OH RATS!

It’s hard not to feel paranoid when living alone in a foreign setting.  Almost everything is unknown, a puzzle waiting to be solved.  And in the process of deciphering daily survival, it can seem as though one is in a fish bowl, being observed at all times.   Peace Corps advised us that this would occur.  My neighbors banter in the local language at the well, across the compound and in their yards.  It is more than a sense that the comments are often about me.  Unless there is a word that sounds like my name, I am sure that that more likely than not, I am the main course of conversation.

All eyes are upon me, all the time.  Neighbors report back to me and undoubtedly to one another, my every move.  They notice, and comment, if I visit the latrine more times than usual in any given day.  One neighbor peers into my marketing bag, critiques my purchases and tells me the prices I should have paid.  A seasoned shopper, she is all of nine years old.  And, when I bluster and falter, confused about what I should do, or how I should do it, the disapproving looks and tittering laughter is palpable.   Lost and inept, I am reduced to collateral damage, and only a few months into my Peace Corps service.

A gang of children gathers on my porch each evening just as I am sitting down to dinner.  They endlessly call variations of my name, and make demands for chalk, cookies, a backpack, or to have dinner with me. At first I thought they were asking to watch TV with me.  No, it seems they were asking could they watch me.  Seems I had my door partially closed blocking their view.  I huddle inside, furiously trying to maintain a sense of tranquility and privacy.

Their calls turn to jeers.  The group mentality transforms them into a frenzied pack.  The children hang off the grates of my bedroom window, clank the metal screen door open and shut and running to my living room window, they scale a hill of sand that allows them to reach my window.  They push their tiny faces into the screen, looking like would be burglars with nylon stocking masks.

In a sing-song voice, they hurl made up Chinese words through my windows and doors.  They insist that I am from China and when I am not under their attack, they try to coerce me to confess that it is my picture on the soap and lotion packages, a photo of a delicate but non-descript Asian woman.  I repeatedly deny their claims but they are relentless.  A peaceful evening is no longer a reality.

I have tried everything.  I’ve engaged them in games, songs and conversation.  I’ve ignored them.  I’ve gone outside to talk sternly to them.  Heaven knows what I actually tell them, but to me, it sounded like good old- fashioned reprimand.  Nothing works.  They have far more energy than I do and their interest does not seem to dissipate as the evening wears on while I am left exhausted.

Desperate, I asked a colleague if it would be appropriate for him to speak to my landlord.   A strategic and diplomatic conversation, one that my language skills would render impossible, was necessary to present my request for privacy while not offending my neighbors.  All of this heightened by the fact that one of the main perpetrators was the landlord’s granddaughter.

They sat and talked for some time while I waited in the house, fearing for my fate.  Later, in customary Mozambican fashion, my landlord sat with his wife in the yard, sharing the subject of this meeting.  Perched on their small wooden benches, directly facing me, their conversation peaked and waned, peppered with squeals and their heads wagging from side to side accompanied by audible clicking and tisking of their tongues.  I was on the porch reading, or pretending to read and working my hardest to appear very non-chalant, not knowing if my emissary's message was well received or not.  Following the advice of my colleague, I did not continue the conversation with them.

Later in the evening, my landlord’s wife began to burn the garbage pile in the yard.  Now this is not an altogether strange event, but previously, I’ve only seen her do so in the early mornings.  And, a small wind was just starting to pick up.  Maybe not the best time for a fire?  Slowly she made her way around the yard and proceeded to burn more piles, including one directly in back of my house and another on the side.  I may be exaggerating here, but her hair was affright and I am almost certain I saw her gnash her teeth at me.  Was she smoking me out?  And if so, where would I run?  Right into the group of intemperate children?  Then I realized what she was doing.  She was smoking out the rats from the garbage piles who would then take cover in my house!

Only yesterday I had told her that I spotted a small rat in my house.  (Well, a large mouse or small rat, is there really a difference?)  All I remember is that blur, caught by the corner of my eye, scurrying along the wall from the kitchen to the back room.  With each rewind played in my mind’s eye, the rat grows in size and stature.  I now envision a rat the size of a pony, lurking somewhere in the corners of my home.  I am unsure which fate is worse, staying in the house to face my fears of giant rodents, or being thrown to the gang of five year olds.