Bride Price and the Girl Child in South Sudan

Many cultures have the exchange of bride price when it is time to marry. It is sometimes called lobolo--as it is known in Southern Africa. It plays a huge part of many cultures on the African continent and it is a topic on my mind of late because it plays a big part of the gender based violence (GBV) I see in my work in South Sudan.

Bride price is not something that is particular to Africa. It has been a practice that has existed throughout time. In ancient Mesopatamia the Code of Hammurabi mentions bride price regarding payment if a groom to be did not commit to the bride, if the father refused the match or if the now wife died without producing sons. The Torah or Hebrew Bible (Old Testament) mentions paying bride price to the father of a minor girl in Books Exodus (22:16-17) and Deuteronomy (22:28-29). Bride price also existed in Western cultures and has now faded away but vestiges of concluding affairs and respecting the bond created through the bride price can still be seen in the gesture of a father “giving away” his daughter when they walk down the aisle and a woman pledging her “obedience” during the wedding rites. Bride prices developed in patriarchal societies as a security on the children that a woman would bring to the union--as children and property descended through the father’s line. Bride price also developed as a way to create alliances between two families with the bride price being the symbolic bond between them. Today, where bride price is practiced, it can be said that bride price is no longer just a bonding of two families, but that it has become an economic necessity for families that are very poor and are in desperate need of money.

If you ask most South Sudanese people about why the conflict continues they will inevitably mention disputes over cattle as one of the many push factors. The cattle raids that occur amongst different ethnic groups (approximately 60) fuels retaliatory tactics. Cattle raids also impact women and girls with one of the most egregious forms of GBV in South Sudan: forced early marriage which leads to a cascade of many other forms of GBV (not to mention the pscychological damage it has on women in general, whether they experience direct forms of GBV or not).

Women and young girls are not only the hardest hit victims during periods of actual fighting when rape and sexual assault are used as weapons against them, but are doubly victimized during this conflict when their “honor” has been defiled during cattle raids when raiders go on a spree of sexual violence and “ruin” the adolescent girl by taking her virginity, making her ineligible to marry, and thus an economic burden on her family who will have to continue to care for her. If her perpetrator is caught, he must pay heads of cattle for “ruining” her. Unfortunately in most cases, girls will be abducted by their perpetrators and will now become “wives.” Adolescent girls are not the only ones abducted during cattle raids but also girls and boys, as young as 4 or 5, are also abducted. Girls for their marketability to be sold for cattle as young brides when they reach “of age.” And boys, for their ability to work and herd cattle. The majority of forced early forced marriages are because the conflict has caused extreme hunger and economic insecurity thus money strapped families arrange marriages early so that they can receive cattle sooner, when they are economically suffering, rather than later when their daughter reach a more appropriate age. For example, if you are part of the Dinka clan, a young girl will be “worth” 100 heads of cattle (about $200/head) the taller she is, then the more cattle she will receive, while in other parts of South Sudan, girls are valued at 60 heads of cattle.

It is not uncommon to find young girls married in South Sudan at 12 and 13 years old with her first child at 14 and 15 years. Women and girls when asked will tell you that they have no voice, that they are not seen and that they do not have hope for schooling---because school means the potential of meeting a boy that your family has not approved of or has not “booked” with for her future nuptials. Poor and/or (more often than not) rural women in South Sudan must obey the will of her husband, father and the men within her family and community when it comes to determining her future.

There are several long term GBV consequences to forced early marriage. First and foremost, forced early marriage leads to early pregnancy which can result in poor maternal and infant health outcomes such as anemia, preeclampsia, C-section, obstetric fistula, low infant birth weight and even maternal and infant mortality. Forced early marriage can lead to many other forms of GBV such as sexual, physical, emotional and psychological abuse as well as financial manipulation and coercion by husbands that leads girls and women to be trapped in a cycle of violence and poverty. This cycle is extremely difficult to break for women on the African continent because of the limited educational and employment opportunities that are available to them, if at all. And even if such options are available, once the bride price has been paid in full, the cultural and societal pressure on women to stay with their abusive husband is too strong for women to leave the relationship. Because for her to return to her family home, her parents would have to return the bride price which in most cases has been spent once she walks over the threshold of her husband’s home.

So far I have painted a pretty dire picture—which it is—but South Sudanese women are being supported by the humanitarian aid community. Women’s advocates support South Sudanese women and communities by working toward changing the status of women and girls in South Sudan through education and public awareness on GBV, working to provide women with pathways to seek treatment, care and legal adjudication and to provide educational and livelihoods opportunities so that women can break the chains of dependence that tie them to their husbands, fathers and patriarchal structures and institutions. We also work with men in changing their outlook on what is masculinity and the role of men, women and girls in their communities. But we should also be working with the private sector on advocacy efforts that promote diversifying markets on the continent by shifting what commodities people place a high value on within their community. Hopefully, the consequence of such efforts could be reducing the value of cattle and increasing the value of other commodities or making other economic niches available---such as agriculture or developing small entrepreneurship skills--- that will not make the attainment of many heads of cattle as the only option to wealth and prestige in a community.

Bride price and the negative consequences associated with it was once part of our culture too but I would say that our western bride price has evolved over time---somewhat (I can’t tell you how many times I have heard of men asking for the engagement ring back when they are disgruntled that his wife has not acted the way he thought she would or that the marriage did not go according to his preconceived plans.) So. I’m sure bride price in developing nations will evolve as people’s wants and desires change and exposure to how other people live increases thereby influencing their economic, cultural and social choices—moving bride price from an actual economic necessity to one that, like our own western cultures, is symbolic.

I hope to be a better blogger---but life here is exhausting. My five months here feels like 10—and I’m not being melodramatic. Day to day living is intense and unpredictable and I hope I can share a slice of it with you in the posts to come, which I hope touch on the reality on the ground and as I always like to do, sprinkled with the lighter (and sometimes unexpected) side of life on the African continent.

South Sudan: A nation in conflict.

(Photos for my profile picture and this post were taken from Google's Image stock photos for South Sudan. They will be changed when I am able to exhibit my own photos. Most photo taking in South Sudan is prohibited unless you have been authorized by the GoSS.)

Last week, I was swimming in a very large pool, pretty clean, except for the layer of dust that coated its surface. I did laps according to my version of the breast stroke, which probably was more like a frog kick with bits of a doggie paddle thrown in. I was completely alone for a good part of the day—which was lovely. The other pools I have visited have had 10 men to every woman, and each set of eyes did a good job of violating us. There were also a few business men meeting to chat—no food or drinks, just huddled together on bamboo chairs under swaying palm trees. Chatting and nodding. Gardeners in long, blue coveralls clipped slowly and methodically the bushes and shrubs decorating the pool area. The waiter wore a crisply pressed white dress shirt, a shimmery gold/yellow vest and yellow linen pants. He sat at the bar that was decorated with red and silver tinsel, on a stool. Every time I looked up or mistakenly made any kind of “Please come” gesture, he would rise with a pad in his hand and walk over to the fence close to where I was recline don a lounge chair, until I would, embarrassed, say “No, not yet, thanks.” There was a fake white Christmas tree sitting in the corner. When I got really hungry I did order. He brought me a ham and cheese hamburger with fries and small side salad, along with a mango juice, with the napkin in some sort of origami shaped animal wrapped around it—to protect it from the dust. I made sure to leave a big tip---his smile could of bridged continents.

In the states northwest of the state I live in, only kilometers away, thousands of people have been killed, maimed and millions have fled to other parts of the country seeking refuge from soldiers and rebels with assault rifles, grenade and rocket launchers and millions of bullets. They seek not only safety but also shelter, food and access to basic services like health, education, water and sanitation. They also require psychosocial support from the psychological traumas they have experienced. I am in South Sudan working as the coordinator of a gender based violence (GBV) program. Many forms of GBV are used as a weapon of war in conflict situations, particularly rape. In South Sudan, the crisis has been made one of food insecurity and famine, but based on my short time here (2 months) learning the lay of the land and just listening to South Sudanese, this crisis should have equally been characterized as one of violence against women and children. The U.N. General Secretary’s Special Envoy on Sexual Violence, Zainab Bangura, has visited South Sudan and has stated that violence against women and children in the South Sudan conflict is the worst she has ever witnessed. Hopefully her report will shift the attention onto women and children and the violence they experience.

So. This is the part I give you a bit of a historical context so if you already know about the conflicts in Sudan and South Sudan or are not interested you may want to skip the next two paragraphs.

Most people know about Sudan because of George Clooney and Darfur. But what many people may not have realized is that in July 2011, Sudan split in two creating the world’s newest nation: the Republic of South Sudan. The split occurred after the last phase of a six year peace agreement ended decades of civil war and a referendum was put to vote for cessation. Much of the civil conflict was based on control over Sudan’s large deposits of crude oil exacerbated by grievances between the northern Sudan’s predominantly Arab-Muslim population and the South’s Black-Christian population. Through a 2005 Comprehensive Peace Agreement (CPA) there was a deal at the time to split the revenues from southern oil evenly between the north and south—and that agreement, for the most part, was held up after South Sudan’s independence. The areas of Unity, Upper Nile and Jonglei, in what is now South Sudan, has the crude oil but South Sudan has to rely on Sudan’s pipelines and port to extract and export the oil. In 2012, South Sudan began its oil extraction, but shortly thereafter disputes over fees as well as border demarcation lines kept tensions high and fighting ongoing with thousands of refugees flooding into South Sudan. South Sudanese who were born and raised in Sudan were targeted and persecuted. In March 2013 Sudan’s President Omar al-Bashir and South Sudan’s President Salva Kiir, made agreements on trade, oil and security deals: oil production resumed with a demilitarized buffer zone between the two countries.

The conflict soon turned from one between countries to one between ethnic groups. Internal conflict broke out in South Sudan in December 2013 when a year-long power struggle between President Kiir and his Vice President Riek Machar resulted in the latter being accused by Kiir of attempting a coup d’etat and Machar was fired. Kiir is Dinka, the largest ethnic group in South Sudan and Machar is a Nuer, the second largest ethnic group. Since then, fighting based along ethnic lines between Dinka and Nuer has been ongoing with many ceasefires being broken or not adhered to at all. Atrocities against women and children have been committed by both ethnic groups: men gang raping women sometimes with foreign objects and then murdering them, forced early marriage of young girls and child recruitment into the conflict. Thousands of people have been killed and millions have been made internally displaced persons (IDPs) or refugees in Sudan, Kenya, and Uganda. The conflicts in both Sudan and South Sudan is complicated, messy and needless to say it is taking a psychological toll on the people of South Sudan as well as those who work here. I of course have given you an abbreviated version of the conflict as I have understood it. If you want a brief timeline of events, please visit’s BBC’s South Sudan profile page and I found the Newsweek article George Clooney, South Sudan and How the World’s Newest Nation Imploded by Alex Perry an interesting perspective on humanitarian aid and the ideals that foreign governments and aid workers have in stopping conflict and building nations.

Peace talks began in Addis Ababa in August and adjourned for the Christmas holidays. All of us living and working in South Sudan are praying for a peaceful and fairly immediate peace resolution when they resume talks. We pray because the dry season has arrived on the African continent. Why is this significant? Because during rainy season, flooding destroys dirt roads which makes it difficult for everyone, soldiers and rebels included to travel or to fight. But with the impending dry season, it means if fighting will start--- it will start during this time. A combination of an economy in dire straits, hungry bellies and angry hearts that are not being soothed by political leaders can be the spark to continued and even escalated violence. My hope is that the will of the people of South Sudan will overcome political and ethnic divisions. Namely, a people that has experienced two generations worth of war and conflict, are exhausted. The overwhelming refrain of South Sudanese I have spoken to has been “We are tired of the fighting.”

I have been working alot these past two months. The line between working, socializing and just living is blurred. My residence is in the same compound that our office is located in. But thankfuly, I have a strong support network in B and my family. I have good music, Kindle books and pictures of the smiling faces of my months old nephews, which always makes me smile. I eat healthy and exercise—I either do yoga or I jog and on occasion I dance (my iTunes and me). When I go jogging, just after sunrise, on a short strip on the main road where I do laps--- I’m greeted by U.N. tanks and pick-ups with blue helmeted soldiers heading out on their patrol—my early morning reminder of where I am, just in case I should momentarily forget.

I’m also greeted by two puppies from a nearby hotel who jump on me, enthusiastically full of life--- their happiness makes me happy and my heart is filled with their exuberance. A heart filled with such a small dose of exuberance is something that I am grateful for---on any day, in any part of the world I may be.

Thoughts on Beauty....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God Bless School Teachers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Market Day!

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

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

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

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

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

Casa Doolittle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooster

Bath Time

Black Man

Branca Esha

Young Boy

Hunting or Playing?

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.