The Couch June 30, 2009

Yesterday my housemate and I bought a couch.  It is the retro-ugliest but most comfortable couch I have sat on in Mozambique.  A couch is not a significant thing in many parts of the world.  But to me its significance is beyond what I can probably describe in words.

When Marina and I moved into this apartment, we loved everything, absolutely everything about it except the furniture.  It’s spacious, light, has a veranda, a huge kitchen, two bathrooms, and warm showers with better water pressure than anywhere I’ve showered in Mozambique or the US for that matter.  My bed is more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever owned, but we were stuck with an extremely small and uncomfortable wicker couch that came with the apartment.  Decent furniture is very expensive here because it’s all imported.  Locally-made furniture is all very uncomfortable.  I bought camp chairs as a temporary solution until someone left and we could buy their furniture.  Unfortunately, everyone we’ve known who has left had lived in already-furnished apartments.

For the last several weeks I’ve been really tired – physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually.  I need a break.  I’ve been feeling the need to get back to the States and just rest.  Every time I think of resting in the States, I envision myself lying on a couch (because everyone in America has a couch that can be laid on) for a week, not really talking to anyone, not answering lots of questions about Mozambique, not being “the missionary home from Africa”.  Sometimes I see myself reading books, sometimes I’m just staring at the ceiling.  And then at the end of the day I get up and cook dinner for whoever I’m staying with and feel refreshed to visit with them when they come home from work.

Why a couch?  Because after living in an apartment with no comfortable furniture for a year, always kind of putzing around because I know that whatever I sit on will make me want to get up after just a little while, and also knowing no one else here with comfortable furniture, a couch to me is the ultimate symbol of rest and relaxation.  When my friends and I reminisce about what we miss or look forward to in our home countries, the list usually goes something like this:  sleeping under a duvet, feeling free to go out after dark, not being constantly aware of or worried about our belongings, and sitting on a big comfy couch.

So I’ve been having this strong desire to lie on a couch.  At the same time, I’ve lately been spontaneously praying for us to know when someone is leaving and selling furniture so that we can buy it.  Which is a pretty ridiculous prayer considering I’m leaving in a month or two.  But it pops into my head.

Two days ago Lyndsay and I walked over to Shoprite to quickly grab a couple things.  I bumped into a missionary couple I know only from bumping into them around town.  It turns out they’re leaving in a month and are selling a living room set.  So yesterday we went to look at it, sat in it, paid for it, and took the couch home.  (We’ll pick up the loveseat and chair in a month when they leave.)

Sitting on that couch last night, eating a delicious meal and watching a movie with friends (all three of us and the cats comfortably spread across the cushions) not only felt amazingly luxurious but also therapeutic.

Perhaps it’s just a piece of furniture, but I can’t help wonder if God is telling me I can rest here.  The timing of finding this couch seems all wrong on one hand, but so right on the other.

High Scorer June 1, 2009

Because this is now an issue here, I feel compelled to add it.  And because most of you are in the States, I feel compelled to add it.  Single people, you will laugh and groan with understanding as you read through it.  Married people, please take notes as you read…“Surviving Church as a Single”.  (Thanks, Sarah, for the link!)

Official Non-Motorized Velocipede Operator May 28, 2009

I am now the proud owner of a Driver’s License of a Velocipede without a Motor.  In a country where cars can do seemingly whatever they want, I found it hard to keep a straight face when I went to acquire my very serious and very official bicycle documents.

At 8:15 this morning I entered the Municipal Building downtown and after some inquiries found the hallway for velocipede licensing.  I was sent to the last window, the Velocipede window where I was charged 2 meticais (7 cents) to fill in a form.  I handed over the bicycle owner’s documents (yes, we need those too to operate a bicycle) which were in the previous owner’s name.  The government official behind the counter asked if I wanted to transfer the documents into my name.  Well, sure.  Of course that meant going back to the first window to the Treasurer to pay 50.50 meticais ($1.74) for the transfer.  Then I had to take that receipt to the Velocipede window.  The official told me to come back the following morning at 10 to pick up the owner’s document and then go to the fire station at 1pm for my bicycle exam.  I asked if it was necessary.  I told him that my colleagues had informed me that if I showed my driver’s license that I wouldn’t have to take a test.  He told me to sit down and wait to speak to his manager.

It was a woman.  I hate speaking to official women in this country.  They’re often harsh and never smile.  I smiled a big smile, greeted her, and very politely explained that my colleagues had informed me that with a driver’s license I wouldn’t have to take a test.  I told her I’ve been driving for 13 years and riding a bike for 25+.  Therefore, do I still need to take the test?  She scrutinized my license, then handed it back and said, “Yes, you need to.”  Then I asked if it would be possible to take it at another time since I work everyday.  She interrupted me and said, “You can sit down.”  Um, okay…why?  She said, “You can sit down.  We’ll do it now.”  I thought she meant the test, but she meant she’d give me the license.  Of course that meant another form and going back to the Treasurer’s window to pay 21 meticais (73 cents) then taking that receipt back and waiting for my license.

As she was filling in the card, she said accusingly, “You’re a teacher of what?  It says here you’re a teacher.  What do you teach?”  I told her I teach English at the Pedagogical University and also work for an NGO and do workshops in schools.  She looked very skeptical.  She said, “At UP?  English?  English, English?  I did English at UP.”  Of course she didn’t actually speak a word of English to me.  I told her I was teaching 12+1 and that this was my first year.  Then she believed me and relaxed a little.

As I was getting ready to leave, I asked if I could come earlier than 10 tomorrow to pick up the other document since I have to work.  She told me I could try, but she couldn’t promise anything.  Wow, an honest statement about time in Mozambique!  Then she said, with a slight smile, “Can I ask you for something?”  Sure.  “Books.”  She wants English books, specifically grammar books.  I told her I didn’t have any grammar books but might be able to bring her a novel or two.  Finally she gave me an actual smile.  I finally walked out the door just after 9.

If all goes well tomorrow, I may be cruising the streets of Beira on a non-motorized velocipede as early as this weekend!  I just need to make sure I carry my official documents with me at all times.

Protected: Single Seclusion May 26, 2009

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better May 20, 2009

Last week in class, my students were discussing the roles of men and women in small groups.  One of the questions asked:  “What do you think men do better than women?  Women do better than men?”  Two groups presented their responses to this question:

Group 1: Women are better at looking after children.  Men don’t have the time.  Women are worried about looking good, and so they are more organized.  If you walk down the street you will see all the women looking good, but the men don’t look good.  It’s because women are more organized in terms of hygiene.  Women have better homes.  If a woman lives alone, her house will always be nice and organized.  If a man lives alone, you can often find a mess and things in many different places.  Women are also not hard-hearted.  They feel pity.

Men are better at choosing friendships.  They know how to deal with friendships.  For example if you see a group of five girlfriends, you will see that it won’t last even a year because there is so much gossip.  But this is not notable for guys.  Men are more creative than women.  For example, many theories have been invented by men.  Anyone knows six female scientists?  Men can do heavier jobs.  Women do simple jobs.  Men are not as sensitive as women – it is hard to convince men to do something wrong, but it is very easy to convince a woman.  Men are more courageous than women.  Women are courageous on useless aspects, like killing someone, but men are courageous in how to explore the world.

Group 2: Men are better at security.  For example, men are guards and the majority of soldiers are men.  The majority of monuments are of men.  Men have more courage.  They fought against the communists and are our earliest heroes.  Men can hunt, like in the jungle.  Women see a snake and jump.  Men can do strong jobs.  They can carry big logs.  Women carry 20kgs of water but men carry three sacks of sugar.  Men run faster.  Even if you took that man from Jamaica against Lourdes Matola – they are both fast, but the man can still run faster than Lourdes Matola.  Men have more of a spirit of leadership.  In the past, few women were leaders.

Women are better at taking care of children.  They are more caring.  That’s why in a separation, the judge will say that the children should stay with the mother.  They are good householders.  And they are more romantic.

April (or I’ve Never Written a Poem Before) April 24, 2009

Papaya trees and blue sky,

Coconuts and lemons.

Cool breeze, salty sea,

But mangoes not in season.

Avocadoes, passion fruit.

Brightly-clothed women

Selling banana bunches, tangerines.

But pineapples not in season.

Me and You April 23, 2009

Yesterday I was saying something to a colleague about how he and I would go somewhere together. I said, “Você e eu, nos vamos…” (“You and I, we are going to…”). He started laughing and said that “você e eu” sounded really funny. He explained that you say, “Eu e você…”, putting I first. Another native-English speaking colleague and I explained that in English we always put everyone else before I.

I thought about it for a bit then commented to J that our language usage explains a lot about our different cultures. As much as we romanticize the communal nature of African society, Mozambican culture is actually very much a “Me first” society. It’s apparent when getting on chapas, waiting in line at the bank, buying groceries, and driving in a car. It’s apparent on a deeper level by the high level of corruption in society.

The comment about language reflecting culture sparked a conversation in our office about Portuguese versus English colonization. My Mozambican colleagues said that “eu e você” came from the Portuguese and demonstrates how the Portuguese only thought about themselves and didn’t try to develop their colonies at all. Consequently, when they left in the 70s, they left no skilled Mozambicans behind. To this day, Lusophone countries are still among the most undeveloped in Africa. Mozambique is considerably less developed than all its bordering countries (South Africa, Swaziland, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi, and Tanzania). My colleagues commented on how English colonizers put others first and thought about the people they colonized and trained them so that they were left with skills. Therefore, former English colonies are more developed now than Portuguese colonies.

I don’t agree with the statement that English colonizers put others first, but I do think there is some truth to how the British and Portuguese colonized Africa. Having never been to Portugal, I cannot comment on Portuguese culture, but the language-reflecting-culture topic is an interesting one to explore.

Those of you who speak other languages, do you have similar examples of differences between English language/culture and other language/culture?

I Use to Speak English April 15, 2009

Last week I did an English lesson on “gaps in knowledge” – reviewing grammatical errors that many of the students have been making in their writing and in their oral exam the previous week. One point that I really wanted to emphasize was the use of ‘used to’. I’ve noticed not only my English students but other English-speaking Mozambicans in my office and elsewhere who love to use this form but always use it incorrectly, but I had never been able to pinpoint the pattern of their error.

I spent some time explaining how ‘used to’ refers to something done regularly, over a period of time in the past but no longer. I drew diagrams showing, for example, a person who smoked in the 80s but doesn’t now in 2009. I demonstrated how I studied French in high school and college but no longer do. I gave lots of examples. They seemed to be catching on.

Then a student said, “What about when to use ‘use to’?” I pointed to the board and said, “That’s what we’ve just been discussing.” He said, “No, not ‘use-ed to’ but ‘use to’, the present form.” To clarify that I understood him correctly, I wrote ‘use to’ on the board and asked him if that’s what he was saying. He said, “Yes, to refer to what I do habitually now.” He gave an example: “If I smoke now, I use to smoke.” I crossed out ‘use to’ on the board and said, “No, this is not correct in English. There is no present form of ‘used to’. ‘Used to’ is a specific phrase that only refers to the past.” Most of the class looked at me as if I were lying to them. The student who asked about the present form insisted, “But my teacher in secondary school explained that ‘used to’ refers to something you did habitually in the past and ‘use to’ refers to something you do habitually now.” It was one of those moments that occurs frequently in Mozambique where I want to scream, not at the person speaking to me because he cannot be blamed for his ignorance, but at those out there teaching incorrectly. I also wanted to laugh. It was hard not to, as this student was so serious and so insistent about using the present tense of ‘used to’.

I still don’t think anyone believed me that ‘use to’ doesn’t exist. It was too much radical information for them to take in after years of being taught one way, a bit like first learning that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. In Mozambique, I use to challenge commonly held beliefs.

The Beauty of Mozambican Women’s Day April 9, 2009

April 7 is Mozambican Women’s Day (not to be confused with International Women’s Day on March 8 or Pan-African Women’s Day on July 31).  April 7 is a national holiday, and women all over Mozambique organize in different groups with colleagues or church friends in matching capulanas. Then they march for women’s solidarity.  It’s a fun day to check out new capulana designs.  There are always women in the annual national capulana - a patriotic one with the date on it.  This year’s had the book/hoe/gun* emblem from the Mozambican flag printed predominantly around it .  Nothing like watching a group of laughing women walking down the street with huge AK-47s printed on their skirts.

On April 7, I did not wear a capulana, even though I promised some colleagues I would.  Instead I went for a long walk in the morning with Brooke and Marina, in long shorts.  Then we took Brooke to the airport to see her off, back to America.  It was a sad day.  It can be hard to find kindred spirits in foreign lands.  Unfortunately, the nature of life overseas is that expat friends come and go as rapidly as clothing seasons at Gap – or as rapidly as Women’s Day capulanas in the market.

On our way out of the airport parking lot, we commented on how even the parking attendants were wearing matching capulanas.  The girl who came to the car window smiled a big smile and said, “Feliz nosso dia!”  Literally, “Happy our day!”  We complimented her on her outfit, and I thought about what she said as we drove away – “our day”.  Clearly we are not Mozambican; clearly we weren’t wearing capulanas; clearly we weren’t doing anything to celebrate Women’s Day.  And I often look at women here with their babies tied to their backs, bundles on their heads as I walk past in my trousers with my computer in a backpack on my back and think, “There is so little that defines unites both of us as women.”  But in that moment, with the cheerful parking lot attendant, we were included in the celebration.

*Mozambique is the only country in the world with a gun on its flag.

Mozambican Beauty April 4, 2009

It hit me a couple months into my time in Moz that what I would call “African” actually isn’t at all. Like wicker furniture and batik wall hangings.  I should have realized in my time with my host family that wicker furniture, batiks, wooden carvings and masks, soapstone carvings, etc. all appeal to expats, but I don’t know any Mozambicans who own such things.  Mozambicans buy high-backed velvet furniture and decorate with plastic roses, porcelain figurines, and doilies.  That is African.  We think it’s hideous.  They think it’s beautiful.  And this is why some expat friends and I use two meanings for the word “beautiful”. On occasion I’ve shown my roommate something I’ve bought, in all sincerity, from a Chinese shop, and she’s told me it’s “beautiful” in the gushy way we use for Mozambican “beautiful”. I think, “But actually, no, I like it.” But it is good to know how to gush this way when compliments are required in this culture.

In my living room, there are two items which ilicit many comments (or strange looks) from both expats and Mozambicans – a framed photograph that my boyfriend took of a matchbox on a brick and The Wall (see picture below).  Typically expats walk into the living room, take a step back when they see The Wall, then ask what it is, either make some sarcastic comment about it’s beauty, or comment on how “interesting” it is.  Mozambicans genuinely comment on its beauty and how romantic the lighting in it is.  Once expats get over the shock of seeing The Wall, they notice the photo and typically say something like, “Wow, that’s cool.  Who took that?”  Mozambicans look at it and make little attempt to stop from rolling their eyes or laughing (probably my same response to their plastic gold framed free calendar photos of the Swiss Alps).

Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.