A Woman In A Man's World

Before the sun is even up, the African women are out and about. Armed with hoes, they march to the machamba, sometimes many kilometers away, to till their land and sow their crops: cassava root, pumpkin, corn, kidney beans, green beans, potatoes, cacana. Then, once the sun begins to ascend into the sky, the women trudge home, not to rest but to begin their work there.
A Mozambican woman's day is full of housework: sweeping the yard, washing clothes, carting water, taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, washing dishes, cooking. Cooking is an intensive chore in itself, requiring a woman to pilar (pound dried corn with a heavy mortar and pestle), moer (grind the flour against a huge ceramic bowl), and cook the flour with boiling water into xima, the staple carb that accompanies most meals. The division of labor in this culture is apparent from childhood; boys roam freely, wheeling about their wire trucks, while girls are kept close to home to help out. Little girls play "house" and practice balancing things on their heads.
Where is my place in this society? When I'm at work, men eat first and I eat with them. I am the only woman given a chair. The other women bring us plates, cups, hot water, sugar, tea, and bread for us to eat breakfast, and pour warm water for us to wash our hands. Afterwards, the women wash our dishes and eat together, seated on a straw mat.
When I pick up a hoe to dig up some weeds everyone stares and giggles. Within a few minutes, someone comes over to take the hoe from my hands and finishes the job. When I sit next to the women to help shell beans, they marvel, "Wow, you know how to do that?" As if breaking open a bean pod is an exceptionally difficult task. When I get close to the kitchen, the smoke from the firewood burns my eyes and makes me tear up. The women laugh and tell me to go sit down in the shade.
I'm treated simultaneously like a child and like an honored guest. I'm not expected to do anything but that doesn't mean I don't want to do it. Sometimes I want to participate in an activity with the women but I also don't relish the prospect of being laughed at. And almost inevitably, I'll do something "wrong"... Because in this society, domestic things are done only one way. THE way. When I tell the women that I eat potatoes with the skins on, they look at me like I've just turned neon pink and sprouted horns. "I couldn't do that," One woman shudders at the thought.
The other day, I have a conversation with my coworker, Senhor Monjane. He's lamenting the lack of work that's been done on our new office lately. "Those women need a man around to tell them what to do." "Oh?" I reply. "Yes, otherwise they don't have any idea where to start." "Is it because they aren't used to doing construction work and they're not familiar with the process?" I ask. "It's because they can't do it without a man. They won't conseguir (succeed)," He says.
"So, you're saying that physically the women can't do construction work," I respond.
"Construction work is men's work."
I tell him: "Well, in my opinion, there's no such thing as 'men's work' and 'women's work.' Those women seem pretty capable of conseguir-ing, they just need an explanation of what needs to be done. And wouldn't it be better if everyone worked together and got more work done, instead of ONE man doing something and everybody else just sitting around?"
He thinks about it. "Yeah I guess so."
The next day, Sr Monjane, an activist woman named Hortencia, and I pick up spades to cement the office walls. Sr Monjane suggests that maybe I should start off at the far wall (reading between the lines: "In case you mess it up, it won't be noticeable.") Fifteen minutes later, another activist comments, "Mana Viviana is working??" to which Sr Monjane calls back proudly, "And she's conseguir-ing!" Of course I'm succeeding. This is men's work? It involves grabbing a handful of wet cement mixed with dirt and slathering it on the reed walls and then smoothing it down. Meanwhile, the other women are carrying in shovel-fuls of dirt and doing the cement mixing in a wheelbarrow. Everyone's working and we get more done in less time than the previous day.
At the end of the day, I write my name in the cement on my wall: VIVIENNE 2012.

...Because hey, I'm white, I'm a woman, and I can conseguir too.

Going North

I’ve just completed a 2 week trip up to Northern Mozambique.  Below is my route and some of the interesting things I noted along the way.

VILANCULOS
Vilanculos is a popular tourist site in Inhambane Province, and also the site of the annual Peace Corps Beer Olympics. Up until my North trip, Vil was the furthest north I’d ever been in Mozambique. This year, I rented a beach chalet for me and my friend Helen because last year we ended up having to sleep on the same tiny mattress in the backpacker dorms…on the top bunk. The Northern volunteers, who usually have a hard time getting all the way to Vil, rented a private chapa this year! So I hopped in with them on their way home.

THE ROADS
Traveling in the North SUCKS!! It takes forever to get anywhere, not necessarily because everything is further away (okay, well that too) but also because the roads are terrible. You’re lucky to find paved road, even if it is full of giant potholes and cracks that make the chapa go THWOMP! BOOM! BAM! as you are rudely knocked awake from your nap when your head hits the window. There’s a lot of waking up at 3am to get on buses that leave at 4, and full days spent in vehicles buying fruit, crackers, sodas, hard boiled eggs, and bread from crowds of vendors jostling each other at your window.  At one stop, Inchope, the vendors came running with plastic bags of chicken and French fries, what PCV’s call “Happy Meals.”

The EN1 (National Highway) is okay, but unlike the South where you’re constantly passing fields and villages , in the North you can drive for hours and hours with nothing but tall brush on either side. I got very good at peeing in the bush.

In some places, the paved road is blocked off and you have to take a detour on a dirt road that runs parallel to the paved one.  Our driver explained that in these areas, the road is unfinished but that the workers have stopped showing up because they haven’t been paid in months. I guess I wouldn’t go to work if I weren’t getting paid, either.

Luckily, I had the foresight to have booked a flight for my return to Southern Mozambique. This flight from Quelimane to Maputo cost me about 5000 MZN (about $150 USD) and spared me another exhausting, multi-day trip overland.

ANGOCHE
Angoche is a lovely, if slightly isolated, beach city in Nampula province. In the days of Portuguese rule, Angoche used to be a bustling trading hub. Now it’s pretty quiet (“Eerily quiet,” Meagan said, but that’s because she’s used to the crowded streets of Quelimane). There’s quite a big Muslim population, which is not something I’m used to because where I live I’d say about 90% are Christian.

The local language  is Koti,  the only place in the world where it’s spoken. Koti  doesn’t have the same harsh vowels that Changana (Gaza’s local language) does. In fact, it kind of sounds like everyone is drunk and slurring their words together (my initial reaction to their Portuguese).

THE BEACH
The beach in Angoche was amazing. We walked out about 15 minutes on a raised dirt road with swampy trees and marshland all around us; this area floods when the tide comes in. Then we took a 10 minute wooden boat ride across the peninsula to the beach side. The water was warm and the sand was white, and the best part- no one even passed by in the several hours we were out there!

APAS
Apas (Angoche style) are tortillas with a fried egg in between, drizzled with ketchup and mayo. FYI skeptics, they’re delicious. And for only 15 mts each (roughly 50 cents) they are the best lunch deal around! We brought them back to Jordan’s house and added hot sauce and spices. I ate about 12 in the 4 days I was there, and am now kicking myself for not just kidnapping the apa guy and making him live in Chicumbane with me.

BOLEIAS
Hmm… I wasn’t a huge fan of hitchhiking in the North. It seemed that most cars picked us up with the expectation of money. (Maybe because the distances are longer?) Meagan and I hopped on one chapa, two semi trucks, one private car, and the back of one pickup truck in order to make it from Angoche to Quelimane (Green and red route on map). We started at 1am and arrived at 5pm. Talk about a long day!

CAPULANAS
As everyone knows, I love love love capulanas- the bolts of colorful fabric that Mozambican women tie around their waists. In the North, they have some awesome colorful tie-dye capulanas that you can’t get in the South. So… I bought 7 of them.

QUELIMANE
Quelimane is a big city, maybe even bigger than Xai Xai. It was kind of crazy, having to constantly watch for oncoming cars and bikes. Meagan has a number of expat friends who have sweet American-style apartments, so we hung out with them quite a bit. One night we went out to a Chinese restaurant, where I impressed the owners with my Mandarin and ordered us a good meal. I also ordered myself a glass of white wine, which apparently they don’t sell. Instead, I was brought a full, freshly-opened bottle of wine that I had no choice but to finish on my own. Tough life, being on vacation.

BIKE TAXIS
In Quelimane, bike taxis are everywhere. You get on the back of a bike and pay 5 mts to get peddled around to anywhere in the city. Pretty sweet deal. I only took one during my stay but I found it kind of nerve-wracking. I was very tense during the entire ride because of all the other bike taxis and cars on the road, and because I lacked any control. Also, I had no idea where to put my hands so I just held on to the part of the seat that didn’t have the guy’s butt on it. Other PCV’s reassured me that “you get used to it” and eventually it’s even relaxing.