South Africa September 30, 2008

The first thing I noticed when we crossed the border into South Africa was how green it was. Not green like parts of Mozambique where there is an abundance of coconut palms and wild tropical plants, but vast, sprawling fields of green. Well-cultivated green. On the Mozambican side between Maputo and the border, the emptiness on either side of the road was brown, spiky, dry. Just across the border, enormous sprinklers were watering bright green fields. I’ve never seen such sprinklers in Mozambique. Farms in Mozambique rely on rain and are cultivated by women with babies on their backs and hoes in their hands.

* * *

We drove through a slum area between Kruger Park and Nelspruit. Had I come from the States, I would have been struck by The Poverty. Coming from Mozambique, I was impressed that all the houses, although small and unpainted, were made of brick and had glass in the windows. Hillsides filled with glass-paned houses. It seemed almost luxurious.

Then just over a hill we drove into a suburb of California. Neat, well-kept homes surrounded by equally well-kept gardens greeted us. Soccer moms in SUVs drove into parking lots of strip malls. People in cars were white. People walking were black. At the Applebee’s/Chili’s/Bennigan’s-type restaurant in the shopping mall, diners, like us, were white while servers were all black. Cigarette smoke and the heavily-rolled ‘r’ of Afrikaans wafted around us.

An hour earlier I was taking pictures of a hyena running alongside the car. Now I was looking out over a parking structure, thankful that at least the management tried to block the cement view slightly with flowering plants.

In the well-stocked supermarket, I bought risotto rice, Indian chai, varieties of chocolate I can’t get in Beira, and a decent toothbrush. I didn’t even look at anything else. The variety was too overwhelming.

We passed orchards and orchards of neatly planted orange trees on our way back to the border. Again, the green!

At the border, the sound of Portuguese, the feel of pushing in line, and stepping on a discarded chicken bone in front of the immigration officer’s desk reminded me where I was. On the other side, I would be greeted by the brown of the dry season again. Strangely, it was a welcome sight.

Plane Crash On My Beach September 21, 2008

This happened two blocks from my house yesterday.  Somehow I didn’t hear about it until this evening.

Mozambique plane crash kills seven South Africans: report

BEIRA, Mozambique – A plane which ran out of fuel crash-landed in a Mozambizan suburb Saturday killing seven South Africans aboard, state television reported.

Televisao de Mozambique (TVM) said seven bodies burnt beyond recognition were removed from the wreckage of a private South African-registered plane.

The aircraft was coming from the central province of Zambezia when it hit the ground in the densely-populated suburb of Palmeiras late on Saturday.

No-one was injured on the ground, the broadcaster reported.

Images of the horror crash 30 metres (yards) from Palmeiras beach in Beira province were shown on television.

The name of the airline involved in the crash could not be established.

- Sapa-AFP (taken from www.citizen.co.za)

The Way We Move September 15, 2008

On Friday we moved our office from a building right on the central plaza (above a bakery!) to a large house (with a garden!) just on the edge of downtown. Here’s how we move in Moz:

They’re so smart – always using their heads.

Moving the staff as well (and saving on ropes to tie objects down).

One of the street boys helping us guard our goods while we wait for the truck to return.

Day 15 September 11, 2008

My visa renewal has been authorized!! I have now paid and am awaiting the return of my passport, supposedly on the 17th (which actually means at least three days after that). Then tune in for the continuation of Jen’s Immigration saga in 90 days.

Day 14 September 10, 2008

Today is Day 14 of dealing with Immigration. Yesterday I was told to bring in photocopies of my receipt from the Ministry of Labor for my work permit paperwork, my contract with Oasis, and my criminal background check. I cringed at that. (Remember all the drama concerning my criminal background check?) I said I didn’t understand why I needed to submit more copies when they already had copies of everything on file. They explained that, well those are filed away and if we bring in copies it will “speed up the process”.

For some reason, I don’t have copies of the translations of my criminal background check or of the affidavit from the embassy. What I did with them or why I never made copies is beyond me! So my team leader and I went this morning with copies of everything I do have. Jill explained to Mr. Secretary that I don’t have copies of the translations because they’re on file there at Immigration. Once again, we were told to come back later, in the afternoon for a response about whether or not I may renew my visa.

You know where this is going. I returned alone in the afternoon, only to be told that it still hadn’t been authorized and to – altogether now! – come back tomorrow.

I’m tired. I’m feeling really worn down from all of the back and forth with seemingly no end in sight. And it’s completely out of my control. All I can do is ask my questions, then smile and say thank you each time they tell me, “Amanha” (tomorrow).

At the end of the day, as I was leaving the office, João and I chatted for a bit about my Mozambican family, whom I was on my way to see, and continents (yes, world continents – apparently in Europe and Africa children are taught that North and South America are one continent called America). At the end of our conversation, he told me my Portuguese was improving. Really? Thanks! As a comment just for a laugh, I said it was because of all the conversation practice I was getting from walking to Immigration with him everyday.

As I walked down the street, I realized my parting comment was actually true. My Portuguese has improved in the past couple weeks. I find it rolling off my tongue more easily, not having to think as hard about verb conjugations, and often even thinking in Portuguese. I attribute this to spending about an hour a day with João, whom I have always appreciated as a great conversationalist. Unlike many Mozambicans, he brings up interesting points and asks a lot of questions. He also patiently explains things to me by slowing down his speech or rewording sentences and encourages me to find different ways of explaining myself when I get stuck instead of giving in to my temptation to find someone to translate.

Then it hit me that this is exactly what I’ve been praying for for months! I’ve been so frustrated since I’ve been here that I’m not learning Portuguese more quickly and easily because I spend all day every day in front of a computer, doing work in English, and interacting with colleagues who all want to practice English. I was taking two hours of lessons a week and one hour of conversation practice but have stopped both of those due to a heavier workload. (Besides with my conversation partner, I felt like I was paying her to be my friend, and it wasn’t actually helping my conversation much at all.) I bought a TV antenna to watch local news but continue to think of other ways to regularly be engaged in Portuguese.

Then in all my frustration with Immigration, I’ve completely missed the gift presented to me of regular Portuguese conversation! It’s not how I would have answered my prayer, but obviously I couldn’t answer it otherwise I would have. I can’t imagine another way that I would have improved as much I have recently. How well God knows us! What a great sense of humor He has too.

Seeing Humanity (Or Rather A Small Taste of Christ-likeness?) September 6, 2008

I noticed them today – the people I brush aside in my conscience, the ones everyone else ignores or that I lump in with all the poverty in Beira. There’s nothing or little I can do, so it’s easier not to feel any compassion at all. Many foreign newcomers to Beira become overwhelmed by the signs of AIDS, of malnutrition, of infection and disease. I’ve seen third world poverty throughout my life, not on a consistent basis, but since I could toddle. Honestly, I find it easier to be compassionate for third world poverty from a distance, when all I can see is the poverty and sickness, when they are victims of a cruel world.

Up close it’s more difficult to feel compassion when I hear lies so they can get something out of me. Up close I keep a careful eye on my cell phone and wallet. Up close I know that they are not only victims of AIDS or abuse or corruption. They are also the spreaders, abusers, corrupters. I hear them call out, “Hey, baby” as I walk by. I smell the alcohol on their breath. I watch them urinate in public and throw trash on the ground. The poor and homeless in America are often blamed for their problems. The same people in Africa are romanticized. And they do deserve my compassion because they would have Jesus’ compassion regardless of their sin, in fact because of their sin.

I’m not a more compassionate person today, but I did notice some of them today.

The old man, hunched over walking along the side of the road this morning as I drove by in a chapa. He carried a full plastic bag and wore a navy blue jacket. The zipper must have been broken because he held it closed, tight around his neck. His hands were shaking as if the jacket was barely keeping him warm. It was at least 75 degrees out.

The young man in Café Bulha wearing a faded tee-shirt covered in holes across the shoulders, carrying a well-dressed toddler. To wear a shirt that worn through means that was his only shirt. He seemed so out of place in the café where I and the other patrons were munching on sandwiches and pastries that cost several times what he could buy a new tee-shirt for in the market. He must have been the toddler’s parents’ empregada (worker). I felt momentary guilt for the ease at which I can enter and indulge in an upper-class establishment. He seemed not to notice how out of place he looked, but instead was completely engaged in laughter with the child in his arms.

The dirty little boy on beggar’s bridge, who looked no more than four-years-old but could easily have been seven because of stunted growth due to malnutrition. He sat beside his dirty, blind mother and younger sibling but jumped up and smiled when he saw me and put out his hand, not out of any expectation that I would actually put anything in it, but simply out of habit when a white person walks by. He walked ahead of me with his hand still out, and smiled more widely when I put my hands up in a questioning gesture. He didn’t say anything, and he’ll smile at me again tomorrow when I walk across the bridge. Where is he sleeping right now as I type?

The barely-able-to-walk baby who was attempting to push a cart as his three-year-old brother pulled. It was not play but work. Some friends and I drove by and watched this scene on the side of a road. “Where are their parents?” one of us exclaimed. Much further away sat a woman selling bananas. We all hoped the children belonged to her.

Most days these scenes blend in with scenes of daily life in Beira. I no more notice them than I would a gas station attendant at Conoco or a runny-nosed first grader at Outley Elementary or a high panhandler who approaches me on Montrose. Perhaps I don’t notice them (either “them” here or “them” in Houston or elsewhere) because to really notice them would be to challenge how I view them, to confront my feelings of dismissal or apathy or disgust or judgment. And to begin to feel compassion for those that genuinely need it requires a subsequent act of compassion.

Sticks and Stones September 2, 2008

This is news?!  “The old adage “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt”, simply is not true, according to researchers.” The BBC article continues to explain how people remember emotional pain more than physical pain.  Seriously?!  Researchers are paid to ‘discover’ this?!  People are dying of preventable diseases in much of the world and researchers in the ‘developed’ world are receiving grants to research what every five-year-old knows intuitively?  (Click here to read the whole article.)