I make one terrible Mozambican

Written on January 8, 2011:

Hey y’all,

It’s January 8th and I’m writing this from my cute little hut in Mabote, so I won’t be able to post it for a few weeks. By the time you’re reading this, it’s probably a little late, but I hope you all had a good New Year’s in NYC, Birmingham, Montgomery, Orange Beach, Davis, Denver, Denton, Tahoe, Champaign or wherever you celebrated.

I had a pretty tame New Year’s Eve (sadly, parties in Mabote don’t hold a candle to the ones in Namaacha). But I spent New Year’s Day eating and hanging out with neighbors and colleagues. In honor of my New Year’s resolution to be fearless, I ate the grilled caterpillar I was served at my neighbor’s house. It wasn’t bad. If I didn’t know what it was, I would have just thought it was some kind of grilled vegetable: tough and chewy on the outside and potato-y on the inside. (green potato) And speaking of eating noteworthy things, I also tried the grilled gazelle from a roadside stand on my way back to Mabote from Vilanculos after Christmas. It was delicious.

But I have a confession to make, which you may have already suspected: aside from eating caterpillar and bush meat, I make a really terrible Mozambican.

First of all, I’m the Mozambican equivalent of a 98 pound weakling… and let’s face it, I’m not much more than that by American standards (insisting that I’m “scrappy” only gets me so far). I made a show of helping my host family carry water during training, but what I may have failed to mention is that I was huffing and puffing and spilling it all over the place, all while resisting their attempts to make me stop helping… not something I want to do everyday for the next two years. So I pay my 18-year-old neighbor, Anabela, to do it for me, and when she’s not around she gets her little 8-year-old nieces to do it. That’s right, I’m being put to shame by 8-year-olds!

One day I was watching Anabela carry a giant jerry can of water on her head the way all the women do here, and stupidly asked, “It doesn’t hurt?” I thought, since they’ve been doing it since they were six, they must have developed neck muscles like the Incredible Hulk and the equivalent of a titanium plate on the top of their heads. Well, apparently not. “Of course it hurts!” she replied. (Duh.)

They all treat me like I’m a delicate flower that might shrivel up and die if I do any heavy lifting, or if I don’t sit down in a chair in the shade to rest, or go home to eat when all of them are just drinking tea or munching on cashews. One day this week I was sitting with Teresa, my boss, on the ground under a shady tree shelling cashews, something you see women doing all the time here. After they roast them in the fire, they’re all black and charred and you have to hit them against a rock with a heavy stick and pry out the nut inside. It’s slow and messy work; after three hours I only had a small pile of (mostly broken) cashews, and my fingers were coated in thick, black soot. Teresa, who never wanted me to dirty myself in the first place, gushed over what a good job I was doing. Meanwhile, her pile was much bigger and had a lot more whole cashews.

Anyway, as we were sitting there, a pickup truck full of people rode past and all started pointing and laughing at me (more than the usual amount). “They’ve never seen a white woman shell cashews before,” Teresa laughed. Well, they may not ever see it again, because not only are my hands now warped and peeling from being chemically burned from the soot, but apparently just handling cashews exacerbated my recently-developed cashew allergy and I’ve once again broken out in an itchy rash all over my body. Eh-pah!*

So, compared to women in Mabote, who get up at 4 or 5 most mornings to go work in the fields, and who spend the better part of the rest of their day pounding grain, carrying water, killing chickens, and cooking over firewood in the yard, I have to admit that a delicate flower is exactly what I am, no doubt about it.

In addition to being a weakling, which I’m forgiven for, I’m also a loaner because I like to spend time alone at home sometimes. There’s a group of little kids in the neighborhood whose new favorite game is What’s the mulungu doing now? (I’m the mulungu.) My windows, which have to stay open during the day to let the light and the breeze in, are the perfect, kid-level height. I’ll be lying on my bed reading, or crouching over the stove making beans and rice, or folding my clothes, and all of a sudden I hear giggling and whispering and look up to see seven or eight pairs of eyes just watching me, giddy with anticipation to see what I’m going to do next.

Following Peace Corps advice that playing with kids is a good “integration” activity, in the beginning I tried throwing the frisbee around with them, but given that most of them don’t speak Portuguese (they speak Chitswa) that got old, at least for me, pretty fast. The next few times they came around I lent them the frisbee to play with in front of my hut, but eventually they tired of that and went back to just watching me go about my business. Here I am folding a shirt! And now I’m boiling water! Then I thought, maybe if I just ignore them they will start feeling as awkward as I do right now and go away.

Nope. I’m learning that the concept of awkward does not translate culturally. To them, you don’t necessarily need to talk to be with other people, because they spend all of their time with other people. (Aren’t you scared?? people here ask me when they find out that I live alone.) They really are adorable kids, but this morning I just couldn’t take it anymore and told them – as nicely as I could – that no, I don’t want to play right now, I want to rest. And furthermore, sometimes when I’m at home I like to be alone, like right now. They ran off and of course I immediately felt like a terrible person, but 6-year-olds are not the boss of me!

And it’s not just the 6-year-olds. Here people will just walk up to your house at any time and yell licença! (like permission) and keep yelling it at 3 second intervals until you come out. In a lot of ways, it’s really nice to be part of a community that doesn’t need a reason or an appointment to talk to each other, and who spends a good chunk of their day wishing each other a good day, and asking how did you sleep, and how are you?

It’s a far cry from the fancy subdivision we moved to when I was in fourth grade, where the most regular interaction we had with our neighbors was usually a wave and a smile as we drove past, right before hitting the button on the automatic garage door opener. But the American in me just wants my privacy sometimes, to just sit here and drink my coffee and read my book in peace. I’ve heard other volunteers who have been here longer say that they will sometimes pretend they’re not home, but they must not live in a one room hut with a (usually open) window directly next to the door.

So like I said, I make one terrible Mozambican. But I’m learning that I just have to try and own the fact that I’m a freak here (thanks, Esther, right on) and stop feeling bad about it. And thankfully, real Mozambicans are incredibly generous and accommodating. Não há problema! (no problem) or Não faz mal! (it doesn’t matter) they always say. After two years here I still won’t be Mozambican, but maybe I’ll be a little less American.

That’s all for now. I have to go kill all the bugs that flew in as I stood on the porch talking to neighbors who came yelling licença! twice during the writing of this letter. And a kitten also slipped in through the crack in the door… if he’s still in here somewhere I’m going to take it as a sign that he wants a new mommy. Stay tuned.

Julie

*Eh-pah! is one of my favorite Mozambican phrases… it’s means, roughly: Ohh man! But it’s all in the tone of voice and facial expression (I’ll have to show you when I get back.)