Virus

Computer virus. This is my number one virus concern in Africa, after the HIV (of course). The main difference being a computer virus is 100% manmade---- there is no spontaneous encapsulation of nucleic acid, there is no ecology to it, no retroviral induced mutations, just some jerk sitting somewhere undoubtedly dark and windowless typing 1’s and 0’s down, and he is probably thinking that he is helping take down the Man, bringing down the Industrial Machine, or something…. Well let me tell you right now, he is not taking down the Man, he is just bringing down Africa… because this is the hotbed of computer viruses… all viruses come to Mozambique and stay in Mozambique. And flash drives (aka “memory sticks” for the technically challenged such as myself---yep, recently realized I may be the only one using that terminology) are the main vectors, they are the festering infectors, teaming with viruses.

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In the mornings, on my ride to work, we listen to the radio, on good days it is BBC news coverage and I can feel somewhat classy, but on the other days we listen to local coverage. Sometimes it is a DJ taking in calls, most of the calls are dropped, in which case the DJ makes a quick transition with a laser sound effect (“hello…. hello…?” **pew-pew-pew**). Sometimes it is this music from Zim (I think it sounds like amped circus music, friends are trying to convince me otherwise and I’m open to conversion because it is played all through the night), this is also interrupted with the laser sound effect **pew-pew-pew** repeatedly and erratically, keeping **pew-pew-pew** a sort of anti-beat through **pew-pew-pew** seemingly random parts of **pew-pew-pew** the tune (I’m probably not Hip enough to get the musical sophistication of this “re-mix”, if this were Portland I’d put on my black rim glasses and grow a mustache at least to make it look like I get it). Sometimes it is national news, which I like because the Portuguese in Maputo sounds exotic. And sometimes it is local news, which I usually don’t like because it frequently is about some shock-and-awe story that is uncomfortably close to home: some guys cutting the hearts and lungs out of his relatives, or some guy who did a self-castration (this one apparently made national news because a friend in the south asked me about this, and for the record these are not exemplary stories of Mozambican culture but rather Mozambican news coverage). The laser sound effect makes an appearance for the local news too **pew-pew-pew**. There are actually three or so versions of the laser sound effect, apparently nothing else, and those buttons are well used.

By far my favorite radio moment is a public service announcement targeting teens and pre-teens to stop downloading music. I think the ad is targeted for Moz but they just say Africa in general. This is different from the ads back home, no scary aggressive voice calling you a thief, no screenshots of musicians talking about their feelings about illegal downloads. Instead it is a scripted dialogue with a schoolboy who is told that Africa/Mozambique is not as developed as everywhere else and does not have the same internet capacity, that when he downloads music he blocks up the system for everyone else----something along the lines of: by downloading music you, personally, are slowing down the Development of Africa, and most of the stuff downloaded is full of viruses anyways and viruses are messing up everything for everybody. The announcement also includes a list of appropriate uses of the internet in Mozambique: mostly just email (sans attachments).

Here is my plea: Dearest Computer Virus Writers: You make it so my students can’t put digital copies of their homework on my computer (that flash ain’t going nowhere near my machine), you make the computers too slow for students to learn how to do research or type out a paper, you make it so little Joao or little Fatima can’t download the latest Akon or Shakira hit. Please find a new hobby. My personal suggestion: eradicating the laser sound effect. Sincerely, Alexandra.

A Special Performance

When I was six or so Mom and Auntie Clay took me to The City to see The Nutcracker. I was ecstatic: ballerinas. That’s all I wanted to be: one of those oh-so-beautiful ballerinas with something tinselly bunched around my waist and ribbons cris-crossed from the point shoes up the entire length of my legs. However, Mom forcibly evicted Ballerina from my Things-I-Want-to-be-When-I Grow-Up list with a big NO to ballet classes--- something about me having lasting body image problems. She did concede, slightly, with a tutu and, later, tickets to The San Francisco Nutcracker—possibly after seeing my dedication to the Ballerina idea through hours of untrained versions of the pirouette in the living room (well documented in Grandpa’s homevideos). It was a big day, just us three ladies. Mom sewed me little green chiffon/black velvet dress for the theater (man was I spoiled). It really was beautiful and hung up in my room for days before, taunting, teasing, but I had to wait for the big day. Of the performance itself I don’t actually remember that much, just walking in the City in my brand new dress, Auntie Clay piling her fur lined jacket on the chair to prop me up because I was too little to see the stage, and that one scene with children coming out from the bottom of a man’s hoop skirt. Guess it wasn’t really the show itself that was so memorable, but rather getting to do something special with mom and Auntie Clay: a Special Treat.

I thought about my day at the Theater when I asked the neighborhood girls who play at my house if they wanted to go to English Theater: Hours of short skits put on by regional secondary schools, all in English and with the theme Be the Change (and some kind of HIV/AIDS tidbit, because that is how these events are funded…. Don’t sleep with your teachers kids! Use a condom!). It was a gamble, either the girls would love it or they would be bored to tears. “Ask your parents….” And Claire was quick to point out: “You are so American.” She was right, parents just kind of let their kids run free, parental permission: pssh---as if!! Half the time these little girls show up to my house with a baby cousin or brother or sister or neighbor strapped on their back, babies holding babies, babies caring for babies.

Would they show up? Would they even want to go?

Saturday rolled around and there was a “Dona Alexandra, Dona Alexandra!” at the gate. Two of them showed up, early (!) and in their fanciest dresses and a Strawberry Shortcake plastic handbag. The mom of one of the girls had even rubbed her daughter’s shoulders and back with body oil. I’m sure we were quite the spectacle, these two little girls in their dresses with these two Americans walking through town, through the market area, and the main intersection to get to the Theater.

We watched the performances. Ate some crackers I brought. They would lean over to tell me little tidbits they were understanding in English “he just said ‘goodbye’”; “she just asked ‘how are you?’ ” They stored cookies (leftover snacks for the performing students) the coordinator of English Theater generously gave them in the little pink plastic handbag, taking them out one by one slowly munching and savoring, even when we walked home during the lunch break, they kept pulling the contents of the handbag out and stuffing it back in… just to check on it.

English Theater is a daylong event. Honestly I figured we would go for an hour tops then head home, they’d get bored, right? But they wanted to stay on. We left during the lunch break, parted ways in Bairro Quatro, but 20 minutes later they were back at my house “Dona Alexandra….” I was flopped on my bed, hot and tired (and need I say sunburned?) but they were super excited about going back, to see the last couple performances, to see who got the 1st place award. How could I say no? We trucked back into town, back to the theater to finish out the very special day, to watch every single skit. It wasn’t really about being able to understand the performances, or even the quality of the performances, it was just the excitement about getting to be there, to do something “special”.