In the classic Nintendo game Mario Kart, the player speeds around in a little car, racing other players to the finish line while simultaneously trying to avoid obstacles such as bombs and banana peels on the road. To the Mario Kart makers, I say: That's silly. First of all, who slips on banana peels? Never in my life have I witnessed somebody actually slip and fall on a banana peel. Everyone knows that the real danger lies not in the overrated fruit called a banana but in the tropical, much more hazardous MANGO.
Duh.
Imagine, if you will, a video game set on the lovely continent of Africa. More specifically, in a little country called Mozambique. (The entire game is in Portuguese, of course, but you can put on English subtitles if you wish.) You're driving- no wait- you're walking down a sandy path dotted with mangoes. Here, there, everywhere a mango. There they are, standing in the road... Dee dee dee. Green ones, red ones, some as big as your head! (If you didn't catch that reference you could try watching the Lion King.)
You're trying to make it to the finish line, but you have to avoid the slimy mangoes on the ground. (That are, incidentally, also falling from the mango trees above you, ready to knock you out and delay your from reaching your destination. If you hear rustling right above your head, you can press Ctrl+D, which makes your character duck to avoid getting hit.) The rotting mangoes will make you slip and fall, ultimately deducting points from your final score.
Where are you going in this video game, you ask? Oh, I don't know... Maybe the market, where you'll have the added challenges of avoiding the creepy men and the little kids who ask you for money and the cars that come barreling down the road too fast... Maybe your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to rescue a poor dog who is getting pelted with rocks by children. Different destinations could come in the form of different levels, with specific obstacles for each. The possibilities are endless!
Along the way, you may be rewarded with extra points in the form of a refreshing can of soda, a cold bucket bath, or a free ride from a stranger. At some point, you must get on a chapa along with approximately a million other people. To do this, you must kick (CTRL+K), punch (CTRL+P), shove (CTRL+S), and otherwise fight your way on to a seat. If you are stuck standing hunched over on the chapa, you still get points, just not as many. Also, if you aren't careful, someone in the crowd may pickpocket your wallet out of your purse, in which case you lose A LOT of points, and a lot of money, something like 1000 mets ($30 USD) and your Peace Corps ID and your damn bank card for the 3rd time in three months. But this is all hypothetical, of course. Just a silly video game that's kind of like a cross between Mario Kart and Oregon Trail and a Boxing/ fighting game and... umm... my life.
The good part is I think I'm still winning.
Happy holidays!!!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
In the Time of the Festas
The holidays are coming up, which means FESTAS!!! Parties are in abundance, as are the mangoes littering the ground. (Children were collecting mangoes for me in exchange for coloring supplies, until my kitchen became flooded with ripe mangoes faster than I could eat them, and my house became flooded with children calling at all hours of the day- even at 6am. Needless to say, coloring days at Mana Vivienne's house are now Mondays and Wednesdays ONLY. Although that generally doesn't stop them from stopping by and asking anyway in the hopes I'll change my mind.)
This weekend, Helen and I attended a Lobolo, an engagement party, at my empregada's house. I was glad for the presence of another American to navigate the social awkwardness and play the "what's going on now?" game as the entire ceremony went on in Changana, and most of our time was spent trying to identify the people taking party in the ceremony. The only person we were certain of was the bride, who wore pearls in her hair and only smiled once. (Note: Mozambicans always pose very seriously for photos, because they want to show they are taking the situation seriously. So photos for generally festive events such as birthdays and weddings often reveal extremely somber expressions more apt for a funeral.)
First, the husband's family presented the bride's family with gifts and money. Not in the discreet, embarrassed way that we give and receive gifts, but with a flashy display of each item and checking off the list of accounted for presents. Capulanas and matching head scarves were distributed round to every female family member, pants and dress shirts for the males. Money (10,000 mt! Or the rough equivalent of $300) was counted out and finally, the bride was able to make her grand appearance with her bridesmaids, all of them wearing shimmery tulle dresses. Then, the bride... burst into tears?? (This part was especially puzzling to me and Helen, also because my empregada was still urging me to take photos.)
The bride just sat there and looked at all the presents while tears streamed down her face. Pretty soon, a bunch of the other women were also tearing up while others talked angrily amongst themselves. Turns out, the husband's family hadn't brought all the money they had promised. "The money to open the negotiations is missing," was the way my empregada explained to me. The bride and bridesmaids went back inside.
I don't know how the situation was resolved, but eventually the party went on. The bride came back out (dry-eyed this time) holding hands with her fiance (or so we thought at the time), accompanied by a singing train of guests and family members. They sat down, and guests presented them with gifts, also by making a big show of singing and dancing in small groups. The couple received things like capulanas, pots and pans, a big blanket (which they placed around their shoulders for a cute photo opp), kitchen utensils, plates and cup sets.
Next, lunch time, which consisted of grilled chicken, rice/ xima, goat meat (ah, I forgot to mention that in another corner of the yard, two men were killing and skinning a goat. The poor little goat was hung up, still alive, by its hind legs over a bucket to catch blood and had its throat cut by a dull knife. It took about five minutes for the guy to stop sawing at the neck, and for the legs to stop kicking. The men cut off the testicles first, although I still don't know why, and put them in a bowl before skinning the rest of the goat and cutting it up to be cooked or refridgerated.), soggy french fries the way they always come, vegetable salad, and potato salad literally covered with a layer of mayonnaise. I noticed that all of the women were served sodas, while all of the men were immediately given beer. Several men offered us beer as well, which we declined. I had a small glass of red wine, in contrast to some of the men throwing back full glasses and refilling again to the top.
As we were all eating, a car suddenly pulled up and everyone got up. The bride came back holding the hand of another man and leading the crowd of singing (Mozambicans sing at every opportunity) guests. Seats at the table were rearranged. The man originally sitting next to the bride during the before-lunch ceremony was displaced and relocated to the end of the table, where we were.
Later, someone explained to me that the groom is not supposed to arrive until after the "negotiations" are finished, so until his arrival a confidante, in this case a cousin, takes his place next to the bride. "What happens if the families can't come to an agreement?" I asked. "That's never happened," my host father said firmly, so that was that.
Helen and I were ready to duck out after lunch, but the party wasn't over yet. Everyone sat in a circle and was introduced (in Changana, which didn't appease our confusion). A fancy cake was presented and cut ceremoniously by the godmother of the groom, and the groom then went around and spoon-fed every guest a bite of cake.
Later that evening, Helen and I headed home and, over cups of tea and a jigsaw puzzle, puzzled over the event we had just witnessed.
The next day, we trekked to Namaacha to see our host families. Turns out, my neighbor's next door neighbor was throwing a joint birthday party for her kids so I got to attend my 2nd party of the weekend. This party was also replete with singing and dancing, twice as much so for twice the birthdays being celebrated. I was surprised that, besides hosting the party, the parents of the girls did very little at the ceremony. The girls' godparents were the ones who arrived with showers of gifts, and sat as the guests of honor next to their respective goddaughters. For three hours, guests and family members sang as they presented clothes, shoes, plates of food, and money. At one point, the younger girl who was about 5 years old, ran inside and refused to come back out because she was hungry. The godparents shuffled inside and came back out singing and holding her hand. They set up a chair in the middle of the awning and presented her with a plate with a little bit of every dish and the happy kid just sat there eating while adults behind her sang and danced. (Did I mention there was a LOT of singing?) The older birthday girl, about 7 or 8, was invited to sit with her sister and the photographer made them feed each other forkfuls of food, which I'd say is all Mozambicans' favorite photo pose. After dinner, someone from the family came around to feed all the guests a bite of cake and then people started leaving, or dancing.
All in all, I'd say I have a love-hate relationship with Mozambican parties. On the one hand, I appreciate being invited to participate in these culturally-rich events and feeling more integrated into the community, but on the other, there's always so much waiting around and not fully understanding what's going on. Even when I ask questions like "Who is that guy that just showed up?" I'll always get incomplete answers like "Oh that's a cousin" and I'll want to continue asking more things like "The cousin of who?" I don't truly understand the dynamics of family relations in Africa, or the formality of symbolic actions like feeding each other cake, that I personally find rather cliché. Also, Mozambicans have mastered the trick of going hours upon hours without eating, while I, by the end of every party, am counting down the minutes until food is ready. When Helen and I arrived at the Lobolo at 11am, we guessed that we wouldn't be eating until 2:30, which is already a late lunch for us. We ate at 4 and didn't leave until 6:30. Parties are so draining, and I'm not even the one preparing the food early in the morning until late afternoon, or singing song after song in Changana and dancing with gifts of heavy pots on my head. I'm just the one sitting in the shade wondering what's going on.
This weekend, Helen and I attended a Lobolo, an engagement party, at my empregada's house. I was glad for the presence of another American to navigate the social awkwardness and play the "what's going on now?" game as the entire ceremony went on in Changana, and most of our time was spent trying to identify the people taking party in the ceremony. The only person we were certain of was the bride, who wore pearls in her hair and only smiled once. (Note: Mozambicans always pose very seriously for photos, because they want to show they are taking the situation seriously. So photos for generally festive events such as birthdays and weddings often reveal extremely somber expressions more apt for a funeral.)
First, the husband's family presented the bride's family with gifts and money. Not in the discreet, embarrassed way that we give and receive gifts, but with a flashy display of each item and checking off the list of accounted for presents. Capulanas and matching head scarves were distributed round to every female family member, pants and dress shirts for the males. Money (10,000 mt! Or the rough equivalent of $300) was counted out and finally, the bride was able to make her grand appearance with her bridesmaids, all of them wearing shimmery tulle dresses. Then, the bride... burst into tears?? (This part was especially puzzling to me and Helen, also because my empregada was still urging me to take photos.)
The bride just sat there and looked at all the presents while tears streamed down her face. Pretty soon, a bunch of the other women were also tearing up while others talked angrily amongst themselves. Turns out, the husband's family hadn't brought all the money they had promised. "The money to open the negotiations is missing," was the way my empregada explained to me. The bride and bridesmaids went back inside.
I don't know how the situation was resolved, but eventually the party went on. The bride came back out (dry-eyed this time) holding hands with her fiance (or so we thought at the time), accompanied by a singing train of guests and family members. They sat down, and guests presented them with gifts, also by making a big show of singing and dancing in small groups. The couple received things like capulanas, pots and pans, a big blanket (which they placed around their shoulders for a cute photo opp), kitchen utensils, plates and cup sets.
Next, lunch time, which consisted of grilled chicken, rice/ xima, goat meat (ah, I forgot to mention that in another corner of the yard, two men were killing and skinning a goat. The poor little goat was hung up, still alive, by its hind legs over a bucket to catch blood and had its throat cut by a dull knife. It took about five minutes for the guy to stop sawing at the neck, and for the legs to stop kicking. The men cut off the testicles first, although I still don't know why, and put them in a bowl before skinning the rest of the goat and cutting it up to be cooked or refridgerated.), soggy french fries the way they always come, vegetable salad, and potato salad literally covered with a layer of mayonnaise. I noticed that all of the women were served sodas, while all of the men were immediately given beer. Several men offered us beer as well, which we declined. I had a small glass of red wine, in contrast to some of the men throwing back full glasses and refilling again to the top.
As we were all eating, a car suddenly pulled up and everyone got up. The bride came back holding the hand of another man and leading the crowd of singing (Mozambicans sing at every opportunity) guests. Seats at the table were rearranged. The man originally sitting next to the bride during the before-lunch ceremony was displaced and relocated to the end of the table, where we were.
Later, someone explained to me that the groom is not supposed to arrive until after the "negotiations" are finished, so until his arrival a confidante, in this case a cousin, takes his place next to the bride. "What happens if the families can't come to an agreement?" I asked. "That's never happened," my host father said firmly, so that was that.
Helen and I were ready to duck out after lunch, but the party wasn't over yet. Everyone sat in a circle and was introduced (in Changana, which didn't appease our confusion). A fancy cake was presented and cut ceremoniously by the godmother of the groom, and the groom then went around and spoon-fed every guest a bite of cake.
Later that evening, Helen and I headed home and, over cups of tea and a jigsaw puzzle, puzzled over the event we had just witnessed.
The next day, we trekked to Namaacha to see our host families. Turns out, my neighbor's next door neighbor was throwing a joint birthday party for her kids so I got to attend my 2nd party of the weekend. This party was also replete with singing and dancing, twice as much so for twice the birthdays being celebrated. I was surprised that, besides hosting the party, the parents of the girls did very little at the ceremony. The girls' godparents were the ones who arrived with showers of gifts, and sat as the guests of honor next to their respective goddaughters. For three hours, guests and family members sang as they presented clothes, shoes, plates of food, and money. At one point, the younger girl who was about 5 years old, ran inside and refused to come back out because she was hungry. The godparents shuffled inside and came back out singing and holding her hand. They set up a chair in the middle of the awning and presented her with a plate with a little bit of every dish and the happy kid just sat there eating while adults behind her sang and danced. (Did I mention there was a LOT of singing?) The older birthday girl, about 7 or 8, was invited to sit with her sister and the photographer made them feed each other forkfuls of food, which I'd say is all Mozambicans' favorite photo pose. After dinner, someone from the family came around to feed all the guests a bite of cake and then people started leaving, or dancing.
All in all, I'd say I have a love-hate relationship with Mozambican parties. On the one hand, I appreciate being invited to participate in these culturally-rich events and feeling more integrated into the community, but on the other, there's always so much waiting around and not fully understanding what's going on. Even when I ask questions like "Who is that guy that just showed up?" I'll always get incomplete answers like "Oh that's a cousin" and I'll want to continue asking more things like "The cousin of who?" I don't truly understand the dynamics of family relations in Africa, or the formality of symbolic actions like feeding each other cake, that I personally find rather cliché. Also, Mozambicans have mastered the trick of going hours upon hours without eating, while I, by the end of every party, am counting down the minutes until food is ready. When Helen and I arrived at the Lobolo at 11am, we guessed that we wouldn't be eating until 2:30, which is already a late lunch for us. We ate at 4 and didn't leave until 6:30. Parties are so draining, and I'm not even the one preparing the food early in the morning until late afternoon, or singing song after song in Changana and dancing with gifts of heavy pots on my head. I'm just the one sitting in the shade wondering what's going on.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
The (Very) Busy Bee
If I ever become successful enough to have a personal assistant or secretary to make my schedule, that would eliminate one of the major personal stresses of my life. I love filling up my calendar with appointments and activities, but sometimes- usually- things come up and then I'm suddenly thrown into a panic of indecisiveness and event rearranging. It's like lining up a perfect row of bottles when out of nowhere- BAM!!- someone throws something and knocks one over. My once empty calendar is now riddled with scribbles and cross-outs. But, besides its ugliness, it is at least still one thing- full.
This week, for example, I've got two PCV house visitors coming in. One of them, my good friend Helen, lives all the up in Tete province so I haven't seen her in over a year. We had planned a short trip to visit our host families in Namaacha but then Curve Ball #1: My empregada invited me to a party at her house over the weekend. Not just any party, but a Lobolo, which is a Mozambican engagement party. I've never attended one, and have been wanting to because I think it'd be such a cool cultural experience. The fact that Helen has also never been to one meant that we of course would have to rearrange our Namaacha trip to be able to attend the Lobolo. (By the way, this is probably the 4th time in a row I've bailed on my Namaacha family. They probably don't even believe me anymore when I say I'm coming to visit.)
All's well until one day before Helen arrives and two days before Namaacha. Boom. Curve Ball #2, and it's a good one. My APCD calls and she wants to know if I'll be around on Thursday to meet Ambassador Goosby, the U.S. Global AIDS Coordinator. Basically in charge of all PEPFAR money and straight up appointed by Obama. He's visiting Mozambique and stopping by, of all places, the health center in Chicumbane. Of course I want to meet him, even if it means digging through the bottom of my wardrobe to find the professional work clothes that have been in hiding since Training.
So as I'm mentally running through new potential slots for a short Namaacha trip, I'm also informed of Curve Ball #3: The new country director of the Elizabeth Glasier Pediatric AIDS Foundation (EGPAF) is requesting a meeting with all PCV's paired with EGPAF funded organizations That would be me. And that would be Thursday, the same day. So suddenly my schedule is looking twice as full, with visitors, meetings, appointments, Namaacha trips, and parties all colliding in the same time frame. (Not to mention, I just got back from a trip to Maputo for REDES bank errands and a meeting at the Embassy last Friday, helped out at the CACHES World AIDS Day community festival Saturday, am leaving for Taiwan on the 21st, AND am working on a 20-page REDES 2012 grant proposal of $99,999US to be turned in by the end of January.)
I think I'm losing my mind, but here's a secret:
I like it!!!
This week, for example, I've got two PCV house visitors coming in. One of them, my good friend Helen, lives all the up in Tete province so I haven't seen her in over a year. We had planned a short trip to visit our host families in Namaacha but then Curve Ball #1: My empregada invited me to a party at her house over the weekend. Not just any party, but a Lobolo, which is a Mozambican engagement party. I've never attended one, and have been wanting to because I think it'd be such a cool cultural experience. The fact that Helen has also never been to one meant that we of course would have to rearrange our Namaacha trip to be able to attend the Lobolo. (By the way, this is probably the 4th time in a row I've bailed on my Namaacha family. They probably don't even believe me anymore when I say I'm coming to visit.)
All's well until one day before Helen arrives and two days before Namaacha. Boom. Curve Ball #2, and it's a good one. My APCD calls and she wants to know if I'll be around on Thursday to meet Ambassador Goosby, the U.S. Global AIDS Coordinator. Basically in charge of all PEPFAR money and straight up appointed by Obama. He's visiting Mozambique and stopping by, of all places, the health center in Chicumbane. Of course I want to meet him, even if it means digging through the bottom of my wardrobe to find the professional work clothes that have been in hiding since Training.
So as I'm mentally running through new potential slots for a short Namaacha trip, I'm also informed of Curve Ball #3: The new country director of the Elizabeth Glasier Pediatric AIDS Foundation (EGPAF) is requesting a meeting with all PCV's paired with EGPAF funded organizations That would be me. And that would be Thursday, the same day. So suddenly my schedule is looking twice as full, with visitors, meetings, appointments, Namaacha trips, and parties all colliding in the same time frame. (Not to mention, I just got back from a trip to Maputo for REDES bank errands and a meeting at the Embassy last Friday, helped out at the CACHES World AIDS Day community festival Saturday, am leaving for Taiwan on the 21st, AND am working on a 20-page REDES 2012 grant proposal of $99,999US to be turned in by the end of January.)
I think I'm losing my mind, but here's a secret:
I like it!!!
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