Written on June 8, 2011
Hey everyone,
Happy summer! Wow, I can’t believe it’s already June. Any fun summer plans? Since it’s technically not summer here, I guess my “winter” plans include another conference in Maputo in July and, hopefully, the Timbilas (xylophone) music festival in August down in Zavala, the “killing chickens on the beach” town I visited in March.
But I think today’s a pretty exciting day: it marks my six month anniversary of arriving in Mabote! Hard to believe I’m officially a quarter of the way through. It definitely hasn’t been an easy transition, but at the end of the day, I’m really glad I’m here.
Having been here six months, I feel like I’m finally getting over – or at least getting some perspective on – things that used to really bother me. Like, for instance, what happened to me in the market today.
There’s a common phrase in Mozambique that I probably hear at least once a day: estou a pedir. Literally, “I’m asking for…” but it feels more like “give me that.” People – often kids, but not always – ask me for all kinds of things: the mangos I just bought, the hat off my head, the shoes off my feet, the capulanas I use as curtains, even my photos of friends and family, and especially money.
When I say no, they just don’t understand. People seem confused and disappointed. “Why won’t she share what she has with me?” they wonder. “It’s not like she can’t spare it… everyone knows all white people are rich,” goes the mentality. Well, today in the market a woman got pretty feisty with me, seemingly indignant at the injustice of it… me not sharing. I have no idea what she was saying as she clutched my hand and berated me in Chitswa, but it couldn’t have been good.
I’d say my feelings about all of this have gone through several stages. First I was just shocked. Internal dialogue: “Are you seriously asking me for my shoes? What am I going to do, give them to you and walk home barefoot??” And then there was anger. “NO, you cannot have my curtains! ... Why? Because they’re MINE and there’s this thing called personal property!!” And there have been days when I didn’t even want to leave my house because I just couldn’t deal with people staring at me, calling me mulungu, and asking me for things.
But then one day a while back, I was talking about all of this with a colleague from our donor organization, a Mozambican guy about my age who lives in Vilankulos. He worked his way to where he is with the help of a scholarship and vocational training he received after being orphaned at a young age. He told me that when he was a kid, he thought the same thing that most of the kids (and plenty of adults) around Mabote seem to think. And that is, to paraphrase him: that all white people are rich, that they know more than black Africans do, and that they’re here to give us things. He added, with a smirk, “after all, Jesus Christ is white.”
Another white Peace Corps volunteer told a story during training about something that happened once when he was way out in a remote area doing home visits with one of his organization’s activistas (home-based care providers). When they showed up to one man’s house, the man started getting agitated and upset, going on and on about something in the local language having to do with the Peace Corps volunteer.
After a while, the activista told him that the man was upset because he thought that he, the volunteer, was Jesus Christ’s brother, and didn’t understand why a son of God would come all the way to his house and not bring him anything. Several of the churches that I’ve been to here have those cheesy Jesus portraits on the wall with the long flowy hair, the beard, the white skin with the angelic glow. If that was the only white person you saw on a regular basis, you can see how you might get confused.
My colleague from Vilankulos went on to talk about how, after independence in 1975, most of the white people who came here were teachers, doctors, aid workers, or other professionals. They were filling the gaps left when most of the Portuguese fled after independence, leaving behind a largely uneducated population with very few professionals.
Even before Independence, I read that Catholic and Protestant missionaries ran most of the schools in existence. My colleague said that when black Mozambicans first started becoming teachers, some of the students balked, saying, “How can you teach me anything? You look just like me.”
And then there are white South Africans. Those who have the money to take their holidays on Mozambique’s beaches generally aren’t doing anything to counteract the “rich white people” stereotype. They tear through Mabote in their sport vehicles and go inflate prices in Vilankulos where, even if they pay 50% more than what something should cost, it’s still cheaper than in South Africa, so they’re not too worried about it.
My colleague said that he knows of at least one restaurant that keeps two menus, one for white people and one for everyone else. And according to him, as recently as 2004 there were stores in Vilankulos with signs in the window prohibiting black people from entering. “They ended Apartheid and brought it here,” he said.
After that conversation, and others like it, things started to make more sense. It’s just logical. How can I blame or get mad at someone for assuming that I’m rich and am here to give handouts when that’s what experience has taught them? If you’ve never seen a white person who wasn’t seemingly rich, why would you believe they exist?
My colleague said that he didn’t really understand until he visited Belgium. When he saw his first homeless person there, he was dumbfounded. “Look at that man, he’s so poor… and yet, he’s white!”
He suggested that when people ask me for things, I should stop and talk to them and open up a dialogue to help them understand who I am and what I’m doing here (and what I’m not doing here) and to challenge their stereotypes about white people.
It was good advice, and I try to follow it when I can. Of course, when the person doesn’t speak any Portuguese, like the woman in the market today, it’s a lot harder. But even so, having a better understanding of why people do the things they do helps keep me from getting all bent out of shape about it.
That’s not to say that I handle it perfectly now, or that I don’t still have conflicted feelings. After all, some of the things I say to people for simplicity’s sake, like “I’m not rich, and I have to eat too” or “I can’t give you my shoes because then what will I wear?” are not entirely true. Maybe not even remotely true, from their perspective, if they really knew how many pairs of shoes are in my closet or how much money is in my bank account.
While I’m not rich by developed world standards, and my Peace Corps stipend doesn’t even meet the minimum bar to file taxes in the U.S., it’s still a lot more money than most people in Mabote have. And if I gave someone my shoes, I would be able to get along without that pair, or just replace them.
But I haven’t yet figured out a simple and kid-friendly way to say, “I’m not giving you money (or shoes, bread, etc.) because it’s not sustainable. I won’t always be here and I want to promote self-sufficiency, not create more dependency. And though I do have some extra money, I can’t afford to give away money to every needy person in town, and how would I choose?” That’s just a mouthful.
And I can already see the blank stares on their faces as they look at this “rich white person” making a bunch of excuses for why she won’t help them. It’s a lot easier to just try to convince them that I’m not rich, even though compared to them, I am.
And even after all of my logic, I still have to ask myself, “What kind of person looks at a malnourished child and won’t give him a banana?” I mean, for god’s sake, my cat looks better-fed than some of the neighborhood kids do. I’ve seen my colleagues at the association give away bread or cashews to needy kids, and they have less than I do. In a lot of ways, sharing and communal living is just the way it is here. And am I not a member of this community?
So as you can see, I do a lot of arguing with myself in my head. But in the end, I think I have to stick to my logic about wanting my impact here to be sustainable, even if it does feel crappy sometimes.
Anyway, on a more cheerful note before I sign off, happy fourth of July! Okay, so it’s not the fourth of July yet, as I write this, but it probably will be by the time I can post it. Some of us are thinking about having a good ‘ole American fourth of July party in Vilankulos… that is if we get ourselves organized in time and if the Chinese “Wal-Mart” has any fireworks.
Mozambique’s Independence Day is actually pretty close to ours, on June 25. I’m sure there will be a day-long program of festivities here in Mabote; there have been a lot of those lately for various commemorations and holidays. On Nurses’ Day a few weeks ago I was actually in the parade along with my association’s activistas. It was a funny feeling to be marching behind soldiers wearing communist-looking uniform and carrying AK47s while singing old war songs. I felt like we were marching off to join the revolution. Viva a revolução!
I didn’t yell that, but I kind of wanted to. Anyway, be safe with the bottle rockets and beer!
Até logo,
Julie
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