- Summer has arrived in Zambezia. The season started a bit earlier than
expected and with full force. Last week
temperatures reached 100 ° Fahrenheit, almost 38 °
Celsius. I don’t even want to know the
humidity index. I label it simply
“Unbearable”. Vendors in the market
slept under their tables and the children stayed indoors during the hottest
part of the day. Thankfully, my small
refrigerator arrived last week. I can’t
think of another time in my life when I have so appreciated cold drinking
water. I tell myself that I will
acclimate to this heat but also made a note to myself that if I ever get the
chance to go to the Kalahari, I won’t do it. Unless, of course, sun stroke or dehydration
erases this memory entirely, which is
quite possible.
-
Mozambicans take the phrase “Living off the Land” to an entirely new
level. Squatters, people in the rural areas simply
decide where they want to live and build their homes. Using bamboo reeds, they construct the
frame. Next they fill in the frame with
packed mud. If there is time and energy,
cinderblocks can be made from the mud and used as building material. For extra stability, some houses are
whitewashed with an outer mud layer.
Reeds and thatch are bundled up and used for roofing. Like plants, these houses seem to erupt from
the earth, an extension growing out of the dirt.
Communities are hidden in the tall
grasses. Once one knows how to look, adjusting ones eyes to the wide- open
landscape, and following the narrow and worn dirt path, used for decades,
possibly even hundreds of years, entire communities appear. At once a complex and simple scene
unfolds. Simple for its lack of
sophistication, complex in that it has continued to support humanity, in mostly
this same form, for thousands of years.
Beans and legumes are spread out
on straw mats, drying in the sun. A man
wields a heavy wooden baton and beats the shells off the beans. Two women stand opposite one another, around
a large hand carved wooden mortar, each with a heavy pestle in hand. In perfect synchronization, they pound and
grind grain. Children poke a papaya tree
with a two long sticks, tied together with dried reeds, their bounty tumbling
down.
How is it that these communities
form so far from any other place? There
is no market, no clinic, just a long dirt road that reveals other communities,
exactly, it seems, as this one. I peer
out the window of the car as we speed by, feeling like I am from another
planet, not just the other side of the world.
- Breastfeeding is very
commonplace here and absolutely acceptable in public. La Leche would approve. If my day were divided up into individual
picture frames, taken minute by minute, there would be at least one breast in
every frame, maybe even the set. And as
for the non-lactating women, cleavage and breasts are also readily
exposed. Yet, it isn’t a major
fascination here. The sexy parts of the
body, and the areas that should be covered, are from the waist down to the
mid-calf. Knees are considered
especially sexy.
A troupe of traditional dancers
modestly smeared dirt on their knees, out of respect to their audience. A woman in the market last week was
completely bare breasted, trying on a bra in the busy aisles. Women were tights under shorts or short dresses, despite the extreme heat. An old woman in a local village sat out in
front of her house, on her straw mat, topless.
Funny how sexy and stylish is
determined. It just goes to prove that
it is all in the mind, or, as in Mozambique, in the knees.
- Local public transport here
consists of bicycle taxis or chappas.
Chappas are mini-vans, with three to four rows of seats, four people
across. Passengers are squeezed in, often
crouched and folded over the seated passengers.
In addition, the small rear compartment is loaded with market wares, as
is the rooftop. Plastic ware of every
sort, foam mattresses, bags of coal or rice, bicycles, and even live goats are
tied on for transport. The poorly maintained vehicles careen down the roads,
beeping constantly for the pedestrians and bicycles to move further to the
side. Some of these vehicles are named.
One of my favorites is “Jelous Down”. I
have absolutely no idea of the meaning, but I like that this phrase is
important to the driver and that he went through the trouble of getting an
English translation, even if it is misspelled.
The bicycle taxis, no less
harrowing to ride, are heavy old bikes with an oblong pad above the back
fender. For five metacais, the
equivalent of approximately six cents, one can go virtually anywhere in
town. The drivers are all male, young
boys and old men alike. They’ll also
carry your wares, anything from lumber to groceries. I am learning to relax, figuring they know what
they are doing. Anyway, my back street
driving instructions, shouted out in very bad Portuguese with a mix of
Ukrainian words thrown in, are only distractions to the driver.
- My bathroom these days consist of an out-door latrine and
area for bathing.
Someone installed a
toilet over the hole in the ground and painted it a cheery golden yellow.
A PVC pipe installed in the bowl demands
accurate aim.
A bucket of water, filled
every two days or so, and a plastic pitcher, is used for the dump flush.
I carry in another container of water for my
bucket baths.
I heat up a tea- kettle
and add it to the water ported from the well.
It is a nightly ritual and surprisingly, incredibly relaxing.
The task requires my focus, calling me to
leave the thoughts and events of the day behind.
Now that I am more comfortable here, I take
my baths later in the evening, no longer rushing out there to bathe before
nightfall.
A small flashlight provides a
bit of light, accompanying any stars or moonlight.
When I first arrived, the local kids treated my shower time
as a neighborhood event. Large fronds
from a banana tree would be pushed through the window or the space between the
metal roof and the wall, the kids giggling, trying to get my attention. Small packs of children would run around the
structure, calling out to me. Once, I
looked up from my bath to find three small faces peering down at me through the
open space in the mud wall. They had pushed rocks and stones together to climb
up and get a view. Luckily I have become
less of a novelty as the days go by. I
am left to myself when I shower. And, I
really love it. Certainly, the best part
of my days are my bucket baths. This, I
never would have imagined.
- Most places in Mozambique, and other African countries that I have visited, have a major problem with trash. The streets are littered with refuse as there is usually no municipal service or other available option. Sitting in the front courtyard of my pension in Quelimane, I watched the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Across the street was “Jesus Cristo E Senhor”. Just down the street was a Mosque. Large rats ran back and forth. Trying to find their religion?
-
I haven't yet figured out the whole space thing here. Space
and personal property seems, at times, quite fluid. And, just when I
think this is so, I trounce on clear definitions of each. As I write this
I hear wooden chairs being dragged onto the porch. I would normally call
it "my porch" as it is my only access in and out of the house, but I
don't think it is "my porch" simply because it is attached to my
house, or because it is my egress. I hear my landlord and a male
guest, speaking the local language, laughing. They are seated so close to
me as I work at my desk in my living room, that I hear the beep of a text
message, received by one of their phones. My laundry is hanging on the
line, just outside of my door, my personal items now shading them from the hot
sun. Often, I come home from work to find my landlady spread out on a
straw mat, sleeping on the porch. I have to step around her to unlock my
door. Other times she has set up shop, seated on a low wooden bench,
pounding maize or grinding coconut. And, they have their own porch, right
across the compound, only 12 feet away. Granted, my porch is more spacious and
open. The neighbborhood kids play on this porch also, at all hours. They
peer through my door, cackling and calling out. When I go out there, I
see that they are mimicking my yoga poses. Okay, hint taken. I will
explain and show them what I am doing, but another time. I ask them to
play elsewhere when the noise and lack of privacy becomes too much.
Yet, when I walk home from work, the local women tell me I am
walking through someone's yard. It appeared to be a dirt path to me.
I can't yet tell the boundaries of personal and community space, it
seems. So much of life here is lived outside the home. Meals are
cooked on open fires in the yard, laundry and dish washing is done outdoors,
the water ported from nearby wells. Children play outdoors at all hours
of the day and night. So, I am walking through someone's yard. Good
natured, my neighbors point out the path, instructing me on the local codes of
behavior. Everyday, as I approach this area, women, men and children
emphatically point me in the right direction, taking their role of
acculturating me quite seriously. Then, today, they give me the thumbs up
sign as I walk on the proper path, without their tutelage. I am embarrassed that such a simple thing is a
major accomplishment for me. But I am
proud too and return the thumbs up. In
my head, I imagine a ticker-tape parade in my honor, big band music playing, “Happy
Days Are Here Again”, kids waving flags, confetti steaming down upon me.
I continue the walk to my house, leaving my fantasy behind. I find my landlords camped out on the
porch. Would it be culturally
appropriate if I direct my landlord and neighbors somewhere else other than
"my porch"? I wonder.....
