel the need to use chemicals or fake hair in order to have long tresses flowing down their back. As some of you can imagine I’ve received many a response from black women and other very curly haired women in the form of “well you don’t have our kind of hair so you can’t make such a statement.” But my mother does have what white people would call kinky hair (not necessarily what other black people call kinky) and she always told me that hair is beautiful when you take care of it, be it straight, curly or kinky hair. So it pretty much makes my skin crawl when women here in Mozambique fawn over my hair and ask me to cut it off and give it to them, so they can make a weave with it or use it to braid into their own hair. I always respond that they should accept themselves as they are, “you are beautiful just as God made you” which is answered with a fake smile. The fakeness of the smile speaks to possible inner thoughts of “of course you would say that whitey, you look like the women in fashion magazines.” Most likely, to them, I look like those women and the conversation would go nowhere if I tried to explain to them that growing up no one thought that my skin and hair looked like those white girls in the fashion mags.

Hair weaves are relatively new in Mozambique (maybe the last 5-10 years) and is considered a sign of increasing wealth. Many women use these weaves in a very ascetically pleasing way and I think it would be difficult to differentiate a Mozambican from a South African from an American black woman---that is how up to date the hair styles are. Yet, some women do miss the mark. I was walking with B once in Jo’burg’s bus station and I said out loud “Why? Why did she do that to herself?” Sitting on a bench not too far in front of us was a woman who could have easily been mistaken for Sabertooth from the Thundercats---her weave made her head 3x her size and it flowed down in a mass of blond frizz down to her waist. B said “Yeah. I know she thinks she looks like Beyonce, but no, sorry minha irma………she is Mozambican. I KNOW it.”

Western forms of beauty doesn’t stop at hair texture and skin color, it is also how people wear their clothes. I know many of us in the U.S. have seen recently arrived immigrants and have noted the outfit they are wearing and have asked “Why?” For example, the 60 year old Chinese woman who wears Hello Kitty from the barettes in her pixie cut, to her pink shirt with its huge Hello Kitty Face on it down to her pink house slippers in the form of a cat, ears and whiskers included (and yes she is wearing Hello Kitty socks too). Or the West Indian man with the tight fishnet shirt (our women like them too, with a nice lacey red bra underneath). Or perhaps the Russian woman with blue eyeliner all around her eye, donning a fake fur coat, in fuchia, and a super mini skirt and platform shoes, and let’s say she doesn’t say no to seconds at dinner time.

So I’ve been asking “Why?” a lot here. I’ve been asking why to the 50 year old man with a beer belly that makes him look like he is 9 months pregnant and wears a T-shirt that says “I’m Your Bitch”. I’ve been asking why to the women who shave off their perfectly lovely eyebrows and instead use a red eyebrow pencil to draw in scary clown eyebrows. I’ve been asking why to the women who wear thong panties as beach wear or lace ones with their pubic hair sticking through it. I’ve been asking why to the dudes who strut along the street with neon pink painted nails and ladies purses with fringes.

But it has come to this: I’ve had to stop asking why and just accept that people wear what they wear because they feel beautiful by being one step closer to what the dominant culture says is the right thing to be. Many people achieve this goal using what is available to them from our charitable donations in clothes (which are actually not given to poor people but sold to vendors who then sell them to the populace in open air markets) to Chinese made synthetic hair for weaves and braiding.
Thus, even though that man with the bitch T-shirt probably doesn’t understand what bitch means, he’s wearing a shirt with English on it, so he is perceived to know how to speak English and therefore he is perceived to be smarter or more educated and maybe as having more money. Perhaps a woman that sports a weave that makes her head the size of a blimpie does so because she can afford that much hair—so she’s telling people “I’ve got money and now I am beautiful because I’m sprtin’ Beyonce’s look.” The Chinese granny wears Hello Kitty because she probably had to work as a child and never got to be a kid that enjoyed kid stuff (I’m taking a leap..but probably not that big of a leap). My Guyanese brother wears a fishnet shirt because….ok there is no excuse for that, I’m sorry my Caribbean brothers and sisters--please stop wearing them.

What is considered beautiful has certainly changed from when I was a teenager, which is great, as now little girls have diverse representations of beauty in our popular culture from the lovely dark complexion of Lupita Nyong'o to the voluptuous bodies of J.Lo and Adele to the “be you” fashion styles of Lady Gaga, Nicki Minaj and Katy Perry. Unfortunately, our perceptions of beauty swing on a pendulum from honoring our diverse beauty as humans to exploiting, demonizing and politicizing such diversity. But I suppose that has been happening since the dawn of human civilization and we can only do our best to accept and love ourselves the way we are.

At the end of the day, beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and yes our current dominant white Western culture controls what is defined as beautiful. But I think reflecting on how people adopt these forced-fed images of beauty and then make them their own using the resources they have ….is just as beautiful.

God Bless School Teachers!

Mr. Amato was my favorite teacher in high school. He was different from my other teachers in many ways: he spoke to us like actual young adults, he tried to teach his subject in real life terms, he had traveled extensively around the world and he, at one time, was a boxer (so cool!). But most importantly, he was distinctly aware of the emotional baggage his students came into the classroom with and how that impacted the way they learned. He understood I felt alienated and different for being one of the few students of color in my school, and because of it, he intuited perfectly that my drive, as well as my self-imposed pressure to be the best, was partly fueled by my desire to show the other students that not all of us were stupid, lazy or selling drugs---that we too pursued excellence. He let me know that dispelling stereotypes and educating the ignorant was not my burden to shoulder. He epitomized for me what a good teacher should be: patient, understanding, perceptive and excited to give us the tools that would open doors to the future we dreamed about.

Between February and May I taught English as a second language course and it has been reinforced in me that teachers have a tough job. And with that said I have discovered that I am no Mr. Amato nor will I ever be. There were a few challenges in giving the course: securing a room to teach the course, balancing peoples’ work and school schedules, and advertising the course. However, my biggest challenge was working with individuals who lacked the basics in reading, writing, math, and most particularly, Portuguese. As you can imagine that since our common language was Portuguese, it was difficult trying to teach English.

By giving ESL classes, I received a crash course on the way the educational system works in Mozambique, which in terms of challenges, it hasn’t been that different from other developing nations that I have lived and worked in. In most developing nations, education is free. But what that means is that parents do not have to pay fees for maintaining the facility or the salary of the teacher. Students must come up with the money to purchase all other school supplies which includes: uniform and shoes, notebooks, pens, pencils, compasses, and “fichas”. Since the government does not provide school books for students or teachers---teachers must find and purchase their own teaching books and materials. Consequently, the teachers then charge students for each copy (ficha) made out of the book. So if you don’t have money, you have to hope that one of your classmates will share his/her ficha with you so you can study the assigned material. Lastly, there is a registration fee—that is if you can get yourself on the list for an open seat within a class. To get on that list, you must show up on the assigned day to sign up at 8AM, which requires parents, but most often than not the students themselves to start forming the line at three or four o’clock in the morning in order to ensure they secure a seat for themselves. If you show up too late, you most likely will be placed on a wait list. A week later the names are posted of individuals who have won a seat and must pay their registration fee within three days of posting.

Most classes have 60 students to each classroom (but some have more), with the teachers rotating from classroom to classroom after each 45 minute session, e.g. after the Mathematics teacher completes her session in Room A she will move to classroom B, and the Biology teacher will rotate into Room A. This is to accommodate the large student to teacher ration (a secondary school teacher could have more than 120 students). Primary school subjects consist of Portuguese, Social Sciences (History + Geography) , Mathematics, Natural Sciences, and Art and Design. First grade students take one subject, second grade students take two subjects etc. Once students enter the eighth grade they are required to take 10 subjects with at least 3 or 4 subjects with double sessions: Portuguese, French, English, Mathematics, Biology, Physics, Chemistry, Art and Design, History, and Geography.

The school year starts in February and ends in October. Most students pass from one class level to the next based on their grades but there are exams issued during October-December at certain grade levels in order to graduate to the next grade. For example, students graduate to the next grade automatically unless their grades are abysmal from first to fifth grade. But in order to graduate to the sixth grade, a student must sit for an exam if the student’s grades do not exempt him or her from taking the exam. These exams are issued in the 5th, 7th, 10th and 12th grades. Tenth grade is the most difficult level as the exam tests students on material from eighth through tenth grades. In 12th grade, students must decide their “track”---- either sciences or literature—as one’s track determines what they will study at the University level. In order to enter into the public university system, students must also sit for an exam and if they pass and win a seat, secure the funds to pay for registration, materials etc, they can enter into the University system. Obviously, everything is more expensive at this level therefore many students cannot afford to attend university right away and thus work for a few years before attending.
Currently in Mozambique, there are many older students returning to school at all grade levels. For many reasons, (but mostly lack of money) students have attended school sporadically or not at all as children, but as an adult, now have the time and money to do so. Because of the registration system the composition of classes are a mix of child and adult students, both during the day and evening sessions. Students do not attend school all day but are assigned a particular session in order to accommodate the large number of pupils. It would seem obvious that school administrators would put small children during the day, but because of the way registration works, you will often find a student aged 35 or older in a day session (7-12:30 or 12:30-5:45pm), and a child of 11 or 12 in an evening session (6:00-10:15pm).

There is an appeal procedure to be transferred, but it takes much time and sometimes more money, so most students just accept the session they have been assigned. Because of the dearth of teachers, most teachers teach throughout the day and evening sessions—with many not showing up at night, most probably because they are over worked and tired. This leaves students sitting about in their classrooms until one does show up. As you can imagine, there is also less supervision during the night sessions so I’ve been told that many students show up drunk, some have sexual intercourse in the bathrooms, while other non-students show up on school grounds to make trouble because they have nothing else to do. I’m sure it is not the best environment to teach or learn in.

In Maputo, there are a plethora of “private” schools. I’ve met a few students who attend different private schools and it appears that there are varying degrees of how rigorous the curriculum is in each one and in some instances I wonder how different they are from the public schools. However, most private schools have much smaller class sizes, so this is a big plus for both students and teachers.

Unfortunately, learning here is primarily characterized by copying off the blackboard, reciting what the teachers say, and memorizing/cramming for tests—with little or no interaction with the teacher. If students can’t pass on their own, some students have told me that they (or their parents) pay their teachers to pass them. And for those students who are bright, but are unfortunate to get on the wrong side of their teacher, they too must pay in order to pass. If they are from a poor family, there isn’t much they can do to in terms of their educational progress. It is also still the case that many young girls must engage in sexual relations with their male teachers if they want to get through school. However, if they get pregnant, they most often drop out.

Now that I have finished the ESL course, a few teachers from the school where I rented a room asked for me to do weekly English club sessions with them. They are more advanced speakers of English so it has been really nice as well as informative. I sense their frustration with the educational system: lack of autonomy to teach in the manner they would like, providing a curriculum that addresses the daily realities of their students as well as adequately prepare them for Mozambique economic and civic life (the curriculum is mostly adopted from those of Portugal and Brazil); and the lack of authority they have over failing and/or delinquent students (parents get the last say if a student should be transferred or expelled.)
I’m sure many of the frustrations that they feel could be echoed by students and teachers in the U.S. For the last year I’ve read various articles and blogs about the crisis that our public school system is in throughout different cities across the country: from dilapidated facilities to teachers who don’t do their jobs (because of tenure can’t be fired) and overshadow the great work of more dedicated teachers; to students who must focus more on avoiding guns and violence rather than focusing on learning. I know there are various campaigns going on from changing the tenure system to implementing a core curriculum---and as I’ve read these changes have caused much controversy which signals to me that in some way that these changes are probably peeling away the band-aids and looking at how to heal the wound. Here in Mozambique, there are also steps being taken to improve the system albeit slowly, one of which is a collaboration with the Peace Corps which is placing volunteer teachers in rural areas, where there are very few opportunities for students to get an education.

At my last English club session we discussed the various players involved in the educational system: teachers, students, administrators, government, and society. One of the teachers asked the group, “So who is responsible to make a change?” There was a silence for some time and then I offered, “I guess… all of us are responsible, no? Our children, even if we don’t have any of our own, are the future leaders of our communities and countries, so we all have to do our part in some way to make sure they are ready for that responsibility.” And of course, I know that is much easier said than done.

My students left the course with improved listening and speaking skills (not so much in writing) and they said they learned more from me in three months than they did with other teachers after one year. Probably because I really wanted my students to learn and they did so because there weren’t five million kids in my class, so I was able to focus in on their problem areas and give them individual time when needed.

But the best part of the course for me was that one student told me “You good teacher. I like dis class.” Good enough for me. (For now anyway).

Market Day!

One of my favorite times of the month is when we take a trip to the market that sits in the shadow of the Maputo football stadium. The market is absolutely huge and you can find anything that you may need: clothes, curtains, medicine, car parts, spices, cutlery and dishes. When we go, it is to buy our fruits and veggies in bulk.

The market is full of life, colors and something always interesting happens on each visit. On most visits there are many, many people yelling out to me to buy from them “Senhora! Senhora aqui!” Which on occasion irritates me as I’m not alone, B is usually standing right next to me. So when they address only me, it makes me feel that think that I am the Boss Lady and B is my man servant there to lug my stuff around. I feel this way as well when we go to Pic ‘n Pay and why I want to push the cart rather than have him do it. But on most occasions people think that we are from Brasil or Portugal as they don’t see too many foreigners in that market except for those traveling to another destination to go camping and who will need large amounts of provisions. Or Chinese people—they seem to like to buy in bulk as well. So it is often that people make comments or jokes about us in their language---it always makes me laugh when B answers them back with just as feisty a joke in Changana.

A couple of weeks ago a group of women were practically screaming at me in Changan. I thought the word they were calling out was the name of the vegetable they were selling, but when B wasn’t responding I asked him if he understood and he answered “I have no idea what these women are screaming about?” So then I asked them in Portuguese, “What does that word mean? And in chorus they say “SENHORA!” Thereafter, a huge debate between B and these women ensued---as he says “I don’t know what Changana you are speaking but I have never heard of that word before.” The crowd then multiplies to about 20 people all speaking in Changana about how exactly one must say ‘senhora.’ While this is happening a smaller group of women started to have lots of fun teasing me about my accent asking me to repeat different words in Changana. I’m not sure why it is so amusing but it always tickles people pink here. It would be the equivalent of me asking a Chinese person who doesn’t speak English very well to repeat over and over again ‘Merry Christmas’. “R”s are hard for them to pronounce so I just wouldn’t do that but people don’t seem to mind at all of putting me on the spot and making me mispronounce impossibly hard words in their language. It happens every time I go to the market. Every time.

Another time I wore a onesie short set as it was scorching hot and I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing jeans and shoes. I asked B if this would be ok and he said “Of course!” No. It so was not ok. Upon first arrival I saw many women looking at me and some mumbling but I couldn’t tell if it was directly aimed at me. But then at one point a man, again not realizing B was Changana, says in their language that he was going to get two other men to come after me and rip my clothes off as “I was asking for it dressed that way.” B got really mad and a yelling match started between them. My confused look hinted to the woman seated closest to me that I had no idea what was going on so she explained to me in Portuguese. My Johnny Come lately self screamed at his back, “Why didn’t you say any of that in Portuguese so I could defend myself, you coward,” Thankfully he was far enough away he didn’t hear the last part—I’m not sure what I would have done if he turned around and actually came back.

But my favorite part of market day is the inventiveness of the vendors. Most of them have names for the fruits and veggies they have up for sale, especially the potato vendors. For example some names the vendors have for where the potatoes were grown are “Beleza Mata” “Playa Boy” “Vida e Nice.” Others show their creativity in the way they sing and call out their prices while still others use sweet talk to get you closer “Ola fofinha, you are so pretty today,” or “What a handsome couple. You need my tomatoes to stay so nice!” And of course, I fall for the sweet talk every time….I’m such a sucker.

Casa Doolittle

Uncharacteristically (in my opinion) for someone born in Brooklyn and raised in a cookie cutter neighborhood of Long Island, I’ve always had a secret yearning of being out in the wild: growing my own veggies, fishing for my own dinner and eating fresh meat--- that someone else has hunted and skinned (my bohemian alter ego only goes so far). This yearning coupled with my very unnatural fear of being a victim of an air crash over a large desert or shark invested body of water—has led to an obsession with watching shows like I Survived! And Man vs. Wild.

One of the best parts of my time living in Southern Africa has been fulfilling this yearning of being closer to the “wild.” I have been on some wonderful safaris where I have seen cranky elephants flapping their ears at my group in irritation, two male lions fighting over a female, wild dogs on the chase and some of the most beautiful desert sunsets. Most recently, I haven’t had the opportunity to go on any safaris, but I have come to understand the cycle of nature more intimately than ever before.
Growing up some of my friends of color would look at me funny for experimenting with vegetarianism, enjoying camping and wanting to learn about yoga and meditation. Back then, those things were not considered stuff that black folks liked, but rather things that white people did. Now that I have lived in Africa, I feel that living “alternatively” has always been a part of our cultural fabric. It is nice to see that in this day and age my younger brothers and sisters in our communities of color are eating better, practicing yoga and participating in an organic lifestyle without having to say they are Rastafarian. I hope that organic and balanced living in the U.S. is not a fad and is something that will continue into future generations. In our little way, B and I are part of this new wave of smaller and simpler living with the mini farm we have started.

At the moment we have three cats, 20-30 pigeons , 14 adult ducks, about 30-40 ducklings

, some transient roosters and chickens (ROOSTER) and a gander. I’m glad that we are starting small, as I knew it would be a lot of work, but not until I was actually part of the day in and day out of rearing animals, did I understand how intense it can be. Our day usually starts with the sunrise---as that is when the roosters begin their wake up call and all the other animals start to stir. So even when we want to sleep in we can’t because the hungry animal members of our household don’t let us hit the snooze button. We have to give them their feed, clean out the old water for the new, and then sweep out the yard and their coops. Thereafter, throughout the day we have to make sure that they are constantly fed and have water, and the poop does not pile up around us.

I think ducks stay satisfied for about 5 minutes max. They are always, always looking for food which we only put down three times a day: breakfast, lunch and supper and then we scoot them into their coops for the night, around sunset. Because we only feed them three times a day all other hours of the day are spent keeping them out of trouble as they look for food everywhere! We had a small herb and vegetable garden going, but they found it behind the little fence we built and like a plague of locusts devoured it in a day. The adolescent ducks have discovered that our cats do not always finish their dinner and they run into the house to eat any morsels remaining. And much to my dismay, they have learned how to open pot lids with their bills. Our kitchen area is outside, so I spend many minutes of the day, shooing them with my foot, as they not only recognize our pots, but also, tomatoes, fish and that the human with the skirt and cowboy boots (that’s me) will give us something if we tug at her skirt and peck at her feet.

A lot of our time is also spent trying to keep our ducklings alive. The first weeks are the most crucial because if they get wet or if it is too cold they can die. When they do get wet or if the temperature drops we have to warm them over our electric burners or use the blow dryer to dry and warm them, as sometimes Mama Duck is too busy taking care of the others to focus on just one. But, as I’ve learned, some ducks don’t care for their offspring because some are just bad mamas, while other ducks are over protective and don’t want to let their ducklings grow up. We have one duck that although her offspring are now almost adult ducks themselves, she still hovers over them, defends them as if they can’t do it themselves, and sits by their coop (different than hers) until I let them out to eat. In some ways it is good, but in another way she is not serving her purpose of putting down more eggs as she refuses to mate because she believes her offspring are still in the duckling phase.

Ducklings can also die if ants or rats get into their coop. When ants enter the coop we have to pick them off the ducklings with tweezers. Rats are not much of a problem anymore because we have the cats. But I still get nervous as B told me that he once had a duck that was eaten from the inside out by rats. All that was left was literally just a shell of a duck--it appeared as if she was just sitting on her eggs, when really she had been dead for two days. Other times, eggs just don’t hatch at the same time as their brothers and sisters, and instead of continuing to sit Mama Duck prefers to tend to her hatched brood.

Other times, we have lost ducks because their feet “dry out” or rather, their circulation stops, and they no longer can get up and eat and drink. B had the great idea of using something equivalent to Bengay to give one of our “dry” ducks a massage. My nephew and I looked at each other with skepticism and a bit of a “B is crazy” look. But we are eating our skepticism now----it worked! Our dry duck is walking around after three days of icy hot rubdowns.

Our ducks are an endless source of amusement: they argue with one another, they intentionally provoke one another and sometimes they are confused that they are just looking at their own reflection rather than some new ducks encroaching on their territory. Most of the time they get along as there is still enough space and food for everyone, but as their numbers increase I can only imagine there will be more fighting over food, and with the males, over territory. At the moment we have three males and a newly arrived gander. We recently had to separate two of the male ducks as they appeared to be fighting until the death ---causing some decent damage to one another. Being that they are not pets but possible food for us or a source of income when we are ready to sell, B had to step in to protect our investment.

Our gander arrived a couple of weeks ago, and he is still confused and trying to get accustomed to his new home. He is quite big and when he gets scared, angry or irritated he has no problem turning his head and giving us a frightening squawk-like warning that sends me running. I refuse to be chased or bitten by this animal. B says that his temperament is a good thing. After getting to know us, and the yard, he will become like a watchdog and protect us as well as the house. Evidently geese are very territorial which I did not know. I thought those geese in Central Park or on the grounds of the National Monument were territorial because they were with their goslings. An acquaintance recently told me that the breweries for a popular label uses them to protect their barrels used to ferment rum. Now I understand why the price was about three times that of our other ducks. It also explains why we have literally been on a goose hunt ---it took us about three months to find someone who was willing to sell to us and much negotiating by B to lower the asking price.

Our cats-- JonCu, Bijou (aka Morris) and Wanga--- are also a constant source of amusement. I didn’t think that three males could cohabitate in the same house, but they are best buddies with only occasional fighting when the rough housing gets too intense or if there is something particularly yummy to eat. JonCu is the only cat that is really ours, but he is particularly friendly and pretty much called the other two to hang out with him. Bijou----aka Morris because to me he looks like Morris the Cat from those cat food commercials during the 80s---is our neighbor’s cat but he seems to prefer our house to hers. Wanga showed up because he has clearly been abused in other households---underfed and beaten often—he was all skin and bones when he arrived. And just the other day he returned to us with all the pads of his paws burned off and bleeding as animal cruelty is prevalent here. Each day another animal shows up at our house. I guess something about us and our home reaches out and speaks to animals to them know our home is a safe place. Recently we have discovered that a maimed dog has been sleeping under our window so we leave some food for him to let him know it is ok to stick around.

When I was living in Malawi I walked into the yard of the courthouse where I was working and was greeted by three clucking turkeys. Everyone was walking around as if farm animals wandering around in the courthouse was an everyday occurrence. When I entered my particular office I asked why we had turkeys on the premises and was told that they were evidence in a stolen property case---defendant claimed one turkey was his and the plaintiff claimed that they were both his. Which of course I started laughing, “Are you kidding? How can they differentiate between turkeys? Exhibit A, listen to this cluck, it is so different” I was greeted with a stern look and told that this was a serious crime. Well. Now I get it. My goose, ducks and chickens are really part of our family and I have come to identify them by their appearance and personalities. I can tell you which ducklings belong to which ducks and which ones are particularly naughty or sweet. Which has led me to violate one of the primary rules of rearing animals: don’t name them. But I have!

My Mama Ducks are named by their color, Mrs. White, Mrs. Speckled, Mrs. Brown etc and for the males we have Old Boy, Young Boy, Black Man and Mr. G (the gander of course). My duckies have names like Penguin, the Milagros (we have 2 ducks who lived but were on death’s door), Loca (she throws her head back and starts walking backwards), and Mr. T (for her Mohawk like stripe down her head). Old Boy is really old and should be slaughtered for meat, but each week I look at how sweet he is (with us and his wifeys) and I say “No, maybe next week” which B responds “Meu amor. The purpose of their lives is to feed us. They are family only in the way we care for them---so they can be healthy and happy in order to produce lots of eggs and eventually quality meat,” “I know. But…next week.” It is one month later and I’m still saying “next week.” I’ll get there, eventually.
In time, we would like to buy some land so that we can increase our little farm to include pigs, goats, and one day a cow. Until then, we are happy, sometimes really tired and always amused, with managing our Casa Doolittle.

Rooster

Bath Time

Black Man

Branca Esha

Young Boy

Hunting or Playing?

My Top 5 Lists (Part I)

I love the movie High Fidelity with John Cusack, especially when he does his Top 5 Lists. I realized the other day that I was coming up with my own Top 5 lists for living here in Mozambique as well as abroad. Please feel free to comment about your own Top 5 lists. And here they are…

My Top 5 on Eating While Abroad… (of course this is the first list folks!)
5. I Heart Meat. It is usually organic and so I don’t have constant panic attacks about what I’m doing to my body. I also like that it is served in normal portions rather than American portions (portion for one person=that of 3 people in other countries). I don’t have to feel guilty about chowin’ on fried chicken and hamburgers or that I turned my back on 10 years of vegetarianism the minute I stepped off the plane to live abroad many moons ago.
4. Ketchup and mayonnaise with my French fries. As a teenager people would always look at me like I was crazy combining the two on my fries when in fact half of the globe eat fries with ketchup and mayonnaise. It’s tasty…try it if you haven’t already!
3. Eating at foreign restaurants. While in Africa I have absolutely loved eating at Indian, Chinese and Italian restaurants as the food is as good as anything you will find in the home countries of the people serving it to you. In Central America and the Caribbean I love how the dishes are really a fusion of, say, Chinese and the host country cuisine---Caribbean and Cuban Chinese is yummy, yummy, yummy!
2. Carbohydrates. They are a must in any foreign country and instead of looking at me like I’m a fat cow when I put more than a tablespoon of rice on my plate I heap it on until you can only see my eyes over the pile.
1. Fruits and Vegetables. They have flavor as they are not force ripened. For all of you bearing the brunt of snowy and cold winter days and nights right now—just to let you know I’m enjoying watermelon, pineapple, and mangoes. They are so sweet I only have to add water to make my own juice!

My Top 5 Favorite Past Times…
5. Watching B movies (in every genre)……………
4. Putzing around in my garden. I like to think that I am greatly contributing to our very small garden. But all I really do is check to see if anything is coming up---and occasionally helping B water and pull weeds. The hardcore work I did in Zobue has traumatized me so I leave the heavy duty stuff to B.
3. Trying to get through P90X Pylometrics without having a heart attack. No explanation needed.
2. Acting like I’m a national geographic photographer. I have many photos of my animals from strange angles. It makes me feel I’m “capturing” a moment. Some are decent, most are “why did you need to be that close to a duck’s butt?” I’m sure you may ask why I haven’t posted these photos. First, do you really want to see 100 angles of my cat looking at me as I say “psst”? Second, uploading photos eats up a hella lot of credits. Lastly, I’m afraid that the laptop I’m using will erase my pics as it recently did of my photos from my Christmas Gabz trip (shame). I’m waiting for parts to repair my laptop that was damaged in November. But until then I continue to take pics from weird angles of both animals, humans and things that catch my eye while roaming around in Maputo city centre.
1. Observing animal behavior. I enjoy observing the animals on our property (6 ducks, 21 duckilings, 3 cats and at one point 3 chickens and 2 roosters. But someone ate the chickens and the rooster). I didn’t know there could be such drama going on with animals. Watching my cats play fighting with one another as well as getting themselves in sticky situations brings me much laughter and entertainment to us.

The Top 5 Most Disgusting Things That Have Happened To Me…(well….so far)
5. Dropping part of our dinner on the ground. I dropped boiled potatoes where people and animals tramp past as well as randomly take a whizz. I had to pick it up, dust it off and splash some boiled water on it to kill the infectious dirtiness that was lingering there because we didn’t have anything else to eat and in the rural areas there aren’t ‘Open 24/7’ anythings…
4. Dropping my toothbrush in our pee pee basin. In Zobue, it was too dangerous for me to go out at night to the outhouse so we used a basin inside at bedtime. One morning I dropped my dang toothbrush in the basin. Which I’m not surprised I did as I’m always dropping things in the bloody toilet (make-up, flatirons, cell phones etc). But you would think I would have taken better care in this situation. We didn’t have any spares and we had just made our monthly grocery run to the city so I had no choice but to boil it and keep on using it. Oh yes, so fresh, so clean…
3. A roach crawling on my face. When I was a Peace Corps volunteer I was staying as a guest in a friend’s house and all there was for me to sleep on was a sponge mat. I woke up with a creepy crawly feeling. No Aishia! It wasn’t just a feeling it was actually a creepy crawley on my face: a huge roach the size of my palm scuttling from one side of the room to the other. Yay! I now know that roaches are attracted to spongey like objects.
2. Getting vomit splashed on my face. While seated on a chapa that was traveling at high speed (well, is there any other speed they travel at?), a kid in front of me opens the window to barf. She didn’t ask the driver to stop so the wind blew it back into the minibus. I got a few nice chunks on my bottom lip. Mmmmm…nothing like chima porridge.
1. Getting poo-poo backsplash on my calf. I was crouched down in our outhouse having a hard time getting my business done----so I gave an extra hard push. Well, that sucker came out good and hard and back-splashed I don’t know how many people’s (over how many months) dookie doo doo onto my calf. Dear Jesus. My eyes started to tear up. I washed my leg about 100 times that day. I’m feeling disgusted just remembering it. Let me stop talking about it now or I may vomit.

Thank you, and good night...until the next Top 5 List.

Cemetery Visit

The other day B, myself and his two brothers and Mum went to pay our respects to family members who, as my peeps in the Caribbean say, have “gone home.” Basically, death is a big deal--not that it isn’t a big deal anywhere else in the world—but I’ve never heard of anyone going bankrupt to send someone “home.” I’ve had friends in West Africa tell me that they have gone to funerals where the coffin is actually blinged out in gold and precious stones. While for some other people, there is something to be gained just by their mere presence at a funeral. My Mum told me that when she was growing up in Guyana, that if a deceased person was not liked and therefore not that many people would show up to the funeral, a family could pay “mourners” to sit up front at the church and cry. They usually could be identified by the over the top theatrical performance they would put on. I haven’t had anyone tell me about paid mourners here in Southern Africa, but I have had folks tell me that people, and sometimes just random people attending the funeral, “get paid” in the amount of food they are served: the more tears shed, and vocally done so, the more food is dished out onto their plate.

In the U.S. and many other countries, a funeral is a time for people to help families through their grieving period by bringing food on the day of the funeral, and even the days after the funeral--not so in Southern Africa. Usually the family of the departed must provide food for any person that shows up. When I went to a funeral in Botswana, it lasted one day and I saw it as pretty reasonable until I saw that food was served to any person that stood on line which from my perspective looked like the whole village, even down to the local beggar man. So funerals in Africa are kind of like Hindu weddings in Guyana: you show up, grab a banana leaf, and wait your turn for some tasty veg curry. But in Mozambique, they definitely take it to another level as the grieving process is ten days and the family for the departed not only foots the bill for the obvious things, but also ALL the food.

When a person has passed on it is usually women that remain inside the house during the mourning period. Men sit outside eating, chatting and of course, drinking beer (so not fair!). Inside, the women sort through the possessions of the loved one who has died in order to burn them, as it is believed by many here that the spirit of the deceased remains in his or her possessions. If these items are not burned and are given to someone, then the spirit of the deceased could pass into the new owner of the item. B’s grandmother’s capalanas are stored in a beautifully carved wooden trunk in our house. So I asked if I could use the trunk and the capalanas inside. B said “Trunk, sim. Capalanas, não, não, não.” “Why not, babes?” “Do you want to become a curandera and midwife?” and the birthing doula in me answered “Yes! That would be lovely to heal people with herbal medicines and bring bebês into the world. Awesome!” “Não. You will literally take on her spirit, like you will have to do her will, not yours.” And I respond all arrogantly skeptical “Okaaaay,” “I know you don’t believe in our Africanismo, but just listen to me. It will save us problems with family down the line. I’m going to burn them when the time is right for me” And with much more understanding and sympathy, I reign in my Western know-it-all-ness and say, “Okay. I won’t touch her things.” Now I understand why many people here don’t have family heirlooms like we do in the West.

At the cemetery, you wait until the body arrives from the morgue, and thereafter women in their capalanas--covering their legs and heads---begin to lead the procession behind the men carrying the coffin on their shoulders and everyone sings spirituals in Changana. At the actual grave, a sermon is given by a pastor, and as you can imagine there is much crying and wailing, and at some point, someone may try to throw themselves into the coffin as well. Thereafter, items that the person liked are placed with him or her as well as sprinkling the body with perfume or cologne. Then the coffin is sealed and lowered into the grave, and everyone in attendance throws a handful of dirt onto the coffin. The men in attendance then bury the coffin and afterwards family members plant flowers and other shrubbery and then these plantings are watered by everyone in attendance. Thereafter, back at the house, people come and go to pay respect to the family over the next seven days and at all times food is served: usually, rice, matapa, feijoada and if the budget permits, roasted or stewed meat. (See my post on Fine Dining to see more about those dishes)

Basically, that was my experience of a Mozambican funeral as I remember it happening for one of B’s older brothers who died in 2012. There was much to do over a short period of time and it occurred within the first months that I arrived in Mozambique . My Portuguese that time was not great and my Changana, nil---so trying to balance the dynamics of culture, family and being an outsider on many levels, those were the details I remembered best. So on this visit, there was much more happiness and levity and time to take in what was happening at the cemetery itself, and as I came to realize, there was so very much happening. First, getting to the cemetery on the weekend, when most people visit, one must get up at the crack of dawn to form the queue for the bus. The cemetery is in the city and is not far at all from our house, but because many people go on their only day off of work, which is usually Sunday, the great number of people going creates lines for the bus passing the cemetery. Once we get there, there are men and women selling tiny bunches of flowers for 10 meticais (30MT=1USD) or 20MT, while others are selling bigger and pricier bouquets as well as flowering shrubs to be planted on the grave. Also outside the grounds are men and women selling five liter jugs of water, as a visit to a grave always requires one to pour water on the grave. I asked B if this was for the plants or if there was some kind of spiritual significance to it. He said that actually, not too many years back, people left both food and water, as the grave site was considered to be the second home of the deceased. But with each generation, people change parts of customs or completely abandon them altogether. The jugs of water cost 20MT a jug. Technically, the water should be free, but the manager of the grave site and the water sellers evidently have some kind of agreement, as the water taps inside are ALWAYS turned off, so that if you want to use water at the cemetery you can’t, and most people are not going to carry three to four 5L containers of water.

Once inside, it all looks slightly chaotic, as there are people EVERYWHERE: walking, marching in procession behind coffins, weeding, watering, sitting and chatting…..mind you none of these activities are done with any quiet solemnity. The randomness of plot placement also contributes to the chaotic feel. The cemetery is quite old, but it is not the oldest, which is located in Maputo city center and dates back to the founding of the city. B will not enter that one, because he says 1) too many colonial Portuguese spirits are wandering about in there, 2) the vast amounts of garbage accumulating in there is germinating all types of diseases and 3) he doesn’t want to step on a massive pile of duque as people use it as a public toilet. The only cemetery I’ve been to in the U.S. that parallels this one in appearance is one I visited in the Old French Quarter of New Orleans. There are burial vaults dating back to the 1500s, many of which have been broken into to be robbed and vandalized: the doors swing open and the stained glass windows are all shattered. Although many of the coffins are still sitting inside, they appear to be still sealed, thankfully. The cemetery also has old tombstones of archangels and the Virgin Mary, as well as newer tombstones with pictures of the dearly departed smiling back at you. Weird…. and creepy. Other grave sites are simple dirt piles with a number for those whose families can’t afford to build a cement block around the grave once the earth has settled after burial. The cemetery is jam packed with graves. The most space between each plot is perhaps the width of a human foot so that, it appears that, people are buried one on top of the other.

Because each grave is maintained by the family of the deceased, there are varied degrees of maintenance at the cemetery. If you are financially able you can procure the employment of young boys and girls hawking their services of tombstone maintenance for a fee. Thus, some plots are well taken care of and plants are trimmed and watered, and tombstones are washed of dust. While others are rarely taken care of or never visited again, so that 80% of the cemetery has tall weeds and flowers, even tall sunflowers, growing sporadically around the cemetery, which sometimes poses a problem of actually finding a grave if you don’t remember the plot number.

After visiting B’s brother’s grave, which we found easily, we started walking to find his grandmother’s grave—which was on the other side of the cemetery, way, way on the other side, and amongst many, many tall weeds, flowers and shrubs. We were able to get into the general area of the plot, but OF COURSE we didn’t remember the bloody plot number—we could only remember the last three numbers, rather than the first three which we needed. We also knew that the grave would be well tended, as B’s father visits it every week, but OF COURSE none of us had a phone charged to call him to ask him where it was. So we break up into individual search parties, with our heads popping up from the weeds every so often to yell across plots, “DID YOU FIND IT?” “NÃO!” I was glad to see that we were not the only ones wandering around aimlessly under the hot sun, as other people had the same confused look on their faces as well as beads of sweat on their brows from sweeping aside weeds and bending to scrounge around in the dirt looking for the metal signpost with the plot number on it. After 40 long sweaty minutes we finally find it. B, who is quite a preacher, gave a moving prayer in Changana, (even though I couldn’t understand the words, I felt the emotion and could tell everyone else was moved by the many, many Amens that were offered), and then we watered the plants and sprinkled the tobacco she liked to chew over her grave. We then started to make the trek out, and one of B’s brother’s tells us to watch out for scorpions. My eyes immediately bolt to the ground to be careful not to step in dark, weedy spaces, and what do my eyes cast upon? Part of a human skull sticking out of the ground-- a row of crooked and broken teeth staring at me. I’m so not joking. So I say “B. Look!” B looks down and says “Jeeezus. A. Christ.” “Babes. Why is that skull sticking out like that?” “It is one of two things. Either black magic witches were in here looking for human parts and they just took the part of the head/skull they wanted and left this behind. OR, most likely, the grave has been abandoned for some time so the cemetery managers have re-sold the plot and didn’t do a good job of getting rid of the body buried there before.” Lovely.

I hope to make a trip back to take a closer look at the colonial catacombs as well as maybe pop in to the oldest cemetery in the city center. I’m a bit curious to see what will be sticking out of the ground staring back at me. (wink)

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.

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.