I Am Constipated June 9, 2008

Estou constipada.  I find it funny when others tell me this, and today I was a little embarrassed to admit it, even though I know it doesn’t mean what it sounds like it means.  It actually means “I am congested.”  Or in other words:  I have a constipated nose!

I’ve been priding myself on avoiding sickness since I’ve been here.  This nasty, neverending cold has been going around for awhile now.  “Change in temperature” is how everyone explains it.  Of course it would be the week before I’m supposed to travel that my nose becomes constipated.  And I’m coughing, and I have a fever.

And the office got broken into yesterday.  This is what I missed while I was home sick.  Five laptops (four insured and one new one not insured) and the safe were stolen.  What amazes me is that they took the safe which two grown men can’t carry between them but left the desktop computers.  It also looks very likely that it was an inside job because they knew where to find the keys to the office with the safe.  Also the police are not helping us because we won’t pay a bribe.  Sometimes this place makes me sick (yeah, obviously it literally does), but that’s why we’re here, right?

Oh, and I’ve just been chasing a rat around my apartment with a mop.  Not fun with a fever.

Green Cards Grow on Trees June 6, 2008

This morning I was speaking to a Zimbabwean English teacher who asked me where I was from. When I told her America, she said she has always wanted to go to America. Then she asked me if was true about green cards. I asked, confused, “That they exist?” She looked relieved that I knew what a green card was. She said, “Yes, that it’s possible to get one.” Then she explained that “they” told her she could get one easily, that she sent her application fee and is waiting now. I told her that she needed to live in America for a long time. She said, “Oh, I can’t apply for one from here? But they told me to send the application fee, and they will send me one.” I finally asked who “they” was. She explained: “But on the internet they said it was easy to get a green card, and 50,000 people could receive them. I received an email about it.” It was hard not to either laugh at her or shake her and yell, “Don’t send ANY money to ANYONE who sends you an email!” Instead, I gently explained to her that she should never believe anything in an email from someone she doesn’t know, and she definitely should not send money to strangers. I also explained that it is very difficult even to get a residence visa in America and that if she wanted to find out all the correct information about it, she should check the US Embassy’s website. I reiterated that she should not believe these emails.

Her next question: “So what about the Free Lotto. Is that true?”

Bird on a Bare Branch June 3, 2008

For some mysterious reason, every afternoon about half an hour before sunset, a little bird flies between the slatted window panes of one of my kitchen windows and every evening settles onto the same bar in the same spot between the screen and the glass. It’s not easy for him to get in there. I’ve caught him in the act a few times, and it always takes him a few tries of flying up at just the right angle to get in. But he is there, without fail, every single evening. And every morning he is gone by the time I’m up.

It doesn’t matter who’s in the kitchen or how much noise we’re making. He will always sit there, in the same corner, facing out or sideways. He’ll glance at us sometimes, but he never seems bothered or frightened. It seems an unlikely and lonely place to stay. Why there and not in a nest with the other birds that sing and play outside my bedroom window in the mornings?

I could make up many stories about why I think he likes that spot. I don’t really care. I enjoy his company. It makes me smile to see him at night, and I’m always a bit sad when he’s gone on the morning because there’s always that chance he won’t come back that afternoon.

It hit me the other day that he’s my “bird on a bare branch”. Metal bars in a window are as bare as it gets. I like the daily visual reminder of the poem and prayer that I started this blog with. It’s a good reminder, especially at the end of a work day, about why I’m here. The visual image of Mozambique is certainly not bleak or barren or cold, but sometimes emotionally and spiritually it can feel that way.

I saw a little sparrow today outside my office, in the dirty courtyard where the rats usually run. It’s not a pretty place. It’s all concrete with puddles of slimy green water, and a corner where garbage is collected. I see rats running around there on a regular basis. But today there was a sparrow chirping away on a low wall. If that sparrow can fling her frail song, her pure melody, into that bleak air, then what’s to stop me? Especially when it is not for my sake, but for Thy sake.

Confronted in the Pew June 2, 2008

There is a group of street boys who hang out outside my office everyday, guarding cars of patrons of the café beneath the office. Because I see them everyday on my way in and out of the office, I’ve been able to develop relationships with some of them.

N is my least favorite but the one I’ve known the longest. He is about 15 years old and has absolutely no shame in asking for things. He knows I won’t give him anything, but that never stops him from hassling me. Not only is he the most annoying, but he is also the one I trust the least. He smiles constantly, not a joyful smile but one that takes pride in bothering others. Unlike the other boys, I see him everywhere in town. He guards cars at the big South African supermarket and at the pool/restaurant club near my house. He once showed up at a colleague’s door requesting money. He followed me almost home one time when I stayed with my Mozambican family, and I always fear he will someday follow me to my current home. I think he is physically harmless, but he is annoying and creepy and manipulative and I’m never happy to see him anywhere in town.

Yesterday morning in church, during a song where we go around and shake hands, I looked to my left across the aisle and saw N’s elfish grin. The last place I expected or wanted to see him, and there he was waving at me and laughing.

I should have been happy to see him there enjoying worship. I should be praying for him and the other boys all the time. But I rarely think of it. Instead I thought, “Oh no, what is he doing here? I don’t want him to be here.” Why not? Because his very presence in church challenges my attitude toward him, forces me to think of what it means to love my neighbor and to care for orphans, forces me to consider how God views him. When he’s on the street, I can ignore all of that or even pretend that I’m doing better than others who ignore these boys altogether or treat them badly. But when he’s sitting in nearly the same pew as me at church, I need to treat him as I would anyone else sitting in that room.

Last week I preached about Jesus telling the disciples that they need to become like children to enter the kingdom of heaven. To humble themselves to the status of a child, which at that time in history, was the lowest on the totem pole, definitely pre-UN Declaration on the Rights of the Child. I challenged the congregation to think of the lowest in society here – I mentioned those with AIDS and street children. Could they humble themselves to that level? Would they welcome them into their community?

Can I humble myself to that level? Can I welcome them into my community? AIDS victims? No problem. Street kids who regularly hassle me? Ummm… It’s very difficult to admit that I think I’m better than N or any of the other street boys. It’s a little less difficult but still not very nice to admit that I don’t want him in my community. And it’s a small community. I don’t go to a church of several hundred or a thousand people where it’s easy to ignore the not-so-loveable people.

Yesterday’s sermon was on the Parable of the Great Banquet in which everyone who was invited to the banquet had an excuse not to attend. Then the host sent his servants out into the streets to invite the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame. With N sitting across the aisle, it was hard for me not to hear the message painfully clearly.

I’d love to say my heart completely changed toward N yesterday. I’d love to say that I’m going to have a completely different relationship with him and the other street boys now. Instead, I’m left in some turmoil. My eyes and heart have definitely been opened. And I don’t like being confronted with junk in my attitude. I still don’t like N, and I wonder if that can change, but I know I need to love him. I know in the coming days and weeks I will be chewing on what community means, what welcoming means, and how to seriously take these commands that Jesus teaches throughout the Bible.

Buying Beans May 31, 2008

Here’s what it takes to buy a can of black beans from the pink supermarket near my office:

1. Hand plastic bags that I’m carrying from other-supermarket-that-didn’t-have-black-beans to the doorman who puts them in a numbered cubby hole then hands me a little piece of cardboard with the same number.

2. Visually find beans on shelf behind counter and ask shopkeeper for it. Note: This step can often take a very long time when there are many people in the shop. Today there were few, so I was attended to somewhat immediately.

3. Take beans to cashier who handwrites a receipt.  Pay this same person.

4. Take beans plus receipt to another table near the door where one man collects the receipt and another puts beans in a plastic bag.

5. Wait for doorman who is now busy with receipt guy counting something.

6. Hand cardboard number to plastic bag guy who realizes I’m waiting and gives me my other bags from the cubby hole.

The Beauty Is Only Batik-Deep May 28, 2008

I have this large batik hanging on my living room wall which I’ve loved because of the craftsmanship, beauty, and colors. However, recently I’ve started disliking what it represents. It started with a conversation I had last week with my conversation partner.

For the past few weeks, Sonia and I have been discussing “assigned” topics each week. Last week our topic was Mozambican Women. She started the discussion by telling me about the neck problems she had been experiencing since the weekend because she had carried large, 40kg (88lb) containers of flour on her head. It is a common sight to see women carrying capulana-wrapped bundles or large plastic containers on their heads. I know they’re heavy because when a woman gets off a chapa the cobredor (doorman), sometimes with the help of another person, must hoist a container onto her head. A woman can’t lift it up alone. Imagine a container two or more feet in diameter and a foot and half deep filled with fish or tomatoes. Or imagine a 25kg (55lb) sack of flour or potatoes. Now imagine those on your head. I’m always very impressed with these women. I experience shoulder and neck problems from carrying my heavy laptop for too long. But honestly I just assumed that because women here have grown up carrying heavy objects on their heads, they must have super-strong neck and back muscles. (And they all have excellent posture!)

However, Sonia described to me the neck and back problems so many women experience. She admitted that she was in pain because she’s not used to carrying such heavy weight on her head, but even women who do it regularly can experience a great deal of pain. I asked her why she did it alone, and she said there was no one else to help her, only young kids were at her house. And how else was she going to get the flour home? This is life without a car or cart or bicycle. It’s also life in a society where men do very little physical labor.

The life of a man, it seems, especially in the districts (rural areas) is to eat and procreate. A district man may have as many as six, seven, or eight wives. Sonia’s father, who was a well-known curandeiro (witchdoctor) in Beira, unusually (for the city) had 12 wives and 59 children.

The daily life of a woman is to walk to the fields (sometimes a couple hours), work there for the majority of the day, then walk home, prepare dinner for her husband and children (over a coal fire), and clean the house. It is her responsibility to harvest crops and carry them home or into town to sell, hence the bundles on heads. I’ve seen women with a load on their heads, a baby strapped to their backs, plus carrying other things in their arms. I rarely see men carry anything heavy.

So back to my batik. As Sonia and I were discussing the life of a Mozambican woman, especially district women, she pointed to my batik and said that it shows district life. It was then that I noticed the women outnumber the men – not unusual if a man has multiple wives. She pointed to the huts and explained how a man will build a hut for each of his wives and their respective children, and he has his own hut in the middle. The wives take turns visiting him on different nights. I also noticed in the batik that all the women standing have bundles on their heads. None of the men are carrying anything. Plus, the two women who are not standing are kneeling on the ground in front of a man on a stool. Kneeling before a man is a sign of respect in Mozambique, although not in the cities anymore.

Now I have mixed feelings about my batik. What I used to admire as a beautiful depiction of rural Mozambican life is now leaving me angry and sad about the lives of Mozambican women.

Lost in Translation May 27, 2008

Of course preaching on Sunday could not go as planned. (I’ve been in Mozambique long enough to know that.) I arrived at the church early and was surprised when the service started with Jorge absent. He is usually punctual, and I worried that I had misunderstood where we were supposed to meet. When he finally arrived fifteen minutes into the worship time, he told me that my translator, who had confirmed the night before, had not shown up and was not answering his phone. Somehow that didn’t surprise me. Not because it’s like the translator to do that, but because this is Mozambique. Then Jorge said, “But you can do it in Portuguese.” Realizing six days earlier that it would have been more effort than it was worth to plan a sermon in Portuguese, I had told him early in the week that I’d be willing to preach if there was a translator. Had I known there might not be a translator, I would have put in the effort to plan at least a short, simple message in Portuguese! He tried to convince me I really could do it in Portuguese. I looked over my notes. No, I really couldn’t translate myself. He talked to the pastor’s wife who then came over and tried to convince me herself that I could do it in Portuguese. I calmly said, “I can converse in Portuguese, but I can’t preach in Portuguese.” But inside I was screaming, “Stop making me feel guilty for not being able to preach in Portuguese this morning! You promised me a translator! Why don’t you preach?”

While everyone else was singing, I looked over my notes to see what I feasibly could do in Portuguese. I finally decided that, with Jorge’s help, I could lead a Bible study discussion instead on the same passage. Thankfully before I announced that, Jorge, who had been outside talking to the pastor’s wife, returned to tell me that she was going out to bring a translator for me.

About half an hour later, after much lively singing and dancing, I looked up to see a Brazilian missionary friend of mine walking in the door. He had an amused look on his face that said: This better be good!

Indeed it was. Once he was there, the preaching went smoothly. I definitely am not a Mozambican preacher. I never shout, never utter an Hallelujah or Amen, and actually use notes. But I taught a song which included wiggling down to the floor and jumping up again, I had people standing then sitting during the message, and only one person fell asleep. Plus, people thanked me at the end and even invited me back.

Later that day I was sharing my experience with a Swedish missionary friend. He told me how he was preaching once in Portuguese, which was then being translated into the local dialect. He decided to be funny at one point and switched into Swedish for a sentence. And the translator, without skipping a beat, continued to translate into the dialect! At least with English to Spanish, I know if it’s my words that are being communicated.

For Everything Else There’s…Cold, Hard Cash and a Whole Lotta Hassle May 27, 2008

Original visa to enter Mozambique: $60

Four visa extensions: approximately $170

Two criminal background checks: approximately $40

Translations of two criminal background checks into Portuguese: $40

Plane ticket to Maputo to visit the embassy to sort out problems with criminal background checks: approximately $200

Fingerprints: $80

US consul letter concerning criminal background check: $30

Translation of US consul letter into Portuguese: $25

Reassurance that I can stay in Mozambique for another three months: Priceless?

——————–

Three months have passed. I still don’t have a work permit, which means I still don’t have my residence visa, which means I paid Immigration more visits yesterday and today to extend my “precarious residence visa” (yes, it’s really called that - I am a precarious resident).

A Little Rat Incident May 26, 2008

I had a little rat incident the other night. It could have been a big and rather devastating rat incident except for two things: 1) I was up late that night to notice it, and 2) I’m braver than I used to be.

We have not experienced any rat problems for awhile. Probably a couple months. We found the hole the rats had been coming in previously and blocked it up. I have truly given no thought to rats in ages.

On Friday evening my conversation partner came by to drop off a cake that she had made for the celebration lunch I was hosting for my team on Saturday. The cake was beautifully decorated on a foil-wrapped board. A foil-wrapped board which was too big to fit in the refrigerator. Worried about ants getting into it on the counter, we placed it on top of the fridge and put a plastic washbin over it. Sonia told me to put something heavy on top of that but then asked, “But do you still have rats?” I told her not anymore, so we decided I didn’t need to put something heavy after all.

Later on that night, I was going into the bathroom and thought I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a rat run past my foot in the hallway. But it was so quiet, and I hadn’t seen it clearly enough, so I decided it must have just been a shadow and that I was just paranoid about something happening to the cake. After all, we hadn’t had rats in weeks and weeks, so why would one happen to show up the one night that Sonia had asked about rats?

I putzed around getting ready for bed and didn’t actually get in bed till much later than I had planned. As I was settling in, I heard a plastic bag rustling in the kitchen, which I wouldn’t have heard had I already been asleep. Uh-UH!, I thought. I listened some more and then was convinced it was a rat in there. It was in the trash, but I knew once it had thoroughly gone through that, it would next be up on the fridge. (Have I mentioned that I just watched Ratatouille for the first time last week? I still don’t like rats, especially ones that have parties in my garbage and use my cupboards as toilets, and especially when my housemate is gone, and I have to deal with it myself.)

I made as much noise as I could heading into the kitchen. The problem is, if I startled it too much, it would come running out of the kitchen door that I was heading into. I am braver now than I was a few months ago, but not brave enough to handle a rat running over my bare feet. I managed to get into the kitchen with no incident, banging cupboard doors with a mop. I realized the rat was cowering under the oven, so I banged on that a couple times then watched it race across the floor, behind the fridge and then out the kitchen door. Because I’ve frightened a rat before from behind the fridge, I knew it was running down the hallway, into the guestroom, and out the hole in the broken AC (assuming it had unblocked the hole from before). I closed the kitchen door, set a glue trap outside, and went to bed.

Sadly no rat in the glue trap in the morning, although I’m still not sure I’m brave enough to dispose of a squirming, squeaking rat stuck to cardboard. And sure enough, the hole in the AC was unblocked. That is now blocked again, hopefully more secure than before.

And the cake was just fine. No ants, no rat nibbles.

To Be Uneducated May 26, 2008

What does it mean to be uneducated? Does it mean to not have a certain level of formal education? I, like other development workers, am quick to say that Mozambicans are uneducated. It’s true that the majority of the population has less than a grade 8 level of education, and even up to that point, what they have received is very poor quality. But one thing I have noticed in Beira is that people read the newspaper. Every morning I see street vendors selling newspapers and often see people standing on sidewalks in the morning with the paper open. We receive Diario de Moçambique in the office, and the majority of our staff reads it by the end of the day. Let me contrast that with a conversation I had at a meeting with some American and European missionaries the other night.

There were four of us sitting around my dining room table planning a special prayer service for the English fellowship for June 8’s International Weekend of Prayer for Needy Children. We were coming up with prayer points for different topics, and I said, “We can pray for all the Zimbabweans in Moz, but we should also definitely be praying for the situation in South Africa.” I expected enthusiastic agreement as it’s so close to home and fit perfectly in the service. Instead I got three blank looks and finally someone said, “What’s happening in South Africa?”

For those of you reading this who are also now looking at the screen blankly and asking the same question, I will give you a little slack since I’m not sure American news, especially during election campaign time, is reporting on the situation there. (Of course I know I have other readers outside the US, but I think the majority are in the US.) A couple weeks ago violence erupted in some of the townships around Johannesburg as South Africans began rioting and attacking foreigners, mainly Zimbabweans who have sought refuge in South Africa from their own political violence in Zimbabwe (and if you don’t know what’s going on in Zimbabwe, shame on you). In these days of violence, at least 50 people had been killed and 25,000 people fled. When Zimbabweans first started migrating to South Africa, they were welcomed with open arms; however, township South Africans are now blaming them for unemployment, accusing foreigners of taking jobs and fuelling crime.

Because Mozambique is so connected to South Africa, it was truly appalling to me that these women, these educated women with radios, internet, and satellite TV, knew nothing of the situation! I must admit, I often miss the news because I don’t have a radio or TV and rarely read the newspaper, but I do have my internet homepage set to bbc.com, and BBC always has good coverage of Africa. However, I also know what’s happening in South Africa because people in my office and in churches are talking about it. Mozambicans know about it because they have friends and family in South Africa and read the newspaper and discuss current events on chapas. For instance, in church yesterday morning when we had a time of intercessory prayer (which really means everyone just starts shouting at God at the same time), the women on either side of me were praying about South Africa.

We can sometimes learn a lot from “uneducated” people.