Dog Days of Summer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beat a drum, not a Woman

The title of the post is taken from a T-shirt that I wear often---and I always....always...have women come up to me to tell me that they love it. I got it when I participated in an anti-violence against women march on International Women's Day in Swaziland. This year, International Women’s Day falls on Saturday March 8th and my thoughts are once again with women who are surviving sexual and gender based violence around the globe. But mostly my thoughts, and my heart, are with the women right here in my own Maputo neighborhood.

Sexual and gender based violence (SGBV) is widespread and it comes in many forms: physical, sexual, psychological and emotional. The United Nations defines SGBV as “any act that results in, or is likely to result in, physical, sexual or psychological harm or suffering to a person based on that person’s gender, including threats of such acts, coercion or arbitrary deprivation of liberty, whether occurring in public or private life.” On the African continent SGBV often takes the form of: sexual assault, child marriage, intimate partner violence, dowry (bride price) deaths , honor killings, female genital cutting/mutilation, and during times of humanitarian crisis, such as war or natural disasters, rape is often used as a weapon to punish or force women into submission. Also during times of humanitarian crisis many women and their girl children become forced participants of transactional sex work in order to meet their economic needs.

In various places around the world women experience SGBV and believe that part of being a woman is to resign oneself to the suffering of abuse. While working in a domestic violence unit in the DC Superior Court I was one of the few Spanish speaking in-take legal officers and so many of my clients were recently arrived Latina immigrants. On many occasions women would seek assistance for physical abuse but after speaking with them I would discover that they were experiencing sexual violence in the form of marital rape. After counseling them on SGBV many women would look at me confused and say “But I am a wife, I have to have sex with my husband whenever he wants it”---that was almost ten years ago and sadly, I believe that not much has changed in developing nations or in the U.S. for that matter.

While working on SGBV I have seen many forms of violence perpetrated against women and children: children with massive burns over their bodies for stealing a coin from their mother’s wallet; young girls entering into initiation rites as young as 8 or 9 (where they have sex with a man as old as 70); a two year old girl being sexually molested by her 70 year old father while also being physically abused by her mother who would drip boiling water on her thighs every morning; a woman tied to a tree and burned alive by her husband for the most minor grievance, such as burning her husband’s dinner; and in the U.S., an immigrant Indian man killed his wife by slamming her head repeatedly on the floor----the neighbors thought that during the prior 6 months before he murdered her that he was practicing basketball.

In the U.S. we have a justice system that does not always respond to the needs of women experiencing SGBV, but the structure is there and there are many women’s and children’s advocates trying to make it better so that women and children can get the treatment, protection and legal remedies they deserve. Unfortunately, my time working in international justice systems has shown me that these systems do not meet the needs of women and children experiencing SGBV. Of course, that does not mean action is not being taken—there are many development entities taking steps to eradicate disparities in addressing SGBV in developing nation’s justice systems—hence the reason as a development consultant working on justice issues, I know what justice systems can and can’t do at the moment in protecting women from their perpetrators.

While living in rural Mozambique, the women I saw experiencing SGBV did not go to the authorities: it is here where I witnessed more than any place I have lived, women being resigned to the fate of being used and abused. When women issued complaints at the police station, the perpetrator would be brought in and he would be “spoken” to and told not to do it again or in most cases, he paid the police officer on duty to make the charge go away. In both situations, he would return to his wife to continue the abuse. In such a situation, I would think that I too would be resigned to believe that this is the fate of being a woman.

Living in Maputo there is not much difference except that here if the abuse is loud enough and visibly cruel enough, then neighbors will issue a complaint against the perpetrator on behalf of the woman. In most cases complaints on SGBV get issued by neighbors as many women experiencing violence are financially dependent on their intimate partners/husbands and often cannot go back to their familial homes—thus they do not file a complaint in fear of losing their sole provider. Most women cannot return to their families because their family may not have the money to financially support the woman and her children. Or in other cases there may be tensions between a new step-mother and the woman, who is the daughter of a previous wife. While in some cases it is because her lobolo (bride price) has been paid and the family has spent the money and cannot return it, therefore, she is forced to stay with her perpetrator.

In 2012 one of the first people I met in Maputo was a beautiful young woman who invited me to her 21st birthday party at her family’s house. During the party her boyfriend stood up and spoke about what a wonderful woman she was and that he was going to marry her. Thereafter, when I would run into them, all seemed well, but little by little her smile was less wide when she was with him and when she was alone-she always seemed to be a bit worried. But B and me didn’t comment as we knew she moved from a house with pretty good economic conditions to now living on her own with her partner, so it would take some time to adjust to living with less luxuries. But about two weeks ago, I saw her in the distance and waved. She had her hair closely cut and I yelled across the street to tell her that I liked the new style. Again, she just smiled at me. It kills me that she didn’t say anything to us at that moment. Or that I was not closer to her to see that on top of her head were about 10 stitches on the huge cut that her partner gave her when he smashed her with a beer bottle. Two days later she was in jail for allegedly pouring hot oil on his genitals.

When I went to the police station where she was being held, the officer refused to let us in but after some sweet talking by B, I got in but he didn’t. When I walked into the station “cell”, she was lying on the floor, and that is where I saw for the first time the huge cut on her head. She was also handcuffed to a metal folding chair. She was squeezed in between some planks of wood and a motorcycle—so it wasn’t a cell it was the station’s supply room (of course I didn’t have my camera that day!) We were told she was handcuffed to stop her from fleeing. In fact what they were doing was doubly incarcerating her which is against Mozambican law. But they were also punishing her as an incentive to make the family negotiate expeditiously for her release particularly since she is four-five months pregnant: they had to make her life pretty miserable and uncomfortable. I was able to find her some free legal assistance in case the police actually transferred her to have her case placed on a docket for trial—which under Mozambican law they should have done within the first 24 hours of arresting her or the Monday after arrest if it occurs on a Friday, which, of course, it just so happen it did (without notice of the charges against her—they saw her walking by the station and picked her up).

She was released this week—so basically she has been sitting in a closet handcuffed to a chair for a week. Thus, the family “decided” to take took the negotiating route. As part of the negotiation process she had to apologize for what she did to the Aunt, the complainant, of her partner. I’m sure along with the apology was an envelope of cash. When I asked one of her family members, “What about the perpetrator’s apology to her?” The response I received was, “Well he is in more serious condition than she is.” But she told me that she did not pour oil on him, it splashed on him. The police state that her partner was sleeping on his back when she poured the oil on him. But at this point in the case (arrest) it is not for the police to play judge and executioner but for them to do their jobs properly: arrest, process paperwork and transfer the suspect to the designated facility for holding.

Folks in the neighborhood have already played the role of judge and executioner too as many condemn the young woman and believe that she poured the oil on her partner’s genitals with intent to kill or disfigure and that it was not an accident as she claims. All say that she should not have poured it on his genitals as that was “too, too bad.” When B and I started to defend the woman in the hypothetical situation that she did do it with intent, by saying that after years of abuse, she was driven to protect herself---all others in our conversation could not understand what we were saying. They could only see the individual act and not the accumulated years of abuse and mistreatment and what effect it could have on a woman psychologically.

In Mozambique and Malawi battered women’s syndrome as a legal defense to homicide or assault and battery does not exist. However, 90% of the incarcerated women that I met while working in Malawi on access for justice issues, told me they were there for killing their husbands and that it did it because they felt that if they did not do it, they felt their husbands would have beaten them to death, if not that day, one day in the future. When I asked them if they told this to the judge during the trial they all answered that they did not understand what was happening during the trial and thought it best not to speak at all. However, silence during trial signals acquiescence, and as a result many women plead guilty without ever having their voices heard or their cases adequately presented as none of them could afford a lawyer.

In Maputo, I have contacted a few of the NGOs supposedly working on SGBV and/or monitoring police brutality and procedure several times, but either the phone number is disconnected or my email queries go unanswered. My next step is to go in person and ask what we as a community can do to tackle the violence that is being experienced by women and children here and to make police more responsive to their needs. In the meantime B (the best feminist I know) talks to women who we think are experiencing domestic violence at home---and educates them on their rights and he offers our help in mediating disputes that couples may be having with one another (which we have done a couple of times now). At this point, the best we can do is to prevent situations from escalating to severe physical harm or death.

I hope on this International Women’s Day that sexual and gender based violence is not something that we discuss only on March 8th, but that we continue the conversation everyday: whether it is telling our daughters that they don’t need to be Cinderella and wait for a Prince Charming to rescue her, or refraining from calling a woman a bitch or a whore, or if we know of someone experiencing domestic violence thinking about how we can intervene, even if it is just slipping a piece of paper into her hand with the number of a helpline. Anything we can do to stop the persistent and pervasive cycle of violence is one step closer to fully cherishing the women that we are: daughters, mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, partners, lovers, homemakers, professionals, tower blocks and best of all…… friends. On this upcoming International Women’s Day: I wish my Sister Friends around the world all the love, respect, dignity and happiness that you deserve!

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.

Yes, I speaks da Engplish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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