Seattle to Mozambique

My life, at the moment, consists of a lot of travel. I can’t complain. I made my own schedule for the next few weeks. I chose to travel back and forth between the city and “the districts”—as the smaller towns are called. I chose this because I’m sick—I have a bad cold and I wanted to sleep in my own beg at night. Not that it isn’t lovely, it is very beautiful traveling through the Mozambican bush and watching the slowly changing machambas being cultivated, burned, and planted. The other day had me riding in the front of a Land Cruiser with a carton of 30 eggs to be able to use for the baby food recipes that are being taught to HIV+ mothers who need to stop breastfeeding. Traveling with eggs on your lap on some of these roads is a recipe for disaster. For three hours I had to keep the eggs balanced just slightly above my knees to absorb the shock of potholes and dirt roads. Some of my muscles became very tired but I’m not exactly sure which ones. The “holding-30-eggs-above-your-knees” ones. Two days later I was back bumping along the roads (without the eggs this time) and peppering my driver with questions about land ownership and cultivation in Mozambique. Turns out that Moz owns all the land and you’re deeded the rights to cultivate it. However, you can build what you want, do what you want, and give the deed to whom you want (commonly by selling it to them under-the-table). So what is ownership then really? If you have it, you use it, you sell it, don’t you own it? Anyway….I digress. Back to travel travel. So two days later I return to Nhamatanda (about 3 hours east of Beira) and we pick up a mom so that we can drive her out to her house to do an interview with her. We drive there for two reasons, 1) it is about 5 miles away from the town 2) there are not roads, streets, house numbers etc. if we didn’t go with her we would never find the place. Turn left at Aberto market, go straight until you see three mango trees, to your left is a little path past a river, continue until you get to another path that cuts through Dona Marias machamba…. These are very difficult directions to follow. So we bumped along on a dirt road into the middle of Mozambican cultivation. We stopped when we got to the right machamba and then climbed out and followed the winding path past small groups of mud and thatch houses sprinkled throughout the machambas. We finally got to her home and met her five children who were curious about our visit and piled around to listen. She shared her home with her father and step mother and there was one central mud/thatch house for sleeping and one reed and thatch building for storage and cooking and then some pens for animals. The floor was packed earth (a nice red color) and mango trees shaded the ground. We sat on bamboo mats outside and began our interview. When we finished she hiked with us back to the car so that we wouldn’t get lost. It was a lovely spot and you couldn’t hear anything but the smack of the hoes hitting the ground to turn it over, the chickens running around like chickens do, and the occasional shout from children.

Side note:
My house finally feels like a home. There is nothing like being sick to make you appreciate a nice clean bed and familiar things. And a flush toilet and shower!!!

Sugar ants are a fact of life. Tiny but traveling in great swarms they can clean a glass of all its juice drops in seconds. To live is to live with the sugar ants. They have become my friends and my first line of defense against all things dirty. If a dish isn’t washed properly the sugar ants will let me know. It my clothes have bits of crumb on them the sugar ants will let me know. When I first arrived they attacked my computer with a vengeance. Little tiny ants were dancing in and out of the keyboard and prancing about in the DVD burner. They had a party and collected all the scraps. Nothing that you can buy at Staples will clean your computer so well. If only they would stay out of my hair (literally) I would be at peace with my tiny little friends.

So before I left for Moz I was running around trying to figure out what I needed to bring. Of course I’ve brought all the wrong things and I long for the clothes that I left behind. I’ve also somehow lost my lovely Brazilian flip flops on the way and it’s a tragedy I think I’ll have a hard time getting over. Sigh.

Anyway, there are two last minute purchases that I made in upstate New York that I use on a daily basis…my man shoes and my diaper bag!!!

I had been meaning to get new sandals but I was always unsatisfied with those that I was coming across. I knew it might take me a while to find good shoes here so I was hoping to have at least one good pair. That is where the hunting store in NY came in handy. Among the racks of camouflage (I broke down and bought my little niece a camouflage onesie with little white ruffles), guns, plastic ducks and other such paraphernalia, I saw a pair of lovely sandals. They were men’s sandals but I swear I don’t think any of the men frequenting that place would wear sandals like these. I had a strange moment of indecision about whether I should buy the sandals because they were clearly labeled for men (even though they fit perfectly). I got over my weird desire to conform to categories on shoe boxes and bought them. As I was leaving the store a couple walked in…she was wearing an American flag shirt over her many spare tires and he was wearing a shirt that on the front said “I’ll bring the whoop” and on the back said “you bring the ass”. Now everyday, when I put on my man shoes, I think of this lovely American couple and my little nieces camouflage onsie.

The diaper bag is a lovely invention. Mine is faux velvet on the outside with lovely little flowery designs and has a nice taupe color. Inside is a deep maroon and there are a million pockets and my files and computer fit perfectly inside. This bag goes everywhere with me. And no one would know that it was a diaper bag except for the fact that some of the inside pockets say things like “diapers” “bottles” “mother’s things”. Nobody has noticed so far! Plus I can put my lunch in it without worrying about spills etc. I think diaper bags rule!!!

The best part about these purchases is that they match!!! They are the same color and have similar embroidered patterns! Cheers to Diaper Bags and Manshoes (oh and skorts!!!)

Last night I went out with a friend to have some beers with his friends from the medical school here in Beira. They had just finished their qualifying examinations. We showed up at this bar (I use the term bar loosely, usually the bars are just peoples apartments where they have mounted a counter in their front room and you sit on stools outside). When we arrived we sat down on plastic chairs in the sand outside the apartment building and everyone started talking again but no one was really talking to me. Being white in Mozambique is a paradox. On the one hand everyone knows you are there. You stand out like a sore thumb. When I go running along the beach or walking on the street I feel like I’m performing a show. It’s hard enough to not feel like a big lump while running but it’s even harder when you know that everyone is watching you.

On the other hand people tend to get very reserved around a new white person. Someone explained to me that this was because people don’t feel like they have anything to say to a white person—nothing in common. I’m not so sure that is it. There is an underlying resentment that seems to take some time to break. In some cases it does not seem to go away. Back to the bar, I slowly started conversing with a guy who had lived in Brazil for a few years. I was pleased because someone was talking to me besides my friend. He was pleased to talk about Brazil and the conversation began to be almost normal and relaxed. Then he started to push things over the edge, wanting my phone number and wanting to plan the next time that we would meet up. He got pushy and I moved my chair away and into the circle of med students. The conversation turned to their exam and they were all pissed at the way medicine was being taught in Beira. All of their professors are white, mostly from the Netherlands. All of their textbooks are in English. They have 30 plus computers that were donated from the States but only 3 actually work. All of the exam questions on their test came from Holland. One of the exam questions was “What is the major necropsy in Holland?” Seriously, how nonsensical is that!! That is exactly what I said to them, pointing out that there was surely not a question about Mozambique on the general exams in Holland. Finally, after making that comment, the students looked at me. Really the first time! That was the first sense that I got that they even knew I was there (although clearly my presence as the only woman and only white person is the group could not have gone unnoticed).

The conversation then turned to white people, with them apologizing for tearing into white people in my presence. They were all talking about how European countries and North American countries send their students here FOR experience but WITHOUT experience. Their surgery professor is a new general practice MD, he has had zero experience in surgery. How frustrating this must be. I left the gaggle of drunken med students for another bar close by. I left with serious questions about why I’m here and whether my presence is helpful at all. Perhaps I’m just adding to the problem and have become another white person exploiting the resources that should be going to Mozambicans. I feel like I have stuff to contribute. Stuff that I could contribute anywhere—here, in Seattle, in Brazil etc. But what good is that contribution if nobody wants it.

Even my relationship with my boss, Cunguara, is strained at best. He doesn’t communicate with me and I have tried my best to do my job here (consulting on community projects) without stepping on his toes or threatening his position. But I feel like that threat was already in place before I got here…one more white person coming to tell Mozambicans how it is. I know what I’m doing here. I know that I can do a good job but my work has to be wanted. I have to be heard and seen for the person that I am, for the professional that I am. Instead I’m afraid that I’m just seen for the white person that I am. The history that this skin color brings with it to Africa seems like an impossible thing to surmount. Hopefully I can at least find my way around it.

Chata is a particularly useful term to designate someone who is annoying, awful, bitchy etc. This is the term that I’m now using for my landlady. Yuck…she is the definition of chata. First I went to her house to discuss the rental agreement with Magdalena (my new roomy), Bruno (my friend from work) and the rental agent. She was brusque and rude and treated us as if she was doing us a favor by renting us this house. She tried to get more money out of us. That is when I became chata. I refused to pay any more and told her I had already seen other options. She responded by not addressing me directly and instead asking if “this girl” (ie. Me) was ready to move in right away. She spoke only to Bruno and looked down her nose at me. If I didn’t have a strong desire to unpack (after more than a month) and if Magdalena didn’t need to find a place, I would have walked right out of there. Ahhhhh. But instead I sat there and glared at her and she glared back at me.

We all got into our respective cars and drove over to the house to take a look. We couldn’t go inside so I just stood there and explained the layout of the house to Magdalena. This whole encounter happened in Portuguese…Magdalena doesn’t speak much English, Bruno does but generally we speak in Portuguese, and Chata doesn’t speak a word of English. She then turns to Bruno and tell him that we could return to see the house later but that Bruno would have to come because the guy that was currently renting the house doesn’t speak English…and I thought “what the f*** do you think I’ve been speaking to you in??” AHHHHH. Ok…maybe this doesn’t sound as chata on paper but it really really was.

Magdalena and I crossed the street to wait by the car as Bruno discussed contract issues with the Chata. We waited and waited and finally walked back across the street to see what was taking so long. Suddenly the Chata was all nice to us and told us we could call her anytime if anything went wrong. I smiled acidly at her and returned to the car with Bruno. It turned out that Bruno was very direct with her and told her that she was rude to us and that we had our doubts about living in the house because of her attitude. Magdalena and I were grateful that he was so direct. She made the pitiful excuse that it was all because it was Ramadan and she was hungry. But perhaps his directness would mean that she wouldn’t be such an awful landlady to us. Boy was I wrong.

This is the second night in this house and I’m going to the office tomorrow to see if I can break the contract that I signed. She is a racist b***!! She had the gall to come over unannounced last night and then talk about how black Mozambicans are always to trying to take advantage of things etc etc. I won’t go into all that she said but it took every ounce of calm in my body to not physically throw her out. Instead I opened the door and said goodnight and slammed it shut. My only out is that she told us, although there was no sink to wash clothes in, there was a washing machine in the kitchen that worked. Well, it doesn’t work! It seems like it hasn’t worked in a very very long time. Hopefully this will allow me to break the contract! Magdalena also is keen on leaving. The Chata will not even speak directly to her. I should have followed my instincts and left her apartment the minute I realized just how chata she was. I’ll follow them from now on for sure!!!!

I took my driving test today. I passed!!! I’m now all legal. It was quite an ordeal though. First we had a meeting all day long (8am-4pm) where everyone just sat around and complained. Ugh! We left and I was already tired and stressed from that encounter but I had to take advantage of the day because Pablo is returning to the states this week and I would have to wait a long time to take the test again.

Everyday after work the drivers and cars of HAI drive everyone to their respective houses—recolha is the name for this. This is a perk that no one wants to mess with. So when I said that I needed a car to take my driving test there was some protest from people still in the office after the meeting. Pablo’s solution was that I would do the recolha and drive everyone home. Yikes!!! Not only do I have to take the test, I have to drive with 8 people in a hulking Land Cruiser through the potholed streets of Beira driving on the left-hand side of the street. Oh well, I’m always up for a challenge. I dropped everyone off safe and sound and there were not even any near misses. I weaved in and out of the people, kids, chickens, goats, potholes, crazy drivers, bicycalists etc.!! All of this from the right-hand side of the manual car. Yay!!! I think the combination of learning to drive from my father (who was great but crazy), driving in Manhattan, Brazil, and finally in Cambridge on the left-hand side of the road, set me up well for this challenge. It was like playing frogger with the controls upside down. Whoohooo!!!