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?

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.