People Are People

We are about to start our seventh week of school, taking a bucket bath, living without electricity and navigating the local market is really second nature at this point and our house continues to collect things to make it more our own. It’s wonderful to feel like we have found our rhythm here, not only because life becomes less stressful when the unknown becomes the known, but also because I can finally begin to look around and appreciate the beauty of the experience I am living.

Lately, one of the most intriguing things I’ve come to realize is that simply put, people are people. I always had this hunch, but now that I am living on the other side of the world and in a completely different culture, I have found this to be true. While we certainly look and act different, have different beliefs and value different things, we, as human beings, really are the same. This morning Chris and I went to our first church service here on the Catholic mission where we live. Since the church is affiliated with our school and community, we figured it would be nice to attend now that we’ve been around for a couple of months. As soon as I walked in, I immediately began to see remnants of services at temple back home in Cleveland. I would go to Saturday morning services with my Dad once in a while, during the big Jewish holidays, and a few times a week growing up for Sunday school and Hebrew school. I’ve sat in on a few Catholic services, seen how the Unitarian church works with Chris’ family and made a random appearance at a Hindu temple. I’m no connoisseur, but I’ve sat in on enough religious gatherings to know how these things go. For some reason though, I had this feeling that experiencing a Mozambican church service would be very different. But, as I waited for the service to start (“Africa Time” means we were going to start at least 20 minutes after we were supposed to), I was able to observe the very familiar habits of people walking into a religious service. The teenage girls dressed in their best capulanas (the fabric here used for anything and everything, including clothing) and heels, walking in as a huddle, whispering, and darting their eyes back and forth to see who notices them but pretending they don’t care. The adorable children and babies wearing their tiny little dresses and khakis. They smile and laugh, and sometimes cry, forcing Mom to quickly pick them up and walk outside. And, the adults shaking hands and chatting, catching up on the happenings of the week. The service went on in usual Catholic fashion with kneeling and communion and talk of Jesus, but it was spoken all in Portuguese and Citswa, the local Bantu language here in Mapinhane, There was no air conditioning and the women right in front of me whipped out her bare boob to feed her baby. Ok, ok, so I guess there are some differences. :)

I have also been surprised by how my students so much resemble a group of kids at any high school in the US. I teach two 11^th grade and two 12^th grade classes, and each seem to house the clichés. The group of really bright, motivated kids who sit in the front and raise their hand to answer a question like they’ll win a prize if they do. And, I have to contend with the group who thinks they are “too cool for school” and tend to be disruptive or find some way to get attention. I’ve found my class clown, respected class president and the boy the girls want and the boys want to be (***Side Note: if I haven’t said it enough, I LOVE to teach and as a whole I truly LOVE my students!). So, I again am surprised to find that even in the African bush, people are people. But, last week, I did get a sobering reminder that while we are all connected as humans, our opportunities vastly differ depending on which society we were lucky (or unlucky) enough to be born into. The vocabulary word “wealthy” came up in a lesson with one of my 12^th grade classes. After explaining the meaning, one student said, “Ah, ok, wealthy, like you teacher, because you come from the United States”.  I asked why they had assumed this and it prompted a very interesting conversation about my life in the US vs. my life here and my reasons for wanting to live and work in Mozambique. It was really a great cross-cultural moment (not to mention great practice in speaking in English for my students). During the class break, I ended up talking to a few of the students who were very interested in this topic. The conversation moved into what they wanted to do after graduating high school and while some want to go to college and some want to find a professional job, the opportunities are slim.  Colleges here are expensive for your average Mozambican and there are not too many to choose from. Scholarships exist but they are not easy to get. And, even if you are lucky enough to get a college education, it’s not easy to find a professional job. One of the students said to me that while he completely understands why I would want to live in Mozambique to gain a new perspective and grow as a person he also knows “there are so many more opportunities in the US than here. Here, I can’t buy a car, it’s hard to get into college and get a job”. I had to concede. Yes, it’s true that we do have an abundance of opportunity in the US and this reminded me that I am one lucky person to be able to have the luxury of choosing to live in Mozambique. But, I reminded him that with passion and drive, he can find a way to make something of himself (I know, it was a completely trite thing to say but it was fitting for the moment!). And, I happened to find a document that Peace Corps provided explaining the ins and outs of the Mozambican university system. I plan to take a look at it over the coming months to see if I can help my best and brightest, but first, I still need to get this teaching thing down. I am really starting to understand why Peace Corps wants you to make a 2 year commitment!

Attempting to help my students succeed with the resources I have is a part of the sense of community here, something else I started to notice in contrast with how private Americans tend to live. We learned in training that the culture here is centered around the community, not the individual itself. Those who have more are expected to help their family members (and sometimes those random, far removed family connections) in any way they can by providing a roof, food, or whatever to ensure comfort for their community. While I learned this in a very general sense, I see it in everyday interactions too. While taking my chapa rides, a crammed mini-bus which serves as our public transportation, I am always amazed at how everybody is so willing to help each other out. As a young mother hops into the chapa, the stranger in the closest seat to the door will hold the baby as though it’s her own until the mother is seated. Or, when the man in the back of the chapa wants a bag of mangoes a boy out the window is selling, he hands his money to the passenger next to the window, who handles the transaction for him as though it’s no big deal at all. I also see it when I make the 2 kilometer walk down to my market and I constantly hear, “Hello Teacher Laurie, how are you?”.  Neighbors want to stop and chat and see what is going on in your life.  Not always, but generally we go about our lives as individuals in the US, not thinking about the community as a whole. This does have its perks, like being able to enjoy privacy, something we don’t have a lot of here. But, when I get back home after this experience is over, I have a feeling I may secretly wish the person behind me in the checkout line would hold by baby while I fiddle through my purse to find my credit card. Then again, people may be people but in the US, only a very strange person would do this.

Sometimes just living is enough.

In contrast to the United States, just living normal everyday life in Mozambique can be challenging. That’s why we have adopted a saying in our house, “Sometimes just living is enough”. We often remind each other of this when one of us becomes frustrated with the way things are or concerned about not being able reach our goals. It means for us to remember that with so many unfamiliar things happening moment to moment, that when we lay down at night we always feel satisfied and content. Inevitably we will have learned a great deal about ourselves and shared in something amazing with someone else. We are beginning to understand why this experience is so fulfilling but all the same find it hard to describe to friends and family back home that life has indeed changed:

“…We awoke early in the morning, although not earlier than usual, because in Mozambique when the sunrises the world wakes up and it is difficult to sleep when women are pounding mandioc root, pumping water and a herd of goats are grazing in the field behind your casa. There was a shortage of natural gas in Mozambique, so we had been cooking with charcoal. I lit the fire to begin breakfast and started heating water, as Laurie walked outside to gather some freshly fallen mangoes that had inevitably hit the metal roof the night before. I sipped on some freshly made coffee, while Laurie made pancakes with mango syrup. Later that morning we mixed the rest of the boiling water that had been stored in a thermos with cool water pumped from the well and took a bucket bath…”

“…The mission of Mapinhane was empty, there was not a teacher or student in sight. It was our first week here and everyone had left for summer vacation. Laurie and I were feeling a little lonely. Living at the mission school during break was hard, the dormitory style bathroom had not been cleaned in weeks and there was a mountain of bat guano in one of the showers in the women’s room, needless to say during that time we never liked to go into the bathrooms, especially after dark. We learned that lesson on our first night in Mapinhane, when Laurie screaming, came running into the house with a towel half draped over her body, still wet from her shower. I went to investigate what could have disturbed her so much only to be forced to duck and just miss a fruit bat.
The day before we had handwashed our clothes, finished cleaning the house, and carted agua from the well behind our house. This took most of the day and we were looking forward to some much-needed time to relax. There was a knock at our door, and one of our directors, stopped by to see how we were doing, he handed me a large fish and some bread and said in English with a Mozambican accent, “This is for you. ”
“Thank you, really but we can’t accept this.” I replied.
“No, take it, please. Oh yes, and I think that I will be eating lunch with you today. My empragada (Portuguese name for a worker) did not show up today and I have a lot of work to do and the school is quiet today, so I will be eating lunch with you.” Or in other words you are making my lunch.
Having never prepared fresh fish and seeing our relaxing day disappear before my eyes, I said “But I do not know how to prepare fish the Mozambican way.”
“Just prepare it, how you prepare it.” He said as he stepped off our veranda and hurriedly walked away.
And thus I learned how to descale, gut, behead a fish, that would later be mixed in with coconut curry and served with rice. It was a fantastic lunch, and we enjoyed the company of our guest…”

“…It was another hot, humid day in Mapinhane. One of those days that made us fantasize about the snow that was falling in the United States only a hemisphere away. Our friendly neighbor and colleague, Roberto the professor de geografia, walked outside and I went to greet him. “Roberto.” I said mispronouncing his name with an English accent.
“It is RO-berto.” He said in English annunciating the accent on the first syllable.
“I am sorry, it is difficult for me to pronounce Portuguese words, the accentos are new to me.” I replied in Portuguese.
“Yes, but Roberto, it is easy.”
I then attempted to pronounce the names of all of the teachers that live at the school. “And you live with?” I asked questioningly.
“Professor Pelembe (pronounced Pelembay), or Moseis. Pelembe is his traditional name of mother’s tongue, Chitswa.”
“A traditional name? Yes, it is very beautiful. I want a traditional name.”
His eyes widened, “Can I pick one for you.”
“Yes, please.” We both thought for a moment. “What is the word for lion.” I asked.
“N’gon-ya-mo.” He replied annunciating it slowly. “Mr. N’gonyamo, that is your traditional name.”
Later that week at the end of our first teachers meeting that should have happened before school started, two weeks ago (this is another story altogether). I was asked to introduce myself and I did so as Christopher, and followed it up with my traditional name N’gonyamo. I received many laughs, applause and cheers. It felt good.
Since then, the name has caught on some. When Laurie and I take the almost daily walk down to the market to buy food, mostly fresh vegetables and fruits. We are often greeted by students as Teacher Laurie and Teach Ngonyamo…”