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.