I'm asking my coworker for the 50th time whether we have a space locked down for the Peace Corps 50th Anniversary mural we are set to start work on next week, and if he has started working on the design. "Yeah, I'm working on it," He says, "No problem." "I'd like a design completed by this Friday," I say. "No problem" Is his response. I'm exasperated. "You always say no problem to everything," I chide. He looks at me with a wide, toothy grin and says, "With me, there's never a problem. The day I say there is a problem, then you know we really have a problem on our hands. For me, life is a cookie. Simple. Never loses its flavor, even in the middle."
I'm not exactly sure what that all means, but I like cookies. And I like life. So… Sounds good to me.
For a while, I had a phantom chicken living in my latrine. I would notice three-pronged prints in the sand, but never so much as a feather. Then one day, I discovered a small white egg in the corner of the latrine. I picked it up but then laden with guilt, and unsure of what to do with it, I put it back. The next day, still no mama chicken. I began to fear that a snake might find the egg, and that suddenly I'd have to deal with a serpent living in my latrine, so I gave the egg to my neighbor. Two days later, I opened my latrine door in the morning to find a disgruntled white chicken, just as startled as I was. It flew out in a whirlwind of feathers, exciting my dogs, who chased the poor distressed hen down the street squawking the entire way. Regardless, my latrine must be an appealing place to give birth, because later in the afternoon I found egg #2. I considered hatching it, but could think of no way to raise it outside of the house without my dogs eating it. So… I ate it for breakfast. I felt extremely guilty as I cracked it open over a hot pan, like I was aborting a baby chicken. I was also terrified a fetus would plop out, which would have undoubtedly made me puke. It was fine though, tasted normal. (Why wouldn't it?) I admit, I still feel pangs of guilt. Poor fluffy white chick that never was….
Also, the egg probably wasn't mine to eat. The mama chicken DID use my latrine as a birthing spot… TWICE. But I really don't know how fowl ownership works around here, especially since chickens roam freely. Sometimes they will have ribbons tied on their wings or legs, but the majority don't have any visible marking. And who owns the baby chicks? I assume the owner of the hen? All I know is, my stomach now owns the egg that I found in my latrine. Sorry, neighbor. (Ps. No new eggs since. The chicken must have abandoned my bathroom. Lately, though, with Mel pregnant I've been wondering how viable it would be for me to set up her birthing nest there, for shade and privacy.)
These days, work is going fantastically well. My knowledge and expertise seems to be in high demand. The activistas from Tsembeka raved about my first HIV training, and began insisting that I accompany them to their weekly childrens support groups to teach the kids. Which means, of course, that I have to continue insisting right back that I am not here to do things for them, I am here to do things with them and to teach them to be self-sufficient. "Oh but Mana Vivienne," They whine, "We're busy right now You're so much better at it. We haven't practiced. We don't remember how to do it. We're going to mess up the game." A million and one excused later, I'm still refusing to be the one to carry out the activity. I've set them up for complete success, with facilitator guides, visuals, props. (For our recent event for children, I created an entire Nutrition game with 40 cards of different kinds of food- drawn by hand, colored, labeled, cut out, ready to be categorized by food group.) I've spent hours sitting outside with Tsembeka activists, doing icebreaker activities, running over instructions on how to implement these things I'm teaching them. I guess now what I need to do, is work on their confidence in facilitating.
The other day, though, I sat in on one of Tsembeka's prayer meetings (It is, after all, a religious organization) and was a little surprised at some of the things I observed. Activists who I've always considered reserved or quiet, transformed into fiery orators when it comes to the word of God.
I'm always a bit taken aback by how vocal religion in Africa is, and how communal even. For example, we began and ended the meeting by praying. Normal, right? But unlike in the States, where usually one person prays for everyone or everyone prays silently to themselves, Mozambicans all start praying loudly at the same time and there's quite a chatter in the room for about five minutes and then suddenly it just dies down. I kept opening my eyes to observe everything, but everyone else seemed completely absorbed in their prayers. One lady kept sobbing "Yesu!" (Jesus) and the woman to my right kept spontaneously clapping her hands, a thunderous and unexpected clap that always made me jump. The coordinator (the only man at the meeting), next to me, was the only one praying in Portuguese, and his usual mild voice had transformed into the booming emphatic voice of a preacher.
After praying, the meeting commenced with every person standing up and saying something (in Changana, but translated to me by the coordinator) about how good God has been to the organization, and how we must ask His blessing and His help to continue forward in our mission, and how we must continue to listen and to serve Him. In between speakers, everyone would sing a church song (also in Changana). All in all, the meeting lasted about two hours and would probably have continued had the coordinator asked to wrap up because of another meeting. Near the end, the women sang a song and began dancing vigorously, grabbing objects (purses, notebooks, chairs) and placing them on their heads as they shimmied and swayed around the room. I must have looked confused, because the coordinator leaned over to explain to me that the song asks "How are you going to enter Heaven with that burden that you carry?"
It's getting hotter by the day. I am not looking forward to the upcoming months of intense heat. I survived one year already, so this will be my last of cruel African summer. Mosquitoes are multiplying, attracted to the lights I keep on. My white walls are dotted with smashed mosquito corpses, a disgusting "mural" of sorts that I'm too lazy to clean. The emergence of more bugs (increasing number of dead cockroaches I'm finding around the house too) means… GIANT SPIDERS. I'm not even kidding. They're the size of my hand, and I find one or two a day. (I have an idea for the title of a novel, set in Africa: 'In the Time of the Overgrown Spiders.' Would you read it?) I try living harmoniously with them, as Yoko does, (I scream whenever I see one in her house, she comes shoos it back into its hiding space, and informs me, "I just had a talk with him. We agreed he wouldn't come back out until our visitor Vivienne leaves.") but sometimes they make me so uncomfortable that I grab my Baygone (insect killer) can and go to town. Spiders need more Baygone to kill, and they take longer to die. One I sprayed in the kitchen crawled into my room and onto my mosquito net, so now when I'm laying in bed I have to look up at the body of a big dead spider. I'd rather not touch it, even still, so when Kevin arrives in a few months I'll ask him to dispose of the skeleton. That's what boyfriends are for, right?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Communicating in Moz
In a society that emphasizes community over the individual, I am the weirdo who sits alone in her house all day, coddles dogs as if they were human beings, doesn't eat xima, and can't speak local language. I don't sit on the straw mat with the other women (if you're not used to it, it's really uncomfortable after a while!). People always get up to offer me a chair. No one challenges me if I get in the front seat of the chapa (I've heard, sometimes reserved for men). And seriously, why would I choose to be squished under the deodorant-less armpits of a million other people in the back?
Out in the field, on the way to another neighborhood of Chicumbane (every time Habitat for Humanity builds a new house in the community, Tsembeka gets to lay down the first cement block- it's symbolic, I think), the activist I'm with stops to ask for directions. "Good morning," She calls out (in Changana) as we approach a house with three old women wrapped in capulanas sitting in the front. "Good morning," They respond, coming to greet us. I kiss three sets of papery cheeks and shake three sets of wrinkly hands, holding my left wrist under my right elbow as we shake, a sign of respect. The ladies do the same.
"How are you?" Luisa the activist asks. The women respond, exchange more pleasantries. I may not speak Changana, but I know small talk when I see it. Several minutes later, Luisa asks the target question: "Where is the house of ____?" And we're finally on our way. As we start walking again, I muse about the differences in societal norms when it comes to communication. In my eyes, a quick "Good morning, where is this house?" would have done it, minus all the time wasted on questions like "How did you sleep?" I probably get asked that question more than any other.
Luisa continues greeting everyone we pass. At one house, she calls out a greeting but receives no reply from the lady in the doorway. Luisa calls again, louder, waving emphatically. No response. Lusia shakes her head, miffed. "That's so rude to just stare at someone when they say hi. Such ugly behavior."
I cringe a little when I think about a couple months ago, when I went with my guard to the electricity office in Xai Xai to demand some answers about my terrible electricity. As we sit down with the boss in his office, he asks us, "Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm not good." I respond angrily, and begin ranting about my electricity issues at house, and how ridiculous it all is. In the States, the angry customer gets anything. In Mozambique, the angry customer gets nothing but a surprised stare. My guard jumps in to try to save the day. "The lady is just upset because she has had a problem with her electricity for several weeks and she can't cook at home because of her electric stove." So obviously I'm only so upset because I'm hungry. Later on, my guard sits me down for a talk. "Some people say you have an unusual way of greeting people," He says, very nervously. "I just want you to know, that doesn't mean we don't appreciate that you're here helping our country."
A few days ago, my next door neighbor Orquidia found a snake in her house. Mozambicans are terrified of snakes, sometimes even believing that they are sent by evil witches or wizards to harm them. When she called the neighbors to come kill it (the appropriate manner for dealing with a snake here, is bludgeoning it to death with machetes and shovels, cutting its head off, and then burning it), the snake escaped into a hole under the house. I'd never seen Orquidia so upset. "If I had money," she kept saying, "I'd move out of this house. I'd leave this place. I'm not safe here. My daughter can't stay here. We can't sleep in the house. There's a snake lurking around!"
Let me tell you, Mozambicans rarely get perturbed by anything. I think that Americans, in relation, are highly emotional. Or at least, visibly emotional. In Moz, most things are dealt with in a platonic, "This is a part of life. These things happen and it's out of my hands." (difference in locus of control) It's frustrating, sometimes, to get them to care about the same things I do. ("I couldn't sleep last night, the wind blowing against the roof made it sound like someone was trying to break into my house!" "HAHAHA, no one is going to break in to your house." "Really? Tell that to all the volunteers who've had their houses broken into, then.")
Interestingly enough, Orquidia's reaction to the snake was the second time this week I've seen a Mozambican woman get worked up. On a chapa to Xai Xai the other day, a woman in the back declared that she had forgotten something at home, and asked to get off the chapa. We were about two minutes in to the 10 minute ride. The driver pulled over, but as the woman stood up to get out, he told her that she still had to pay. They began arguing in Changana and (I assume) she said that we hadn't even arrived yet. At this point, the chapa driver pulled back onto the road and began driving again, as the woman continued hollering at him in Changana. (I was sitting in the seat behind the driver, so I got an earful.) He turned up the music to drown her out but she kept right on going. Yelling and screaming and waving and pointing her finger accusingly the entire way to Xai Xai. What surprised me the most, however, was the man in the front seat. I've ranted multiple times about how no one will ever step in and defend me, even if I'm obviously getting harassed. For the first time ever, I saw someone intervene in a conflict. The guy in the front told the driver that the lady deserved an apology for being disrespected (which of course, the driver did not give). I got off at the first stop so was unable to see how the rest of the situation resolved, but it was all so fascinating to me.
Almost one year into service (HAH Kevin and Devin, I'm still here! You didn't think I'd make it this far!), I'm still learning to communicate in this culture I live in, and my Portuguese skills have nothing to do with it.
Out in the field, on the way to another neighborhood of Chicumbane (every time Habitat for Humanity builds a new house in the community, Tsembeka gets to lay down the first cement block- it's symbolic, I think), the activist I'm with stops to ask for directions. "Good morning," She calls out (in Changana) as we approach a house with three old women wrapped in capulanas sitting in the front. "Good morning," They respond, coming to greet us. I kiss three sets of papery cheeks and shake three sets of wrinkly hands, holding my left wrist under my right elbow as we shake, a sign of respect. The ladies do the same.
"How are you?" Luisa the activist asks. The women respond, exchange more pleasantries. I may not speak Changana, but I know small talk when I see it. Several minutes later, Luisa asks the target question: "Where is the house of ____?" And we're finally on our way. As we start walking again, I muse about the differences in societal norms when it comes to communication. In my eyes, a quick "Good morning, where is this house?" would have done it, minus all the time wasted on questions like "How did you sleep?" I probably get asked that question more than any other.
Luisa continues greeting everyone we pass. At one house, she calls out a greeting but receives no reply from the lady in the doorway. Luisa calls again, louder, waving emphatically. No response. Lusia shakes her head, miffed. "That's so rude to just stare at someone when they say hi. Such ugly behavior."
I cringe a little when I think about a couple months ago, when I went with my guard to the electricity office in Xai Xai to demand some answers about my terrible electricity. As we sit down with the boss in his office, he asks us, "Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm not good." I respond angrily, and begin ranting about my electricity issues at house, and how ridiculous it all is. In the States, the angry customer gets anything. In Mozambique, the angry customer gets nothing but a surprised stare. My guard jumps in to try to save the day. "The lady is just upset because she has had a problem with her electricity for several weeks and she can't cook at home because of her electric stove." So obviously I'm only so upset because I'm hungry. Later on, my guard sits me down for a talk. "Some people say you have an unusual way of greeting people," He says, very nervously. "I just want you to know, that doesn't mean we don't appreciate that you're here helping our country."
A few days ago, my next door neighbor Orquidia found a snake in her house. Mozambicans are terrified of snakes, sometimes even believing that they are sent by evil witches or wizards to harm them. When she called the neighbors to come kill it (the appropriate manner for dealing with a snake here, is bludgeoning it to death with machetes and shovels, cutting its head off, and then burning it), the snake escaped into a hole under the house. I'd never seen Orquidia so upset. "If I had money," she kept saying, "I'd move out of this house. I'd leave this place. I'm not safe here. My daughter can't stay here. We can't sleep in the house. There's a snake lurking around!"
Let me tell you, Mozambicans rarely get perturbed by anything. I think that Americans, in relation, are highly emotional. Or at least, visibly emotional. In Moz, most things are dealt with in a platonic, "This is a part of life. These things happen and it's out of my hands." (difference in locus of control) It's frustrating, sometimes, to get them to care about the same things I do. ("I couldn't sleep last night, the wind blowing against the roof made it sound like someone was trying to break into my house!" "HAHAHA, no one is going to break in to your house." "Really? Tell that to all the volunteers who've had their houses broken into, then.")
Interestingly enough, Orquidia's reaction to the snake was the second time this week I've seen a Mozambican woman get worked up. On a chapa to Xai Xai the other day, a woman in the back declared that she had forgotten something at home, and asked to get off the chapa. We were about two minutes in to the 10 minute ride. The driver pulled over, but as the woman stood up to get out, he told her that she still had to pay. They began arguing in Changana and (I assume) she said that we hadn't even arrived yet. At this point, the chapa driver pulled back onto the road and began driving again, as the woman continued hollering at him in Changana. (I was sitting in the seat behind the driver, so I got an earful.) He turned up the music to drown her out but she kept right on going. Yelling and screaming and waving and pointing her finger accusingly the entire way to Xai Xai. What surprised me the most, however, was the man in the front seat. I've ranted multiple times about how no one will ever step in and defend me, even if I'm obviously getting harassed. For the first time ever, I saw someone intervene in a conflict. The guy in the front told the driver that the lady deserved an apology for being disrespected (which of course, the driver did not give). I got off at the first stop so was unable to see how the rest of the situation resolved, but it was all so fascinating to me.
Almost one year into service (HAH Kevin and Devin, I'm still here! You didn't think I'd make it this far!), I'm still learning to communicate in this culture I live in, and my Portuguese skills have nothing to do with it.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sometimes time has wings
Another volunteer once wrote, “Mozambique is where all clothes come to die.” This is true; the worn clothing you carelessly throw into a donation bin will probably eventually make it to Africa, where it will be bargained and bartered for in a hectic market, exposed to excessive sweat and dirt stains, scrubbed with harsh soaps until finally, reduced to holes and tatters, even Mozambicans will demote it to floor rag.
My clothes have certainly suffered during my time here. I don’t know, maybe life is just more… hazardous here. While riding a chapa the other day, I ripped a hole in the knee and in the butt of my jeans. Two holes, one chapa? The math still doesn’t make sense to me. Just yesterday, I tore my shirt when it got caught on a piece of my door grate. Good thing is, I can just go to Xai Xai and hunt through endless mounds of used clothes to restock my wardrobe. Thrift store shopping at its best.
However, clothes are not the only thing that Mozambique is known for killing. Electronics probably survive half their typical lifespan here, due to inconsistent electricity and constant outages. Even with my voltage regulator, my computer died last week and I’m back at square one. Quite inconvenient too, considering all the work I’m starting involving grants and trainings. I guess there really is no convenient time for a computer to crash.
But around the same time this tragedy occurred, a sewing machine floated into my life. It belongs to my organization CACHES but it’s keeping me company at home for a while, and it’s such a great time waster that I hardly miss watching Glee and chick flicks on a computer. Eventually, though, I’ve got to figure out what to do about this computer situation. Kevin might have to bring me yet another one in October. Poor guy… He is my luggage mule.
Anyway, things have been going great here! After the REDES conference (I'll figure out a way to post up my pictures soon, but in the meantime you can check out the REDES blog @ http://theredesproject.wordpress.com/) , I was so pumped and excited about the REDES project and having new ideas for activities and trainings that I talked to both my orgs about it. In the next few weeks I will be giving several HIV/AIDS trainings to my org facilitators and activists that will enable them to engage and work with children in a more informally educative (yet effective) manner.
I’m also going to be painting a mural in Xai Xai for Peace Corps 50th anniversary project. I’ve been wanting to do a mural during my time here and this opportunity just kind of dropped into my lap. So needless to say, I have been and will continue to be busy in the upcoming weeks.
I am currently sitting in my friend Yoko’s house, that’s right- in Chibuto! I finally made it back to visit. Things have not changed much, but I feel that I have. I think I will always look back on this place fondly, but not regretfully. Chibuto was a part of my service (6 months!) but I definitely made the right decision in moving. Within five minutes of my arrival, somehow word had spread among the children that I was back and they arrived at Yoko’s house calling my name. My boys Vasco and Rostilho are getting so tall! They asked me, “Mana Vivienne, in Chicumbane do you have children to play with?” I miss them so much. It’s also interesting, in Chibuto I worked mainly with young boys but in Chicumbane I’m working largely with older girls (through REDES).
At the end of the month, I am planning on going to a Timbila festival at my friend Angela’s site (Zafala, Inhambane). Timbilas are like wood xylophones, so I guess there’s going to be a lot of drumming and music. Pretty cool.
REDES conference red group
Friday, August 5, 2011
On the Road
Traveling so much has really taken its toll on my health. My nose is all clogged up like an overused toilet and my throat feels like it’s been scraped with sandpaper. All I want to do is overdose on Vitamin C and sleep for the next week. But no, no, no… I’m off again for Conference #3, this time in the beautiful beach city of Barra. I’d consider skipping out but I’ve gotta go play the role of camp counselor for a bunch of Mozambican teens. It’ll be fun, as long as I can find a way to alleviate this sinus pressure and my voice stops trying to fugir (escape).
Anyway, here are some anecdotes from my time (literally) on the road.
Walking
While walking through the streets of Maputo, you encounter a lot of … umm, interesting… people along the way. I suppose this is true of any big city- heavy concentrations of the homeless and mentally unstable. For this reason, it’s best to walk fast, with a purpose, lest a pathetic-looking child approaches you to beg for money or a grungy, deformed man tries to grab your arm (been there, done that.)
Sometimes, however, you just can’t avoid trouble. I was with three other volunteers, walking through a crowded shopping area called the Baixa, which is basically a small sidewalk with street vendors on both sides selling all sorts of wares: shoes, jeans, calamidades (cheap used clothes, like thrift store shopping!), capulanas, electronics, anything else you can think of. My friends stopped to barter for Fedora hats, although I did not participate in the matching cuteness, and we continued on our way. I was in the front, threading my way through the masses, when suddenly the crowd parted like the Red Sea and I saw a young man sprinting down the sidewalk, yelling at the top of his lungs. I sidestepped out of the way just in time but my friend Meagan, following at my heel like a baby duck, was not so lucky. The guy barreled into her, nearly toppling her over, and then continued on his crazy way. While walking in Maputo, be careful of getting tackled by strangers.
Taxi-ing
On the way back from shopping, the same group of volunteers and I decided to take a taxi back to the hotel because it was already dark out. We opted to take a tuk-tuk (sp?), which is a motorized carriage-like vehicle that is generally cheaper than an actual taxi car. The problem: tuk-tuks usually fit only three people. We asked a tuk-tuk driver if he would take all four of us… He said no. We said 200 mets (US $6). He said yes.
He waved down his friend in another tuk-tuk that had a plastic flap covering the door and told us to get in. His friend protested at first (“What about the police?”) but soon relented after being pressured by the first driver (“They’re going to pay 200 mets, man! And it’s dark out.”). I was voted the smallest and sat on Meagan’s lap for the ride.
Halfway to the hotel, our driver freaked out. “THERE’S POLICE IN FRONT OF US!!” He whispered frantically, motioning us to reach into the small compartment behind the seats. We pulled out a small plastic sheet, which we were instructed to hold over our faces so that anyone looking in wouldn’t be able to clearly see how many people we were. Meanwhile, the driver was leaning over to the tuk-tuk next to us to ask if he could borrow papers. (All chapa and taxi drivers must have their license papers at all times, if stopped by the police.)
Unable to procure papers, our tuk-tuk pulled over and the driver asked us to get out. My friend Emily slid out first, and as I was getting out as well, the vehicle started moving again. “Go and meet us at the corner of the next block,” The driver told Emily, and drove away.
We did indeed pass a police officer directing traffic before turning off into a dark side road, where poor Emily was waiting for us. “Is this really happening?” She said as she jumped back in the car.
One street over from our hotel, the tuk-tuk stopped again and the driver announced this was as far as he was going. “You know how to get there, right?” He said. Emily and I started arguing with him, telling him we were not going to pay 200 mets for a ride like that. “I can’t go down that road! There’s a police stop there! Look at me, I’m shaking!” The driver insisted, but we were not impressed. We paid 180 mets for a crazy taxi ride, and a good story.
Chapa-ing
In between conferences, I’ve had a couple days here and there at site. It’s hard to recover from “traveling mode” so I’ve just been hiding out in my house, only going the couple of feet to use the latrine (and wondering to myself, “Why is the sun so bright? Am I becoming a vampire?”). I finally decided yesterday afternoon to go to XaiXai, to run some errands.
On the way back, to my dismay I found a giant crowd of people waiting to catch a chapa to Chicumbane. (Note to self: Only go to XaiXai in the mornings.) I had apparently caught all of the XaiXai vendors with their baskets of produce heading home after a long day of work. Every time a chapa pulled up, the crowd would move like an angry hornets nest and surround the car. The moment the poor cobrador opened the door, all hell would break loose as people pushed and shoved and tumbled their way into the car. (Have I mentioned before that waiting in line is a completely novel concept here?) I was not in the mood for mosh pit madness, but I had no choice but to join the crowd after missing the first two chapas. I did, after all, want to get home eventually.
The lady behind me with her straw basket of coconuts was pushing it against my spine and trying to edge her way to the front when the third car arrived. I was not about to let her beat me out so I subtly shoved her back. In the doorway of the car, I got stuck because I was being pressed against from all sides and could not gain the momentum to move forward. “Let me enter!” I finally yelled at the old man behind me blocking my way with his arm. I entered, and so did the man, who sat to the seat in my left.
The car, quickly full to the limit, started moving and the man pulled out a plastic bottle of whiskey from his pocket. Just my luck, I’m sitting next to a drunk guy. (NOT the first time this has happened.) He spent the first part of the ride sipping his cheap whiskey and mumbling in Changana, but somewhere along the way he noticed me sitting next to him. (Bad news.)
He tapped me on the arm and said something in Changana. I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me, because his eyes were unfocused and well, he was speaking Changana. But then he kept smacking me in the arm to get my attention and saying more things in Changana. I told him to speak Portuguese, and he responded in Changana. I ignored him, he smacked my arm and kept talking in Changana. Eventually I turned to him and said very loudly in English, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING TO ME,” which all of the passengers on the chapa found very funny. Even so, they didn’t do anything to help me (which further frustrated me) and the idiot drunk guy kept going in his Changana, only dropping in the Portuguese words “I don’t want to speak Portuguese. I want to speak Changana.” I went back to ignoring him and hoping the chapa would get to Chicumbane faster. The guy leaned over and made a kissing sound next to my face, and then touched the collar of my shirt. I screamed “SUKA!!” (“go away” in Changana) and slapped his arm away, getting the attention of every person on the chapa. One lady behind me called the cobrador to do something, and he said something in Changana to the drunk guy, who kept arguing back. The moment the chapa rolled to a stop, I leaped out of the car and raced home.
Anyway, here are some anecdotes from my time (literally) on the road.
Walking
While walking through the streets of Maputo, you encounter a lot of … umm, interesting… people along the way. I suppose this is true of any big city- heavy concentrations of the homeless and mentally unstable. For this reason, it’s best to walk fast, with a purpose, lest a pathetic-looking child approaches you to beg for money or a grungy, deformed man tries to grab your arm (been there, done that.)
Sometimes, however, you just can’t avoid trouble. I was with three other volunteers, walking through a crowded shopping area called the Baixa, which is basically a small sidewalk with street vendors on both sides selling all sorts of wares: shoes, jeans, calamidades (cheap used clothes, like thrift store shopping!), capulanas, electronics, anything else you can think of. My friends stopped to barter for Fedora hats, although I did not participate in the matching cuteness, and we continued on our way. I was in the front, threading my way through the masses, when suddenly the crowd parted like the Red Sea and I saw a young man sprinting down the sidewalk, yelling at the top of his lungs. I sidestepped out of the way just in time but my friend Meagan, following at my heel like a baby duck, was not so lucky. The guy barreled into her, nearly toppling her over, and then continued on his crazy way. While walking in Maputo, be careful of getting tackled by strangers.
Taxi-ing
On the way back from shopping, the same group of volunteers and I decided to take a taxi back to the hotel because it was already dark out. We opted to take a tuk-tuk (sp?), which is a motorized carriage-like vehicle that is generally cheaper than an actual taxi car. The problem: tuk-tuks usually fit only three people. We asked a tuk-tuk driver if he would take all four of us… He said no. We said 200 mets (US $6). He said yes.
He waved down his friend in another tuk-tuk that had a plastic flap covering the door and told us to get in. His friend protested at first (“What about the police?”) but soon relented after being pressured by the first driver (“They’re going to pay 200 mets, man! And it’s dark out.”). I was voted the smallest and sat on Meagan’s lap for the ride.
Halfway to the hotel, our driver freaked out. “THERE’S POLICE IN FRONT OF US!!” He whispered frantically, motioning us to reach into the small compartment behind the seats. We pulled out a small plastic sheet, which we were instructed to hold over our faces so that anyone looking in wouldn’t be able to clearly see how many people we were. Meanwhile, the driver was leaning over to the tuk-tuk next to us to ask if he could borrow papers. (All chapa and taxi drivers must have their license papers at all times, if stopped by the police.)
Unable to procure papers, our tuk-tuk pulled over and the driver asked us to get out. My friend Emily slid out first, and as I was getting out as well, the vehicle started moving again. “Go and meet us at the corner of the next block,” The driver told Emily, and drove away.
We did indeed pass a police officer directing traffic before turning off into a dark side road, where poor Emily was waiting for us. “Is this really happening?” She said as she jumped back in the car.
One street over from our hotel, the tuk-tuk stopped again and the driver announced this was as far as he was going. “You know how to get there, right?” He said. Emily and I started arguing with him, telling him we were not going to pay 200 mets for a ride like that. “I can’t go down that road! There’s a police stop there! Look at me, I’m shaking!” The driver insisted, but we were not impressed. We paid 180 mets for a crazy taxi ride, and a good story.
Chapa-ing
In between conferences, I’ve had a couple days here and there at site. It’s hard to recover from “traveling mode” so I’ve just been hiding out in my house, only going the couple of feet to use the latrine (and wondering to myself, “Why is the sun so bright? Am I becoming a vampire?”). I finally decided yesterday afternoon to go to XaiXai, to run some errands.
On the way back, to my dismay I found a giant crowd of people waiting to catch a chapa to Chicumbane. (Note to self: Only go to XaiXai in the mornings.) I had apparently caught all of the XaiXai vendors with their baskets of produce heading home after a long day of work. Every time a chapa pulled up, the crowd would move like an angry hornets nest and surround the car. The moment the poor cobrador opened the door, all hell would break loose as people pushed and shoved and tumbled their way into the car. (Have I mentioned before that waiting in line is a completely novel concept here?) I was not in the mood for mosh pit madness, but I had no choice but to join the crowd after missing the first two chapas. I did, after all, want to get home eventually.
The lady behind me with her straw basket of coconuts was pushing it against my spine and trying to edge her way to the front when the third car arrived. I was not about to let her beat me out so I subtly shoved her back. In the doorway of the car, I got stuck because I was being pressed against from all sides and could not gain the momentum to move forward. “Let me enter!” I finally yelled at the old man behind me blocking my way with his arm. I entered, and so did the man, who sat to the seat in my left.
The car, quickly full to the limit, started moving and the man pulled out a plastic bottle of whiskey from his pocket. Just my luck, I’m sitting next to a drunk guy. (NOT the first time this has happened.) He spent the first part of the ride sipping his cheap whiskey and mumbling in Changana, but somewhere along the way he noticed me sitting next to him. (Bad news.)
He tapped me on the arm and said something in Changana. I wasn’t even sure he was talking to me, because his eyes were unfocused and well, he was speaking Changana. But then he kept smacking me in the arm to get my attention and saying more things in Changana. I told him to speak Portuguese, and he responded in Changana. I ignored him, he smacked my arm and kept talking in Changana. Eventually I turned to him and said very loudly in English, “I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING TO ME,” which all of the passengers on the chapa found very funny. Even so, they didn’t do anything to help me (which further frustrated me) and the idiot drunk guy kept going in his Changana, only dropping in the Portuguese words “I don’t want to speak Portuguese. I want to speak Changana.” I went back to ignoring him and hoping the chapa would get to Chicumbane faster. The guy leaned over and made a kissing sound next to my face, and then touched the collar of my shirt. I screamed “SUKA!!” (“go away” in Changana) and slapped his arm away, getting the attention of every person on the chapa. One lady behind me called the cobrador to do something, and he said something in Changana to the drunk guy, who kept arguing back. The moment the chapa rolled to a stop, I leaped out of the car and raced home.
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