The Art of Mandar-ing and the Art of Boleia-ing

I woke up two nights in a row convinced that there was an intruder in my house. The first night, the wind causing the tree branches outside to sway back and forth made it look like someone was moving around inside my room. I tried to lay still despite my terror and thought frantically about the whereabouts of my air horn, my pepper spray, my computer, and my phone. When I finally turned on the light, I was relieved to find that my opponent was, in fact, my standing fan and that I had not kicked it as hard as I could, as I had considered doing.
The next night, I was awakened by the sound of thumping on the roof and, after listening to it for quite a while, considered the possibility that someone was walking around overhead.
Needless to say, I did not get much sleep either of those nights. The following morning, I walked outside and almost laughed with relief as I realized that all the noise the previous nights was a result of the wind pushing my overgrown tree branches against the tin roof, which amplifies all noises to the extent that a light sprinkle of rain can sometimes sound like a heavy downpour.
I hadn’t realized before how long the branches had gotten in the past few months. But enough was enough. I needed some restful sleep; the branches had to go. I set to work on pulling down the branches I could reach, but there were some I couldn’t get to. So I did the next obvious thing: I had the neighborhood kids take care of it. My Art Club boys and a few of their siblings climbed up the tree and hacked down all the offending tree branches with a machete, and then under my supervision spent the entire afternoon trimming the rest of the tree until it was about 1/3 of its previous volume.
Now, this might sound dangerous (and I was slightly alarmed when they produced the machete and began hopping up the tree like monkeys) but it turns out, Mozambican kids are very handy with machetes. Here, using a machete is like a life skill.
As two children hacked away at my tree, I had another drag the fallen branches into the trash pit, one sweep my yard and veranda, and the remaining three kids “dog-proof” the wire around my garden because Xima and Mel are getting big enough to leap over it. For several hours of work, I paid each child two pieces of candy and we all retired happily.
In Mozambique, any adult can “mandar” (order) any child to do something. For example, it’s common for my empregada to mandar her grandkids to cart water for me and sweep my yard instead of doing it herself. At first, I was uncomfortable with mandar-ing the neighborhood children to run errands for me but I have since gotten over it. Now after drawing, my four Art Club boys always ask if I have work for them to do. I usually say no, but there are times in which I feel particularly lazy so I’ll send them to buy things at the nearby loja, or see if my site mates are home, or pick up trash in my yard, or chase away other kids stealing my sugar cane, or even wash my jeans (which, by the way, are a huge pain to hand wash). Most of the time, these kids just don’t have anything productive to do.
The benefit of my mandar-ing is the universal children’s bribe: CANDY. While kids will follow orders regardless, I always make sure to thank them and to give them a couple pieces of candy after they finish (which Mozambican adults usually don’t do). The result is an endless supply of little hands to help with my chores and a wonderfully functional working relationship. Sometimes other Peace Corps volunteers, even ones I haven’t seen in a while, will say to me, “I heard you’re really good at mandar-ing kids” and I just shrug because, well, what can I say?

I got one quiet, beautiful night of tree branch-less sleep before I left the next day with Jess for Vilanculos, a popular beach city in Inhambane province. It was our first time north of Gaza Province. The trip took 10 hours and four chapa/bus transfers. We arrived right as it was getting dark, and met up with other volunteers at Baobab’s backpackers hostel.
The occasion? The annual PCV Beer Olympics… Something only a group of young Americans would ever think of. The teams were divided by region: North, South, and Central. The events included an Opening Ceremony with the lighting of a torch, which was accidentally dropped by the bearer. Each event (Shotgunning contest, Flip Cup, Dizzy Bat, and Smash Ball) gave each team the opportunity to win points. However, if anyone passed out with their shoes on, someone else could draw on their face and win points for his/her team. As you can tell, PCV’s are a very mature group of individuals. Last year, the trophy (a monkey carved out of a coconut shell, with a penis and a giant beer bottle on its head) went to Central but this year it was won by the South.
I can’t say I was very into the whole concept of Beer Olympics, as I ended up missing the first three events while I was out shopping and exploring the Vilanculos market with Jess and my good friend Helen, but it was a good excuse to leave Gaza, hang out at the beach, and see all the other volunteers. All in all, 47 volunteers showed up for Beer Olympics, which is over 1/3 of all volunteers in country!
On Sunday, most of the volunteers began heading back to site. Jess and I, along with another volunteer Matt, stayed the night at our friend Drew’s so we could see a little more of Vilanculos before we made the long journey home. We walked along the beach at low tide (the water leaves shore almost further than the eye can see) for about 45 minutes to get to Drew’s site, which is outside of Vil but right next to the beach. We were all very impressed with what a nice house Drew has, fully furnished and with electricity, a shower, and running water.
As the tide was still low, the four of us swam out to the sand bar. Bodies of water can be very deceiving, appearing small or shallow when in fact they are much bigger and deeper. It had been a long time since I’d last swam, so the 15-minute swim against the current was super tiring. Right as we were heading back, a boat approached us and two South Africans offered us a ride, which I gladly accepted for all of us because the tide was coming in. When we got to shore, another group of South Africans was standing around watching. “It’s a good thing they went and got you guys, or you would have been in big trouble!” They said as if we had all been drowning. We rolled our eyes and thanked them and left the beach.
Dinner was at a quaint little restaurant called Casa Guci’s. Jess and I ordered some wine, a seafood platter, and lasagna. The food was okay but overpriced, but it turned out that the waitress messed up on our bill and we ended up paying significantly less than we were supposed to.
The trip back to Chibuto the next day was, of course, lengthy, but entirely successful because we boleia-ed the whole 700 km in 8 hours. Boleias are the preferred way to travel because they are much more comfortable than chapas, usually much faster, and free. Hitchhiking in the States is considered dangerous, but the culture of boleia here makes it actually safer to travel in the private car of a stranger. Whereas chapas are way overcrowded and sometimes take the form of the back of a pickup truck, the people who stop to pick up others are often sympathetic and driving nice cars. As a foreigner, it’s much easier to get a ride because people (Mozambicans, South Africans, and other foreigners) wonder a) who I am b) what I’m doing in Mozambique and c) why I don’t have a car. All you have to do is stand on the side of the road, in the direction you are going, and flag down cars by extending your hand and forefinger.
There are a lot of techniques and theories floating around as to how to get a boleia. I am personally convinced that boleia-ing is easier for girls, because I usually never have a problem and I’ve noticed that most of the people who stop to pick me up are male. However, Matt disagreed because he also never seems to find it difficult to find a boleia either. On the other hand, his site is more “mato (way in the middle of nowhere) and he is the only white person for miles around.
While some volunteers never ask for boleias, others are seasoned pros. Funny tips on boleia-ing I’ve heard include: look visibly and dramatically sad if cars pass by without stopping and sometimes they’ll reverse, ask for boleias at gas stations when people are filling up their cars, guilt people into letting you ride with them by telling them “I work for your country,” etc.
Me and Matt’s discussion of boleias led us to consider the idea of an experiment to collect statistics on who gets the most boleias, what times of the day boleias are easiest to get, and where to get these boleias. This, of course, is impossible because every volunteer’s experience varies so widely throughout Mozambican and would require country-wide participation, as well as an experimental control.
We could only conclude that boleia-ing is easiest for volunteers that appear “different” from the native population (African-Americans are usually mistaken for Mozambicans and therefore lose out on the boleias from foreigners and South Africans). Boleias are more difficult to find on Sundays and on holidays because fewer cars are out on the road, and on Mondays because although there is a lot of traffic passing by, cars are usually full. Boleia-ing, like mandar-ing is an art, and I plan on perfecting both during my two years in Moz.

PS. Updated wish list:
Pesto (instant, or in a jar)
Hollandaise sauce mix
Easy dress patterns
Yummy snacks – Still good on Goldfish for a while, but Cheezits welcome
Pretzels… honey pretzels preferred
Bleu cheese dressing
Ground coffee
Fruity teas
Dog flea medication
Dog treats
Old magazines (for the kids to make collages)