Apparently Jen Is Rude August 31, 2008

“Jen, when we go to Immigration on Monday, let me do the talking,” is what João told me on Friday after we had gone to find out Mr. M’s decision concerning my visa renewal. I had gone up to the desk to ask Mr. M if he had my passport. He started yelling at me: “It’s not ready! I told you to come back Monday! It’s not ready now! Come back Monday!” He had clearly told us “tomorrow” on Thursday. But I wasn’t going to argue, so I thanked him and we left.

That’s when João told me I was rude. Oh, he said it nicely, and he explained why, but that was the gist of it. He said my manner of speaking caused Mr. M to respond to me the way he does. João acknowledged that I’m just learning Portuguese and don’t know these things. He explained that in Portuguese there are more rules than in English and that it’s important, when approaching an official, to use a lot of “sir”, “I’m sorry”, “excuse me”, “if you please”, etc. The thing is, I know most of this intellectually, but humbling myself in such a manner when I’m so frustrated with these Immigration officials is another matter. But I can work on it. And I really appreciate that João felt comfortable enough explaining everything to me in a patient, understanding way. Not many people would do that.

Tomorrow, hopefully, with João doing the talking, we will finally get some answers about my visa. Hopefully I will still be allowed to stay here.

Nine Down, Nine To Go August 30, 2008

Exactly nine months and a day ago I arrived in Beira. I’m now halfway through my contract. This is causing some anxiety since I feel like I just arrived which means the next nine months will likely fly by. And what have I accomplished in nine months?

- I have not been mugged.

- I speak a somewhat understandable form of Portuguese.

- I can sing about a quarter of the songs at church.

- I can navigate my way around the city by chapa.

- I have not had malaria.

- I’ve learned to not only eat but love avocadoes.

- I now cook with onions.

- I make yogurt. (I think really my greatest accomplishments are all culinary.)

- I’ve visited a few places outside Beira.

- I’ve traveled by helicopter.

- I’ve written a community survey, trained interviewers, analyzed data, and written a report.

- I’ve played and enjoyed golf.

- I’ve started running again.

- I’ve renewed/refreshed my diving certification.

- I’ve killed and disposed of a rat stuck to a glue trap.

And what do I hope to accomplish in the next nine months?

- To still not be mugged.

- To understand and speak Portuguese more fluently.

- To sing half the songs at church.

- To meet with some school directors and teachers to talk about ending corruption in their schools.

- To train tutors well for a new after-school learning club.

- To set up a computer lab for university students.

- To visit Zimbabwe.

- To visit South Africa.

- To dive at least one more time.

- To learn to drive on the left side of the road.

- To keep up with running.

- To swim regularly once it gets warm enough (which will probably be next week at the rate the temps are rising).

- To learn how to cook matapa (a local dish of greens cooked in a sauce of coconut milk and crushed peanuts).

- A note about malaria: To avoid it would be an accomplishment on one hand, but on another, it’s sort of a rite of passage.

- To leave here feeling like I’ve made some genuine Mozambican friends.

Aside from accomplishments, I hope God will surprise me in these coming months. That I will not become too set in personal expectations but be open to His.

Even More Precarious August 28, 2008

I was out of town on Monday, so our administrative assistant took my passport and documents to Immigration and said they’d be ready on Wednesday. Yesterday I asked if he had the receipt so I could pick my passport up. He said, “I didn’t pay anything, so there’s no receipt.” That sounded suspicious. He said he had a signed letter instead. João, our office runner, said he would go to Immigration on his way to the bank to pick up my passport. He asked if I would join him. I said, “Only if we speak Portuguese.” (He’s my best conversation partner, but he’s recently been trying to speak English with me.)

At Immigration we were told to go upstairs to see the person who signed the letter we had. Both of us were clueless about what was going on since neither of us had been there on Monday. We waited and waited. Finally, João said he had to go to the bank before it closed but would be back as soon as he was done. Of course, two minutes after he left I was called into the office.

I handed the letter to the official who said I didn’t have a work permit. I explained that I was still waiting for it. She said, “But where’s your receipt?” I told her they, Immigration, had it since I had submitted all my DIRE paperwork months ago. She said, “No, we don’t. I asked. It’s not here.” I explained again. She insisted again.

We went downstairs to speak to the older man, who I now know is Mr. M (the younger one is sadly on holiday till next month). He asked me where my work permit was. I explained that I was still waiting for it. “But where’s the receipt?” “It’s here,” I said again. The woman again said it wasn’t, that she had asked and it wasn’t. I asked if I could see my file. She said I couldn’t because it was in their archives. Then the two of them started going through my passport, making note of every visa with a heavy, pointed index finger: “November. December. January. February until May. May until August.” Then to me: “You’ve been here a long time with no work permit.” “I know, I’m still waiting for my permit. We submitted it in January.” “But you have no receipt. How long do you intend to stay?” “I hope for another 90 days.”

I realized we were not going to get anywhere continuing to discuss my lack of work permit. So I asked if I could talk to my colleagues and return the next day, today.

This morning, after our office administrator found out that my work permit had still not arrived from Maputo, I returned to Immigration with my team leader and the original receipt of the submission of my work permit paperwork. Mr. M wanted to know why it was so old: “This is from January.” My team leader explained that we were still waiting. He wanted us to get a new one. She explained again. He said he needed a copy. Of course the nearest copy place was a bit of a walk back toward the direction of the office. (Have I ever mentioned that it’s about a fifteen minute walk from my office to Immigration, over Beggar’s Bridge, which, in my opinion, is the most unpleasant place in Beira?)

We returned once again and handed over the copy. He looked over it, trying to find more fault with it. The woman from yesterday came downstairs, and she also pointed out how old it was. We explained once again that we’re waiting on the work permit. With nothing else to say, Mr. M took my passport and papers and told us to return tomorrow. On one hand, it’s positive that he took everything since that means he could find no more fault. On the other hand, it gives him 24 hours to find fault. Tune in tomorrow for the verdict.

Don’t Know Much About History August 28, 2008

I’m frequently embarrassed that I don’t know more about the history of Mozambique (or of anywhere really).  I know the basics and always desire to know more but am often unmotivated to do further research and know that even if I do read extensively, I’ll probably forget the details.  All that to say, I am going to refer you to a must-read post on another friend’s blog.  She writes a good summary of the colonization and subsequent civil war that devastated Mozambique.  Please read.

African Wildlife August 27, 2008

Several people have asked in the months since I’ve been in Moz if I’ve seen any wildlife. You know, zebras, giraffes, elephants, lions. It’s an innocent enough question since Africa is known for its safaris, but I live in a city. So that would be a bit like asking if one sees buffalo in Chicago or mountain lions in Manhattan.

This is not to say I never experience wildlife. However, it’s not nearly as glamorous as gazelle running past my bedroom window.

For example, a couple weeks ago I was walking to a friend’s house to watch the Olympics on their satellite TV. I was walking along a sidewalk, down a main road, past large walled-in houses, when I felt something around my ankle. I thought it was a plastic bag that had blown around it, so I kicked it away. Then I felt it again, more strongly. What the heck? I looked down and caught a glimpse of fur by my feet. I thought it must have been a small dog, but it wasn’t fur or a wet nose that I felt against my ankle. It was more like little hands. I looked more closely. A monkey! I gave a little shriek and jumped back, afraid of getting bit when I haven’t had any rabies vaccinations. It stared at me looking ready to pounce and latch on more tightly. The guard at the nearest house watched the whole interaction, looking unsure whether he should laugh or not. I asked if the monkey lived there. He did, and the guard immediately made himself look busy trying to get the monkey back in the gate while I continued on my way.

Yesterday I went to Central Market to buy vegetables. Central Market is a more “upscale” market on the central plaza near my office. It’s a collection of about a dozen vegetable venders housed in a cement structure. It’s slightly more expensive than buying from a street vender or from the large open-air market, but it’s much more convenient and the produce is generally always good quality. As the vender was weighing my carrots, I noticed something moving on the ground out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and watched a large rat run nearly over my toes. Does he have no fear?? And does he stay on the ground or run over the vegetables as well? Ew, ew, ew.

These are just some examples of my African wildlife experiences. Sadly, no zebras or giraffes, but just think, I actually have much more up-close-and-personal encounters with city wildlife than I ever would with safari wildlife. And I’m becoming somewhat of an expert on rats. Perhaps I should start leading urban safaris…

Precarious Resident August 22, 2008

I haven’t posted an Immigration rant in awhile. At least 90 days, I’m sure, since that was the last time I renewed my visa. To briefly update: I am currently a ‘precarious resident’ on a 90-day hopefully-renewable visa. The reason I am ‘precarious’ and not ‘permanent’ is because my application for a DIRE (residence visa) is still sitting at Immigration because my application for a work permit is still sitting in some office in Maputo waiting to be processed. Note: My work permit paperwork was submitted in January. It’s now August. Who would like to start placing bets about whether or not I’ll get it within a year or even before my contract ends in May.

At Immigration today, the younger man, who usually helps me and knows me and is somewhat patient with me and explains things fairly clearly to me, was not there. In his place was the older man. Here is a translated play-by-play of our interaction:

Me: Good morning. This visa (pointing to the precarious residence visa in my passport) expires on Tuesday. Is it possible to renew it?

OM: Yes. Go buy the application over there.

(I walk to another counter where I hold up my open passport for the cashier to see.)

Me: Can I buy the paper to renew this?

Cashier: 50 meticais ($2)

(I hand him the money. He hands me an application form. I, for some reason, don’t have a pen in my purse. They, of course, do not have extras for people to use. I ask a few people if they have a pen I can borrow. One guy does. I fill in my form and return to the first desk with the older man.)

OM: This isn’t the right form. Go buy a new one.

Me: What is this form?

OM: This is a residence visa renewal form. You need a precarious residence renewal form. (He explains something else that I don’t understand.)

Me: But this isn’t my error. This is what he gave me. Why do I have to buy a new one?

OM: Because this one is invalid. (He pushes the paper and my passport away from him, yells to the cashier what I need, then turns away from me.)

Me: (Now mad and back at the cashier) I have to buy a new form? But I showed you this (showing my visa in my passport again) and you gave me the wrong form.

Cashier: You told me you needed to renew your visa, so I gave you a visa renewal form.

Me: (Thinking how typically Mozambican it is to not accept any responsibility. I know I did not ask for a form to “renew my visa” because I couldn’t remember the word for visa.) No, I showed you this and you gave me that form.

(Cashier continues to argue with me, so I hand over another 50 and get the right form.)

Me: Is this the correct form??

Cashier: Ask him (pointing to older man).

Me: (Back at first desk) Is this the correct form?

OM: Yes

(I borrow the same pen again and fill out the new form. In the space for hair color I can’t remember the word for blond and write yellow. The younger guy laughed at me last time I did that. I give the pen back and return to the desk.)

OM: You need to attach copies of your documents and bring this back on Monday.

Me: What documents?? You have ALL my documents here already!

OM: Your documents, your documents! Attach them! (He quickly explains something more that I can’t understand, pushes the paper and passport at me and turns away.)

(I walk out, hating Immigration, hating Mozambique, hating that I can’t communicate better or understand more clearly. I call my team leader, who’s taking a vacation day today, and ask her if she can talk to this man since I don’t understand. I walk back to the desk with my phone. I stand directly in front of him, and he purposely ignores me even as I say, “Excuse me, sir” several times. Finally he looks at me.)

Me: Can you please talk to my colleague?

(He explains to my team leader what I need then hands the phone back to me. She then explains that I need to make photocopies of all previous visas in my passport and have our administrative assistant type a letter requesting a renewal.)

An hour later, in the comfort of my own office with friendly, patient colleagues, this situation doesn’t seem as seethingly frustrating as I recall experiencing it. I still hate Immigration, I still hate that I don’t understand more Portuguese, but I don’t hate Mozambique. At least not most of the time.

Free from Integrity, Rooted in Corruption August 20, 2008

Oasis is currently looking to fill five vacancies. One is to replace our finances manager who recently resigned. The other four are new positions: Child Protection Officer, Moral Education/Anti-corruption Teacher, Learning Clubs Coordinator, and Anti-corruption Assistant (so I can do my job better). These four new positions are for my team, Just Education (as in fair, with integrity, transparent, accountable, non-corrupt). Our vision is “to empower young people to make positive life choices and live up to their potential, through receiving education free from corruption, rooted in integrity and transparency.” (My emphasis)

One of the application requirements is for an applicant to submit a letter of recommendation from his or her pastor. A good idea, in theory. Until we found out that some applicants are buying letters from pastors! Perhaps we need to expand our anti-corruption training to churches?

Trash Is Trash August 18, 2008

Who would have thought that there could be different cultural ideas about what trash is. Trash is trash, right? A broken flip-flop, a rusty Coke can, a broken wine bottle, a sandy syringe, bits of torn fish net, disintegrating pieces of foam, graying underwear – surely everyone agrees that these should not be strewn along a beach. But I learned on Saturday that Mozambicans and Americans have clearly different ideas of what it means to clean up a beach.

Each year Oasis organizes a city-wide clean-up day in anticipation of Beira Day. On Wednesday, Beira will celebrate its 101^st anniversary. On Saturday hundreds of participants from churches and schools around the city gathered in various spots along a 5km stretch of city beach to spend a few hours cleaning the beach with rakes, hoes, work gloves, and garbage bags.

I worked with a small team of ten people – five of us were adults and five young teenagers. I immediately set to work filling bags – lots of foam and bottles and plastic bags mixed in with sticks. After a couple hours, I went further back on the beach to see what my teammates were doing. They had meticulously raked pine needles into piles, ignoring much of what I would call trash. I asked one of my colleagues why they were doing that. I explained that pine needles were natural and didn’t need to be cleaned up but that we needed to be cleaning up the trash. I picked up a bottle: “This is trash,” an empty chips packet: “This is trash”, a plastic lid: “This is trash.” He politely agreed and said, “But when a tree drops its leaves, isn’t that trash?” Yes, if it’s in a garden, not out in nature. I decided to let them be and continue doing what I could on my section of beach.

Later as we were hauling trash bags out to the road, I noticed that the ones the youth were working on were all filled to the brim with pine needles, unable to be tied shut. Another colleague and I went around emptying some of the overflow into new bags, but I still spent some time on the roadside tying shut most of the bags. And when I looked around where the youth had been working, I realized they had completely overlooked shoes, bottles, cardboard, broken canvas bags, etc. I grabbed another bag, and with a colleague, filled it with actual trash. However, by then it was time to start packing up.

After all our hard work, we gathered together for some bologna sandwiches and Fantas. And would you believe that after three hours of clean-up, some of my group threw their napkins and cans on the sand?

I realize again and again here that we, as outsiders, can never assume anything about expectations or common understandings. I will suggest to the organizers that next year that we include a brief teaching on what garbage is and why we’re picking it up. I understand that a Mozambican and an American will respond differently to the aesthetics of trash (using my definition of trash here) on the beach, but in a society where sickness and disease are rampant, picking up trash and establishing habits of keeping environments clean is a matter of health and hygiene.

Be Joyful Always August 15, 2008

Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus. ~1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

For the past two weeks we’ve had a new cleaning girl in the office while the regular one is on holiday. I really like Graça*. She always smiles and is very hard-working. On her first day, she came into our room with a bucket and cloth and began wiping down our tables. My team leader and I just stared, stunned. We’ve never seen anyone clean this room so thoroughly. Plus, our floors are always spotless. More importantly, she’s such a quietly cheerful worker. We all really appreciate her.

Yesterday the theme for our weekly staff prayer meeting was personal testimonies and challenges. Graça was asked to share about what God’s been doing in her life. Here’s her story:

She grew up in a Catholic family, but one day she was walking past a Pentecostal church and was drawn in by what she heard. The message was about sin, something she had never heard preached in her own church. She continued to attend the church, but her father was not happy about it. When he found a Bible that a friend had lent her, he soaked it in water and told her she could dry it to read it.

One day when she asked him for some money to buy food to cook for the family, he refused. He told her he would rather use the money to buy a knife to kill her. That night he called a family meeting and was holding a knife. He told her he was going to kill her for going to the Pentecostal church. She ran into her dark room, hid under the covers and began praying that if the God she had been learning about was real that He would protect her. In the dark, her father couldn’t see her, but he stabbed at the bed several times. He finally left, believing her to be dead and announced to the family that he had killed her. Her brother came in to check on her and when he realized she was okay he pushed their father out of the way in the other room so that Graça could escape.

She escaped with a younger sister, but they had nothing. No place to stay, no food, no money, no belongings. Eventually the pastor of her church learned about their situation and invited Graça to share in front of the congregation. People stepped up to help them, and they were taken care of until it was safe to return home.

During this time Graça was dating someone from her church. He wanted to marry her, so she asked her father if her boyfriend’s family could visit to officialize the relationship (the first step in the engagement process in Mozambique). Her father refused because the boyfriend was also from the church.

One day her father saw Graça in town with her boyfriend. When she returned home that afternoon he told her to invite the boyfriend’s family over. Thrilled, she thought that her father was going to permit the engagement. However, when the family arrived he told them to take her and all her belongings because he didn’t want her anymore. She said she was not going to leave, that she was not going to just live with them, but that she wanted to honorably marry him. But he kicked her out. I don’t know what happened to the boyfriend’s family, but for the rest of the day she stood outside her house waiting for her father to let her back in. He never did.

By this time, her older sister had her own place and was leaving town, so she gave the key to Graça. But once again Graça was on her own, yes with shelter, but with nothing else. That week a woman from church was praying with her and said that God would bless her soon.

Three days later one of my colleagues, who is a neighbor of hers, asked if she would like to work in our office for two weeks while our regular cleaning girl was away. She arrived very early that first day, ready to work hard, thanking God for the opportunity.

It has now been three weeks since she started working for us. Ana, our regular employee, is a recent widow. She has been living with her in-laws since her husband’s death, but they are not providing for her or her young daughter and have also threatened to kill her as they blame her for their son’s/brother’s death. She went to stay with her own family in a town south of here. We haven’t heard from her and hope she has decided to stay there. We fear for her security here. She doesn’t have a job there and her own family does not have the means to provide for her, but at least it’s safe.

As for Graça, we also hope she can remain with us. We remember Paul (formerly Saul) and pray with hope for her father. We are thankful for her life, for her testimony of God’s faithfulness, and for a daily reminder through her smile to be joyful always, pray continually, and give thanks in all circumstances.

* It’s probably best to give her a pseudonym.

A Day’s Wages August 12, 2008

Recently I’ve had a few conversations with different people about differences between Uganda and Mozambique. Everyone agrees that Ugandans are very smiley, friendly, open, happy people. Mozambicans are not. I rarely see Mozambicans smile. Other people’s experiences with Uganda are that Ugandans are generous people. That is certainly not my experience with Mozambicans. I had seen no evidence of generosity here until yesterday.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that there is a group of street boys who hang out outside my office guarding cars. I’ve gotten to know one in particular. J seems to be the most reliable boy. I’ve never seen him drunk or high or hassling people. He often asks me for food but also accepts it graciously when I don’t give him any. More often he just wants to chat about life. He’s older than the other boys; he says he’s 18 but doesn’t seem older than 15. He’s shared with another colleague that he’s tired of a life of guarding cars, especially in the company of other boys who are often drunk or high and tempting him to steal. He’d like to start his own small business selling phone credit or snacks.

Yesterday morning when I arrived at the office, the person with a key hadn’t yet arrived, so I took the opportunity to go run some errands. As I was walking across the street to a Chinese shop, J came running after me asking where I was going. Then he asked if he could join me. I said, “Yes, but I’m not buying you anything. I’m only buying what I need to.” As we were walking around the shop looking for clothesline I realized it was probably a treat for J to be in a shop. Likely, a door guard would never allow him to enter. My presence allowed him to browse undisturbed.

I found my clothesline but not clothespins.

That afternoon when I left work, I headed to another Chinese shop to look for clothespins. J came running after me again asking if he could go with me. Sure, no problem. I found my clothespins but as I was going to pay for them I realized that I had a 500 meticais ($20) note in my wallet along with a 20 meticais (80 cents) note and some change. I really didn’t want to pull the 500 meticais out in front of J as that would be an obscene amount of money. The clothespins cost 20 meticais, but I owed that amount to my conversation partner that afternoon. I put the clothespins back and said to J that I only had enough money for a chapa and to pay someone at my house. He picked them up and said, “No, take it.” I said, “No, I can’t today. I’ll come back tomorrow.” Then he pulled some change out of his pocket, counted it, picked up the clothespins again, and said, “No, take it.” With 500 meticais in my wallet, I certainly could not accept him buying my clothespins with half or possibly all of his day’s earnings. But I also didn’t want to discourage his generosity or squash any of his pride. I insisted no, and he insisted that he wanted to give them to me. I thanked him, so sincerely, so touched by the little argument we were having in the aisle, and explained that it was very nice of him but that I didn’t need the clothespins today and could easily come back tomorrow.

So we left the shop empty-handed but heart-full, my view of generosity in Mozambique seriously altered.