This last week the electrical company cut power to the house because, supposedly, a bill hadn’t been paid. I mean the most literal sense of the word “cut”, though “hacked” would really be an even better fit. After a rather exhausting day at work I came home to find a bunch of wires hanging from the side of the house. Actually I found the mangled wires the next day since it was 6pm when I first found out there was no power, which is way too late to start poking around the house for possible causes. I spent the night alone by candlelight… romantic, I know. Now I’m fine with no power, but the problem is when city-houses-that-are-set-up-to-have-power don’t have power things get complicated (complicado: this is what people say when things are a pain in the ass, as in “a situação é muito muito complicado//the situation is very very complicated”…. other words, like “difícil”, come off a bit strong, I learned this the hard way, so even when the situation is more than complicated it is better just to stick to “complicado”). When I don’t have energia I also don’t have water, because to pull water from the well I need an electrical pump, and there are no neighborhood communal pumps (that is what the villages have), no river, nada. My romantic night sozinha was briefly interrupted by my guard (the older guard was working that night): “We have no power” “I know we have no power, I noticed just now when I got home, I’ll figure it out tomorrow when the offices are open” “But I am suffering out here in the dark” “Okay…. I understand that the situation is not ideal but there isn’t anything I can do about it right now because it is night” “But the water tank doesn’t have much water” “I know, I also need water from the tank, I am frustrated too” “But how am I going to see the robbers” “Listen extra carefully, be alert” “But we have no power” ……… I’m really too tired for a cyclic conversation…….. The next day the university kindly started figuring out things with the electrical company, four days after the payment was made my house was reconnected and six days after payment was made the electrical company left the electric bill on my front porch, the very one that supposedly hadn’t been paid in the first place…. Ah, gotta love the order of things: cut energy for an unpaid bill, and then, many days later, actually provide the bill to the customer, but don’t forget to charge them those reconnection fees.
So I’m back to normal: wearing rubber flipflops when I cook with my stove…. or else the current grounds from the hot plates through my body…ouch (don’t even think about stirring that pasta water with a metal spoon), following the strict rules of what I can plug in when (oven + computer = blasted fuses), and not touching things like the ends of plugged in cords or the CD drive on my computer (ouch, again). I wonder how many times the human body gets zapped before your nervous system starts getting wonky.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Mato
Every PC site has its own vibe, its own challenges and strengths, so when people talk about the Peace Corps Experience or Life at Site it can be hard to know what exactly they are talking about. The point is, every volunteer is getting an interesting and eye-opening experience no matter where they are serving, the specifics of their experience is inevitably unique. I recently went to visit a gal friend of mine who lives at a mato site, while I see the pluses and minuses of city life, she gets to see the pluses and minuses of mato life.
Visiting her was a bit complicated, mostly because she doesn’t have cell reception, so no check-in text to clarify logistics (gotta love the cellphones: some PCVs are resistant to cellphones because before service these volunteers imagined PC would help purge their dependency on electronics, sure a valid desire but, man, do cellphones make coordinating for both work and social so much easier). I talked with her on a Tuesday (she had been at another site with network) and mentioned that I’d head down to her site that weekend if standfast (i.e. PC travel restriction during the riots) was lifted. By Thursday standfast was lifted, I radioed her via another volunteer saying I was coming (though I’m not sure the radio message made it to her), packed my little bag, set my alarm clock for bright and early,…. Yay, so excited!
There was one major hitch, I wasn’t totally sure where she lived. I knew the name of the town, I knew the crossroad off the main highway that heads in her direction, and I knew transport was difficult and frustrating for her and I should get to the crossroads as early as possible to get a car into the village.
When I told the chapa to pull over, the driver doubted my request, no this is really where I want to get off. He pulled away, leaving me at a crossroad between the EN1 and a dirt road with a restaurant/bar, some farmers trying to hitch north on the main highway with sacks of corn, and a man leaning on his bike telling me: “you just missed a car”. I began to wish I had a plan B.
I sat under a baobab tree, at first with a man who had a satiny, snakeskin print shirt and classy shades---this was his cellphone tree, the spot where there was sometimes (but not always) network. His big watch and shiny clothes seemed odd at these crossroads. Eventually he caught a ride to another village down the dirtroad on a bike, and then I was alone....just me and the baobab tree and some burrowing ants. As more kids (their bums peaking through ripped seams) passed by, men on bikes, women carrying bundles on their head, the “you just missed a car” turned into “you missed the last car going to Estaquinha for the day”. Now I really was starting to wish I had a plan B. Could I walk? Nope, too far, one teenage boy estimated the distance at roughly 80 km (okay I kind of doubt this distance but it is too far to walk nonetheless).
One man came up (multiple times) and offered to resolve my situation: we can go grab some drinks at the bar and then he could take me there on his motorcycle. He had no teeth. This seemed like a really really bad idea, an even worse idea than sleeping in the shrubs on the side of the road, which according to him was my only other option. <>
And just as the need for a plan B was starting to get urgent a car came by. While I felt better in the car, I was still not totally sure the car was going to the right place, the driver said Estaquinha…. I think? At one point the car stopped and almost everyone got out, and I asked the woman sitting next to me if this was Estaquinha…. She just stared at me, so I asked again, same non-response, maybe she didn’t speak Portuguese (oh man, I’m not in the city anymore)… well it didn’t turn out to be my destination, so good thing I had gotten back in the car.
The driver, who was sweet and inquisitive, eventually stopped the car in front of a group of little concrete houses and said: “your friend gets out here.” “Are we in Estaquinha?” “But your friend gets out here.” I was hoping he was talking about my actual friend, not one of my other “friends”. Often people I meet think I am friends with all other white people. It is not uncommon to hear: “oh I know your friend John, he lives in a vila in Gaza.... he is from your land, from either New York or Chicago or London…. No, he doesn’t live in Gaza now, he lived there 5 years ago….. I think you know him or maybe he knows you? No eh?” So when the driver talked about my “friend” I was starting to worry I was going to be crashing at the house of some other white lady, not my PC buddy.
I ran up to the nearest house with people, two men laying out on straw mats. “Good afternoon? How are you? Does the Professora Rebecca live near here?” One of the men let out a single: “Yes.” That was it, nothing more affirmative or negative, just “yes”.
Guess this is the spot.
****
My friend who I visited is a wonderful actress and I really enjoyed watching her work with her students in prep for English Theater, a PC run regional competition. There were a couple of things that I thought were particularly interesting while watching her students perform (1) greetings: culturally it is very important to greet everyone and ask how they are before you bulldooze into whatever point you need to talk to them about… I still have a hard time remembering to do this without being prompted by someone else. The students struggled to resist their urge to extensively greet each other at the start of every scene (which was a necessary dialogue cut considering the time constraints of the performace). (2) that weird clapping thing: at one point during the play the characters arrange a bride price, and all the actors start a slow rhythmic unified clapping. After the third time watching the scene I realized that this was not some accidental motion. “What are they doing?” I whispered to my friend, “You know I’m not so sure…” It turns out that the slow group clapping is just one of the essential steps to the bride purchase. She later told me that when they were getting ready for the final performance the students were stressed about finding the appropriate props for the scene, specifically two plates that you sandwich over the bride-money.
Visiting her was a bit complicated, mostly because she doesn’t have cell reception, so no check-in text to clarify logistics (gotta love the cellphones: some PCVs are resistant to cellphones because before service these volunteers imagined PC would help purge their dependency on electronics, sure a valid desire but, man, do cellphones make coordinating for both work and social so much easier). I talked with her on a Tuesday (she had been at another site with network) and mentioned that I’d head down to her site that weekend if standfast (i.e. PC travel restriction during the riots) was lifted. By Thursday standfast was lifted, I radioed her via another volunteer saying I was coming (though I’m not sure the radio message made it to her), packed my little bag, set my alarm clock for bright and early,…. Yay, so excited!
There was one major hitch, I wasn’t totally sure where she lived. I knew the name of the town, I knew the crossroad off the main highway that heads in her direction, and I knew transport was difficult and frustrating for her and I should get to the crossroads as early as possible to get a car into the village.
When I told the chapa to pull over, the driver doubted my request, no this is really where I want to get off. He pulled away, leaving me at a crossroad between the EN1 and a dirt road with a restaurant/bar, some farmers trying to hitch north on the main highway with sacks of corn, and a man leaning on his bike telling me: “you just missed a car”. I began to wish I had a plan B.
I sat under a baobab tree, at first with a man who had a satiny, snakeskin print shirt and classy shades---this was his cellphone tree, the spot where there was sometimes (but not always) network. His big watch and shiny clothes seemed odd at these crossroads. Eventually he caught a ride to another village down the dirtroad on a bike, and then I was alone....just me and the baobab tree and some burrowing ants. As more kids (their bums peaking through ripped seams) passed by, men on bikes, women carrying bundles on their head, the “you just missed a car” turned into “you missed the last car going to Estaquinha for the day”. Now I really was starting to wish I had a plan B. Could I walk? Nope, too far, one teenage boy estimated the distance at roughly 80 km (okay I kind of doubt this distance but it is too far to walk nonetheless).
One man came up (multiple times) and offered to resolve my situation: we can go grab some drinks at the bar and then he could take me there on his motorcycle. He had no teeth. This seemed like a really really bad idea, an even worse idea than sleeping in the shrubs on the side of the road, which according to him was my only other option. <
And just as the need for a plan B was starting to get urgent a car came by. While I felt better in the car, I was still not totally sure the car was going to the right place, the driver said Estaquinha…. I think? At one point the car stopped and almost everyone got out, and I asked the woman sitting next to me if this was Estaquinha…. She just stared at me, so I asked again, same non-response, maybe she didn’t speak Portuguese (oh man, I’m not in the city anymore)… well it didn’t turn out to be my destination, so good thing I had gotten back in the car.
The driver, who was sweet and inquisitive, eventually stopped the car in front of a group of little concrete houses and said: “your friend gets out here.” “Are we in Estaquinha?” “But your friend gets out here.” I was hoping he was talking about my actual friend, not one of my other “friends”. Often people I meet think I am friends with all other white people. It is not uncommon to hear: “oh I know your friend John, he lives in a vila in Gaza.... he is from your land, from either New York or Chicago or London…. No, he doesn’t live in Gaza now, he lived there 5 years ago….. I think you know him or maybe he knows you? No eh?” So when the driver talked about my “friend” I was starting to worry I was going to be crashing at the house of some other white lady, not my PC buddy.
I ran up to the nearest house with people, two men laying out on straw mats. “Good afternoon? How are you? Does the Professora Rebecca live near here?” One of the men let out a single: “Yes.” That was it, nothing more affirmative or negative, just “yes”.
Guess this is the spot.
****
My friend who I visited is a wonderful actress and I really enjoyed watching her work with her students in prep for English Theater, a PC run regional competition. There were a couple of things that I thought were particularly interesting while watching her students perform (1) greetings: culturally it is very important to greet everyone and ask how they are before you bulldooze into whatever point you need to talk to them about… I still have a hard time remembering to do this without being prompted by someone else. The students struggled to resist their urge to extensively greet each other at the start of every scene (which was a necessary dialogue cut considering the time constraints of the performace). (2) that weird clapping thing: at one point during the play the characters arrange a bride price, and all the actors start a slow rhythmic unified clapping. After the third time watching the scene I realized that this was not some accidental motion. “What are they doing?” I whispered to my friend, “You know I’m not so sure…” It turns out that the slow group clapping is just one of the essential steps to the bride purchase. She later told me that when they were getting ready for the final performance the students were stressed about finding the appropriate props for the scene, specifically two plates that you sandwich over the bride-money.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Indicators of Normalcy
On our ride to work in the university van, a professor mentioned, “I’ve got some shopping to do before the end of the month, I’ve heard that prices are going to rise significantly the first of September…” This professor refers to himself as my African grandpop and teases me about my boyfriends (aka any guy he sees me with… we’re just friends I promise). He tried to direct the driver to pull over at the lojinhas (shops) by the train tracks, and the driver just smiled and shook his head in that “Oh you, always trying to break the rules….” kind of way and continued driving towards the faculdade, towards work (not shopping!). A week before, after my late class (which ends at 22:45, way too late, if you ask me, for teachers to be teaching and students to be learning) I got in the van and the driver apologized for driving with the windows down on such a chilly night, he was airing out the car since earlier in the evening the grandpop professor had decided to smoke a cigarette to alleviate stress (Truthfully, at the moment I was thinking that I could use a cigarette and maybe a night cap….. ). The driver, partly exasperated but mostly humored, complained that the professor didn’t even ask as he puffed in the back of the van: “He is naughty! He is very very naughty!/ Ele é indisciplinado. Ele é muito muito indisciplinado.”
When the professor first mentioned the price spike, I didn’t think much of it, too distracted and amused by the driver thwarting the naughty professor’s attempt to bend the rules, and figured it was the usual price fluctuation. When these so called “bread riots” did eventually start, everything was concentrated in Maputo and frankly there wasn’t a sign of anything anywhere else, just the reports from Maputo on the radio and the same flashy images on TV that ended up on major international media. The demonstrations started popping up in a couple other major cities, but daily life was generally unchanged. Not that I want to belittle what demonstrations there were or say I wasn’t a little nervous, but there wasn’t nationwide chaos (most volunteers didn’t hear a peep).
We had one day of commotion where I live. I was at work and we got a phone call saying it was better to go home, people were congregating at the mercados, the praças, etc. How many people? Not really sure, never saw anything. What was the mood of the crowd? Again, not really sure, never saw anything. Schools were closed, the neighborhood girls said they ran straight home without stopping and their parents kept them indoors the rest of the day. Someone else said there had been a tire bonfire by the fairgrounds. And someone else said the demonstrators had left the streets littered with stones. But who knows, it’s all hearsay and I’m not much of an investigative reporter, I’m satisfied with loose gossip. I spent the day at my colleague’s house, waiting for things to die down, gauging the intensity of the protests by the frequency of police gunshots and the number of cars passing on the street. It was unnerving but not terrifying. At the end of the day, after things calmed down, I got a ride to my house to pick up a couple things and returned to spend the night at my colleague’s house (I really wasn’t interested in sleeping alone at home).
On the ride over to my house I wondered what would be the indicators of normalcy here, how would I know things are safe happy and calm? Back home, I guess it would be…. buses going up Thurman Street? The only citywide shut-downs from home I can think of are Oregon so-called snow storms: 2 inches of snow and the city Portland is immobilized and in hysterics (no judgment: I can drive in a downpour fine, a snowflake stresses me out). When the buses get off their snow routes and start heading up Thurman Street again you know that it’s probably all right to drive down the hill, this is my sign that everything is a-okay.
The call to prayer was projected from the turquoise mosque. But the streets were relatively quiet and cleared, few people out, few cars. All of the lojinhas by the central market were closed and some were boarded up, but across the street the vendor boys had already laid out their t-shirts on the corner sidewalk, ready to sell. The main market was deserted except for 6 women at the entrance who had set up their baskets with lettuce, couve, and those bitter greens that I don’t know how to cook.
Normally, the main intersection at the end of the day is monitored by traffic control (traffic light at the major intersection in town… pshhh). They pull up a cylindrical wooden stand that is painted with vertical red stripes (it reminds me of those step-stools for circus elephant performances) to the center of the intersection and a traffic guard stands on top directing the hectic confusion between outgoing cars, kids on bikes, especially-full chapas going to the outside bairros, buses coming in from Maputo, and big pushcarts from the central mercado with unsellable goods. Every two seconds the traffic guard mechanically bends one elbow, then the other, left, right, left, right, regardless of the flow of traffic, left, right, left, right,…..then he turns to direct traffic on the cross-street. His trained movements are rhythmic and precisely timed. Meanwhile, a crazy man with a cotton, fisherman hat and chin-length dreadlocks, standing at the side of the intersection, also attempts to control traffic; he waves what looks like a mini padded golf club (there is a piece of blue fabric cinched at the club-end by red string) at cars as they pass by. Never mind that he only “directs” one of the cross-streets, but he does so with the pace of traffic, like how traffic control is done in the states, swinging the club at the speed the cars should be moving at and with a slight sense of urgency: “Your turn. Go Go GO!” When he is tired, which is understandable since he is out there hours on end (even covering times when the officials aren’t there), he loosely waves his club while sitting on the curb, chin resting on hand.
I’m not sure how Cotton Hat Man perceives the police traffic patrol officer: competition or assistance? Or maybe he doesn’t notice. Either way, this strange, crazy man directing traffic at the end of the day was my major indicator of normalcy, oddly comforting, more so than the market ladies or the t-shirts on the sidewalk. When I saw the swing of the club my first thought was: it’s just like any other day. It didn’t matter that the police weren’t there with their striped stand, he was there, unfazed by the commotion earlier in the day.
***
I’m no economist nor a political essayist, so I won’t comment much, but I’d say the demonstrations aren’t the critical part of it all, or even the most frightening part. For me, it’s the big picture stuff that doesn’t come with a flashy burning tire photo or a “bread riot” tag line, the stuff that is too hard to define and delineate to make a catchy headline.
I think everything has passed, at least the demonstrations. I am writing this on a national holiday and texting is not working. Rumor says: the two phone companies have blocked all cellphone texts, jamming what was the most popular mechanism for protest organization, but who knows… I’m just a spreader of unconfirmed facts. The Problem is still here (regardless of government subsidies), and will continue to remain unresolved indefinitely.
When the professor first mentioned the price spike, I didn’t think much of it, too distracted and amused by the driver thwarting the naughty professor’s attempt to bend the rules, and figured it was the usual price fluctuation. When these so called “bread riots” did eventually start, everything was concentrated in Maputo and frankly there wasn’t a sign of anything anywhere else, just the reports from Maputo on the radio and the same flashy images on TV that ended up on major international media. The demonstrations started popping up in a couple other major cities, but daily life was generally unchanged. Not that I want to belittle what demonstrations there were or say I wasn’t a little nervous, but there wasn’t nationwide chaos (most volunteers didn’t hear a peep).
We had one day of commotion where I live. I was at work and we got a phone call saying it was better to go home, people were congregating at the mercados, the praças, etc. How many people? Not really sure, never saw anything. What was the mood of the crowd? Again, not really sure, never saw anything. Schools were closed, the neighborhood girls said they ran straight home without stopping and their parents kept them indoors the rest of the day. Someone else said there had been a tire bonfire by the fairgrounds. And someone else said the demonstrators had left the streets littered with stones. But who knows, it’s all hearsay and I’m not much of an investigative reporter, I’m satisfied with loose gossip. I spent the day at my colleague’s house, waiting for things to die down, gauging the intensity of the protests by the frequency of police gunshots and the number of cars passing on the street. It was unnerving but not terrifying. At the end of the day, after things calmed down, I got a ride to my house to pick up a couple things and returned to spend the night at my colleague’s house (I really wasn’t interested in sleeping alone at home).
On the ride over to my house I wondered what would be the indicators of normalcy here, how would I know things are safe happy and calm? Back home, I guess it would be…. buses going up Thurman Street? The only citywide shut-downs from home I can think of are Oregon so-called snow storms: 2 inches of snow and the city Portland is immobilized and in hysterics (no judgment: I can drive in a downpour fine, a snowflake stresses me out). When the buses get off their snow routes and start heading up Thurman Street again you know that it’s probably all right to drive down the hill, this is my sign that everything is a-okay.
The call to prayer was projected from the turquoise mosque. But the streets were relatively quiet and cleared, few people out, few cars. All of the lojinhas by the central market were closed and some were boarded up, but across the street the vendor boys had already laid out their t-shirts on the corner sidewalk, ready to sell. The main market was deserted except for 6 women at the entrance who had set up their baskets with lettuce, couve, and those bitter greens that I don’t know how to cook.
Normally, the main intersection at the end of the day is monitored by traffic control (traffic light at the major intersection in town… pshhh). They pull up a cylindrical wooden stand that is painted with vertical red stripes (it reminds me of those step-stools for circus elephant performances) to the center of the intersection and a traffic guard stands on top directing the hectic confusion between outgoing cars, kids on bikes, especially-full chapas going to the outside bairros, buses coming in from Maputo, and big pushcarts from the central mercado with unsellable goods. Every two seconds the traffic guard mechanically bends one elbow, then the other, left, right, left, right, regardless of the flow of traffic, left, right, left, right,…..then he turns to direct traffic on the cross-street. His trained movements are rhythmic and precisely timed. Meanwhile, a crazy man with a cotton, fisherman hat and chin-length dreadlocks, standing at the side of the intersection, also attempts to control traffic; he waves what looks like a mini padded golf club (there is a piece of blue fabric cinched at the club-end by red string) at cars as they pass by. Never mind that he only “directs” one of the cross-streets, but he does so with the pace of traffic, like how traffic control is done in the states, swinging the club at the speed the cars should be moving at and with a slight sense of urgency: “Your turn. Go Go GO!” When he is tired, which is understandable since he is out there hours on end (even covering times when the officials aren’t there), he loosely waves his club while sitting on the curb, chin resting on hand.
I’m not sure how Cotton Hat Man perceives the police traffic patrol officer: competition or assistance? Or maybe he doesn’t notice. Either way, this strange, crazy man directing traffic at the end of the day was my major indicator of normalcy, oddly comforting, more so than the market ladies or the t-shirts on the sidewalk. When I saw the swing of the club my first thought was: it’s just like any other day. It didn’t matter that the police weren’t there with their striped stand, he was there, unfazed by the commotion earlier in the day.
***
I’m no economist nor a political essayist, so I won’t comment much, but I’d say the demonstrations aren’t the critical part of it all, or even the most frightening part. For me, it’s the big picture stuff that doesn’t come with a flashy burning tire photo or a “bread riot” tag line, the stuff that is too hard to define and delineate to make a catchy headline.
I think everything has passed, at least the demonstrations. I am writing this on a national holiday and texting is not working. Rumor says: the two phone companies have blocked all cellphone texts, jamming what was the most popular mechanism for protest organization, but who knows… I’m just a spreader of unconfirmed facts. The Problem is still here (regardless of government subsidies), and will continue to remain unresolved indefinitely.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Jeans.
Chimoio is chique. Women dress nice. Men dress nice. Attention is paid to such details, such as accessories, flare, shine of shoes, and matching (red on red; blue on blue; green on green… the shade is not particularly important, but keep the color somewhat constant through the outfit). And I still look like I rolled out of Eugene, not that Eugene isn’t a stylish place (there are a number of Eugene-ians that I can think of the elicit wardrobe envy) but it is the kind of place that I could wander around in a Care-Bear PJ onesie without drawing attention to myself.
Chimoio is especially chique at my work, so while my Oregon-summer-worthy wardrobe was perfectly hip for the professional environment up in Zambezia, I tend to feel Frumpy here in Chimoio---and Frumpy is not at all what a lady in their prime wants to feel. I'll be honest: I want to feel a little bit sexy (not the unsolicited attention kind, rather the inside confident glow kind), I want to feel like I’m going to be a hot mom and that I will never drive a minivan and never have a bored husband. Africa generally makes me feel completely opposite of those things, I think my internal nerd is overtly pronounced here in my effort to stay relatively conservative. I have been mistaken for a nun numerous times (I blame it on the knee length skirts and the fact I work for a Catholic institute), and in Zambia an intoxicated man on a never-ending bus ride told me I was clearly a pastor’s wife (I blame it on my passive, mental disengagement when dealing with drunks). I will, however, take being mistaken for a matrimonially bound church member over being mistaken for an albino (…damn it…*long exasperated sigh*) any day, which happens far too often for comfort or confidence. I do, however, find reassurance in the sporadic exchanges when I am mistaken for Brazilian (…much sexier than albino….): people will “Gee”-ify (bom “Gee”ia) their speech in order to emulate the Brazilian cadence and accent they hear on telenovelas (maybe to help me understand them better?).
The point is that I needed to buy… something…. just one outfit to up the Brazilian factor and down the pastor’s wife factor (though I’m sure my Dad would rather me do the opposite… Dad, you can just assume I found a heavy-turtleneck and keep my ankles covered). A PCV goes a-marketing….
You can buy perfectly nice fancy clothes in town store: American prices Chinese quality or really really expensive American prices of okay quality. You can also buy clothes at the mercados, all those things you donated to Goodwill are now in Africa (this can be a hard thing to explain, first because the Goodwill origin isn’t always known and second because there isn’t really a good defendable answer to: “But why would people get rid of perfectly good clothes?”). I’m not sure about the exact business but essentially vendors bulk buy the clothes in big plastic bundles, and then later individually re-sale the clothes. Sometimes a vendor gets lucky: contemporary clothes in good shape; other times he’ll get a bundle of mu-mus… just depends on when the bundle was packaged and where the clothes came from in the first place. At the big market outside of the town, it is like walking through 30 years of time warp: some stands with clothes straight (literally) from the 60s, other stands with sweatshirts from the early 90s, and still others with slinky slightly used lingerie. Clothes are displayed in piles, or hung up on wires, or dangled from a string with a stick as a cross-bar through the shoulders or hips. While this clothes market can provide hours of entertainment (…oh, man, did someone really wear this?!....), it can be hard to find something “professional”.
To deal with this clothing issue I went to the smaller market in-town. Same clothes, just filtered down to a manageable amount. I am not a really good shopper in Moz for a number of reasons: 1) different taste in style. Fashion is often flashy here! Bright skin tight pants with or without heavy stitching on the back beltline resembling a regrettable tramp stamp tattoo, gems rhinestone glitter accents, a little pizzazz here, a little motif there. Personally I’m not really into shiny, it makes me feel awkward and like a treasure chest, it looks great on people who can pull it off… I’m just not one of them 2) I’m bad at negotiating prices, and that is an essential part of the buying processes. 3)…. Okay I’m not really good at shopping in the states either so it’s not really a Moz-issue it’s a Alexandra-issue…..
So I went with Claire who is a good shopper, good stylist, and a good bargainer. And she probably felt like she was taking a 12-year-old shopping. “Try on these pants, it doesn’t hurt to try them!” “I don’t wanna….too much shimmer, they’re too bright, too much butt pocket stitching, too much gold!” After some fuss---on my end, and a number to trial and error changes behind a Jurassic Park bed sheet rigged up as a "dressing room", we found them: hip and happening jeans. Though they are a bit more…snug…. than what I wear in the states (…when in rome…), the purchase was a success: I got a big “Bom Gee-ia” first thing in the morning on the first day I wore them out.
Chimoio is especially chique at my work, so while my Oregon-summer-worthy wardrobe was perfectly hip for the professional environment up in Zambezia, I tend to feel Frumpy here in Chimoio---and Frumpy is not at all what a lady in their prime wants to feel. I'll be honest: I want to feel a little bit sexy (not the unsolicited attention kind, rather the inside confident glow kind), I want to feel like I’m going to be a hot mom and that I will never drive a minivan and never have a bored husband. Africa generally makes me feel completely opposite of those things, I think my internal nerd is overtly pronounced here in my effort to stay relatively conservative. I have been mistaken for a nun numerous times (I blame it on the knee length skirts and the fact I work for a Catholic institute), and in Zambia an intoxicated man on a never-ending bus ride told me I was clearly a pastor’s wife (I blame it on my passive, mental disengagement when dealing with drunks). I will, however, take being mistaken for a matrimonially bound church member over being mistaken for an albino (…damn it…*long exasperated sigh*) any day, which happens far too often for comfort or confidence. I do, however, find reassurance in the sporadic exchanges when I am mistaken for Brazilian (…much sexier than albino….): people will “Gee”-ify (bom “Gee”ia) their speech in order to emulate the Brazilian cadence and accent they hear on telenovelas (maybe to help me understand them better?).
The point is that I needed to buy… something…. just one outfit to up the Brazilian factor and down the pastor’s wife factor (though I’m sure my Dad would rather me do the opposite… Dad, you can just assume I found a heavy-turtleneck and keep my ankles covered). A PCV goes a-marketing….
You can buy perfectly nice fancy clothes in town store: American prices Chinese quality or really really expensive American prices of okay quality. You can also buy clothes at the mercados, all those things you donated to Goodwill are now in Africa (this can be a hard thing to explain, first because the Goodwill origin isn’t always known and second because there isn’t really a good defendable answer to: “But why would people get rid of perfectly good clothes?”). I’m not sure about the exact business but essentially vendors bulk buy the clothes in big plastic bundles, and then later individually re-sale the clothes. Sometimes a vendor gets lucky: contemporary clothes in good shape; other times he’ll get a bundle of mu-mus… just depends on when the bundle was packaged and where the clothes came from in the first place. At the big market outside of the town, it is like walking through 30 years of time warp: some stands with clothes straight (literally) from the 60s, other stands with sweatshirts from the early 90s, and still others with slinky slightly used lingerie. Clothes are displayed in piles, or hung up on wires, or dangled from a string with a stick as a cross-bar through the shoulders or hips. While this clothes market can provide hours of entertainment (…oh, man, did someone really wear this?!....), it can be hard to find something “professional”.
To deal with this clothing issue I went to the smaller market in-town. Same clothes, just filtered down to a manageable amount. I am not a really good shopper in Moz for a number of reasons: 1) different taste in style. Fashion is often flashy here! Bright skin tight pants with or without heavy stitching on the back beltline resembling a regrettable tramp stamp tattoo, gems rhinestone glitter accents, a little pizzazz here, a little motif there. Personally I’m not really into shiny, it makes me feel awkward and like a treasure chest, it looks great on people who can pull it off… I’m just not one of them 2) I’m bad at negotiating prices, and that is an essential part of the buying processes. 3)…. Okay I’m not really good at shopping in the states either so it’s not really a Moz-issue it’s a Alexandra-issue…..
So I went with Claire who is a good shopper, good stylist, and a good bargainer. And she probably felt like she was taking a 12-year-old shopping. “Try on these pants, it doesn’t hurt to try them!” “I don’t wanna….too much shimmer, they’re too bright, too much butt pocket stitching, too much gold!” After some fuss---on my end, and a number to trial and error changes behind a Jurassic Park bed sheet rigged up as a "dressing room", we found them: hip and happening jeans. Though they are a bit more…snug…. than what I wear in the states (…when in rome…), the purchase was a success: I got a big “Bom Gee-ia” first thing in the morning on the first day I wore them out.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Nightguard
“It’s broken,” pointing down at the slingshot, “Completely.”
This would be my night guard.
And That would be the … security system?
“Oh. Um… Where can you buy that… Thing….?” Thing: the best synonym because Arma seemed too weapon-y to be used to in substitution for the word Slingshot, which is not part of my vocabulary.
Seriously? Is there a full grown adult man standing here asking me to buy him a slingshot?
He stands, slanted and staring off to one side avoiding direct eye contact, a stance that would indicate submission and complete lack of assertion in the States, but here in Moz it is meant to show respect. His eyes are big (buggy, really, but that isn’t a really flattering description) jaundice-yellow balls poking out over his nose. Age… somewhere between 35-75, but definitely an adult. And that is definitely a legit, albeit stretched out, Slingshot; not a forked stick with a rubberband, but a professionally carved Y and a wrapped leather handle and hooks for the thick rubber strip and ammunition cradle.
This all happened when I first moved to Manica province, site number two, new house, new neighborhood, fresh start. Though the house/complex is shared with other employees of the university, through a strand of chance happenings I lived essentially alone in the complex for my first month. Just me and night guard. Me and …Drunk… night guard.
Yes, maybe I should start at the beginning of our relationship. The moment the primary tenant in the main house left to temporarily teach in another city at a different campus, night guard started drinking. A lot, or maybe just a little bit of the really strong homebrewed stuff, either way you could smell it miles away and he couldn’t talk straight. During the nights, it was me (in lockdown in the house) with this drunk man wandering around the courtyard or chatting with the other guards outside of the house. During the days, he would pass out on his nest on the patio… sometimes with pants… sometimes not.
As the more time went by from the primary tenant’s departure, various guard responsibilities started to go by the wayside: the yard dirt was left un-swept and he started augmenting his patio nest: first with the big pieces of cardboard from the recently purchased fridge and stove, then small boxes and jars, which were later filled with various bits of plastic paper metal. Essentially most of the things that I was putting in the trash pit was ending up, rearranged and reorganized, on the patio nest.
Then he stopped sticking around, some nights he’d be there and some nights not. The crucial guard responsibility: just being there, what not being done. One night I woke up to neighborhood guards tweeting their whistles, and laid in bed petrified as I heard them out on the street apprehending a thief who tried to rob the house next door. What if that had been my house? It was time for an intervention.
I scolded (firmly but nicely) this adult-man-guard. What if it had been this house with me alone? What if there had been nobody to alert the other guards? When you have a job it also means you have responsibilities. And though he was inebriated at the time of the Talk, he evidently took something in because he showed up the next day asking for a fix-up for the slingshot. He was ready to take his job seriously.
I gave him a pc issued rape whistle and 50 Mts for the slingshot. The more I thought about the situation the more I thought: maybe slingshot really is the weapon of choice for him, because alcohol plus a machete really sounds like a bad idea. Gun would be even worse.
Despite these new on-the-job-toys, it was clear that it was time to get a new night guard. With the help of some concerned co-workers, I hired a rather attractive young man with a name that sounds like Fabio. The first night he came to the house to work he was too shy (…wait, shyness is not a quality I want in a guard…) to interrupt me in the house, so he sat outside, next to the patio nest, next to the passed out old guard, for 20 minutes until I realized he was there. As we chatted about the set up, how the guards for all the houses work together, how they have a call system to check in on each other during those crucial 2AM-4AM hours, etc. the old guard woke up, stretched, stood up, slipped his pants over his underwear and lit a cigarette…. Yep Fabio was waiting for 20 minutes next to a dude passed out in his underwear…. In my frontyard…. We both tried to play it off like it was normal…. see this is a “clothing optional” work environment, heck let’s just start a nudist camp (though, speaking of which I did walk in on old guard taking a full-on bucket bath in the yard, I should have known since the other guards started giggling as I pulled back the gate… bucket bath is an at-home activity not an at-work activity…so guess there has been some nudity, but also guess that everyone needs to keep good hygiene somehow…anyways…)…..Fabio, old guard with no pants, and me: felt like a first date gone bad, really bad.
After a few conflict resolution sessions between the two guards (“So what I am hearing is that he feels frustrated when you get drunk and argue with the other guards”) and the return of the primary tenant of the house, we have finally figured out a system that works. Old guard now is day guard (apparently one of the actively functional moz laws is some labor law that prevents him from actually getting fired…. couldn't really explain it to ya), he tends his lush garden patch (in our courtyard), he has stopped drinking (here), shows up to work, and gets bubbly-excited about how big the couve is growing... it's quite endearing actually. The nest has been downsized and the dirt is swept. Young guard is night guard. All is well.
***
“It’s broken,” pointing down at the slingshot.
This would be Fabio, week three on the job.
And That would be the ….. same janky slingshot! Didn’t I already get that fixed?!
“The other guards make fun of how weak my slingshot is, they say it couldn’t even take down a little bird.”
Hm, guess that money went to some Tentação. Oh, well. And here, Fabio, take the machete. I think you can handle it.
This would be my night guard.
And That would be the … security system?
“Oh. Um… Where can you buy that… Thing….?” Thing: the best synonym because Arma seemed too weapon-y to be used to in substitution for the word Slingshot, which is not part of my vocabulary.
Seriously? Is there a full grown adult man standing here asking me to buy him a slingshot?
He stands, slanted and staring off to one side avoiding direct eye contact, a stance that would indicate submission and complete lack of assertion in the States, but here in Moz it is meant to show respect. His eyes are big (buggy, really, but that isn’t a really flattering description) jaundice-yellow balls poking out over his nose. Age… somewhere between 35-75, but definitely an adult. And that is definitely a legit, albeit stretched out, Slingshot; not a forked stick with a rubberband, but a professionally carved Y and a wrapped leather handle and hooks for the thick rubber strip and ammunition cradle.
This all happened when I first moved to Manica province, site number two, new house, new neighborhood, fresh start. Though the house/complex is shared with other employees of the university, through a strand of chance happenings I lived essentially alone in the complex for my first month. Just me and night guard. Me and …Drunk… night guard.
Yes, maybe I should start at the beginning of our relationship. The moment the primary tenant in the main house left to temporarily teach in another city at a different campus, night guard started drinking. A lot, or maybe just a little bit of the really strong homebrewed stuff, either way you could smell it miles away and he couldn’t talk straight. During the nights, it was me (in lockdown in the house) with this drunk man wandering around the courtyard or chatting with the other guards outside of the house. During the days, he would pass out on his nest on the patio… sometimes with pants… sometimes not.
As the more time went by from the primary tenant’s departure, various guard responsibilities started to go by the wayside: the yard dirt was left un-swept and he started augmenting his patio nest: first with the big pieces of cardboard from the recently purchased fridge and stove, then small boxes and jars, which were later filled with various bits of plastic paper metal. Essentially most of the things that I was putting in the trash pit was ending up, rearranged and reorganized, on the patio nest.
Then he stopped sticking around, some nights he’d be there and some nights not. The crucial guard responsibility: just being there, what not being done. One night I woke up to neighborhood guards tweeting their whistles, and laid in bed petrified as I heard them out on the street apprehending a thief who tried to rob the house next door. What if that had been my house? It was time for an intervention.
I scolded (firmly but nicely) this adult-man-guard. What if it had been this house with me alone? What if there had been nobody to alert the other guards? When you have a job it also means you have responsibilities. And though he was inebriated at the time of the Talk, he evidently took something in because he showed up the next day asking for a fix-up for the slingshot. He was ready to take his job seriously.
I gave him a pc issued rape whistle and 50 Mts for the slingshot. The more I thought about the situation the more I thought: maybe slingshot really is the weapon of choice for him, because alcohol plus a machete really sounds like a bad idea. Gun would be even worse.
Despite these new on-the-job-toys, it was clear that it was time to get a new night guard. With the help of some concerned co-workers, I hired a rather attractive young man with a name that sounds like Fabio. The first night he came to the house to work he was too shy (…wait, shyness is not a quality I want in a guard…) to interrupt me in the house, so he sat outside, next to the patio nest, next to the passed out old guard, for 20 minutes until I realized he was there. As we chatted about the set up, how the guards for all the houses work together, how they have a call system to check in on each other during those crucial 2AM-4AM hours, etc. the old guard woke up, stretched, stood up, slipped his pants over his underwear and lit a cigarette…. Yep Fabio was waiting for 20 minutes next to a dude passed out in his underwear…. In my frontyard…. We both tried to play it off like it was normal…. see this is a “clothing optional” work environment, heck let’s just start a nudist camp (though, speaking of which I did walk in on old guard taking a full-on bucket bath in the yard, I should have known since the other guards started giggling as I pulled back the gate… bucket bath is an at-home activity not an at-work activity…so guess there has been some nudity, but also guess that everyone needs to keep good hygiene somehow…anyways…)…..Fabio, old guard with no pants, and me: felt like a first date gone bad, really bad.
After a few conflict resolution sessions between the two guards (“So what I am hearing is that he feels frustrated when you get drunk and argue with the other guards”) and the return of the primary tenant of the house, we have finally figured out a system that works. Old guard now is day guard (apparently one of the actively functional moz laws is some labor law that prevents him from actually getting fired…. couldn't really explain it to ya), he tends his lush garden patch (in our courtyard), he has stopped drinking (here), shows up to work, and gets bubbly-excited about how big the couve is growing... it's quite endearing actually. The nest has been downsized and the dirt is swept. Young guard is night guard. All is well.
***
“It’s broken,” pointing down at the slingshot.
This would be Fabio, week three on the job.
And That would be the ….. same janky slingshot! Didn’t I already get that fixed?!
“The other guards make fun of how weak my slingshot is, they say it couldn’t even take down a little bird.”
Hm, guess that money went to some Tentação. Oh, well. And here, Fabio, take the machete. I think you can handle it.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Just Trying to Get From Point A to Point B
My grandparents and aunt called to wish me a happy birthday, and at some point someone asked me to tell them something crazy that had happened: “Hm… well yesterday a truckdriver who drove us down held a machete to his throat and said he was going to commit suicide because I wouldn’t return his love, he was joking….I swear…” Yikes! Okay, one of those times things sound way more intense then how it was in the moment and the second the words left my mouth I wished I could suck them back up, put a stopper on any anxiety that I could cause. (Why couldn’t I just tell a normal story about going to get meio frango at that little new stand near my friend’s house and the cute lady at the counter who served us). It is just so easy to spill out about the nuts, the bad, and the worse, but without the context of the good and the great it doesn’t make sense.
Transportation. I think probably everyone in PC Moz (if not all of PC) blogs about transportation at some point, how could you not? And I feel like if someone asks for a “crazy adventure story” they will get a story about transportation.
Public transportation: chapas: little white vans that are designed to fit 11 people but usually carry 20-30 people, no joke: 4 people per bench plus a couple of babies, a large plaid zip suitcase, and a some of chickens, maybe a caged pigeon (the worst was when there was a live sheep shoved under my seat, and it gave off the strong odor of rotting cheese and fear). Chapas are usually rusty, thick-exhaust producing, roped together death traps… sometimes you get lucky and the plastic on the seats isn’t tearing and scratchy, the paint is flawless, and the speakers are actually good enough to figure out what song is being played. At Inchope, the major crossing for me to catch rides, there is a charred chapa skeleton, victim of an engine fire or explosion, a little reminder about the lack of the enforceable-safety laws to motivate you on your way. Really I have nothing positive to say about chapas themselves, but I have this weird liking for chapa drivers and workers (I am also semi-obsessed with public trans drivers for trimet back home, you know they have good stories to tell at the end of the day… so this chapa driver intrigue might not be an opinion shared by all volunteers). They are usually helpful, honest Businessmen (except sometimes they say they are leaving RIGHT NOW when they are really going to be sitting for another hour) who point you in the right direction when you look totally lost, and up for a little chatting if you are sitting in the front. So far the only incidents: a few popped tires in the middle of nowhere, once the hood started smoking and the driver poured water, which was carried to the vehicle by an ancient women from her hut next to the road, all over the …engine?… and we were on our way.
Up north most of the transport is open-back flat bed trucks. Once two women got in a fist fight, which was physically limited by the 25 people standing and sitting around them. Open-backs mean big sky wind and sunburn, and for whatever reason I see more male passengers drinking in the open backs then the regular chapas.
Buses are my least favorite. The rows have fold down seats so that there is no aisle, the last row sits 5 across rather than 4 like the other aisles… I’m not sure, guess the bus is slightly wider in the back? Once coming home I was stuck in the back seat, and this adorably cute fat baby was sitting next to me with his mom (so we were 6 across technically). I dozed and woke up because my leg was damp, okay more than damp, it was wet. Juices from the baby’s cloth diaper had leaked on me. A man up front started complaining about the smell and the mom started changing her babe. It was a difficult process to coordinate because we were all packed so tightly on the bench that I would say we were more like snuggle-buddies than strangers on a ride home together. I pressed my fontside up against the bus wall, stuck my nose out the window and took big calming breaths hoping that the yellow baby sludge wouldn’t get on my backpack. Poor mama!
So, public transport is an experience but I’ll take a private car anyday. I don’t have to worry about a private car falling apart halfway into a trip. Hitching is, in my opinion, a safer option and my preferred mode of travel. I meet businessmen, workers, tourists, ex-pats and I awkwardly try to make engaging conversation, not that small talk has ever been a strong skill of mine. But it usually works, somehow, the chitchat goes between two complete strangers.
When public transport is not coming and private cars aren’t passing, you can pay to ride in a semi. Semis are slow. I avoid them but sometimes you just have to keep moving. In terms of what happened the other day, what I mentioned to my grandparents on my birthday: I ended up in a semi with two friends I was traveling down south with. They snoozed on the trucker’s mattress, and the driver turned up the stereo and started to serenade me with passada songs: “Listen to these lyrics, they are for you, listen carefully.” He passed his cellphone to me: “Your friends will never know, look they are deep asleep, they don’t have to know, just give me your number.” He talked about how if he had a white American woman traveling around with him in his truck nobody would question him, nobody would challenge him, everybody would just be in awe, and everybody would know he had unique prowess intelligence and success. I told him my husband (um … yeah that one who is teaching English down in Vil) would be soo angry with me, I just could not give him my phone number, and so on. The driver persisted: teasing joking complimenting. He started fiddling under his seat and pulled out a machete. And I thought: Oh no! Machete, again! He held it to his throat, he was going to commit suicide if I didn’t give him my number, he was heartbroken, he could not live without my love…he said everything with a little smile but tried to keep the theatrics serious … and, machete still out, he started singing passada songs to me, again.
Transportation. I think probably everyone in PC Moz (if not all of PC) blogs about transportation at some point, how could you not? And I feel like if someone asks for a “crazy adventure story” they will get a story about transportation.
Public transportation: chapas: little white vans that are designed to fit 11 people but usually carry 20-30 people, no joke: 4 people per bench plus a couple of babies, a large plaid zip suitcase, and a some of chickens, maybe a caged pigeon (the worst was when there was a live sheep shoved under my seat, and it gave off the strong odor of rotting cheese and fear). Chapas are usually rusty, thick-exhaust producing, roped together death traps… sometimes you get lucky and the plastic on the seats isn’t tearing and scratchy, the paint is flawless, and the speakers are actually good enough to figure out what song is being played. At Inchope, the major crossing for me to catch rides, there is a charred chapa skeleton, victim of an engine fire or explosion, a little reminder about the lack of the enforceable-safety laws to motivate you on your way. Really I have nothing positive to say about chapas themselves, but I have this weird liking for chapa drivers and workers (I am also semi-obsessed with public trans drivers for trimet back home, you know they have good stories to tell at the end of the day… so this chapa driver intrigue might not be an opinion shared by all volunteers). They are usually helpful, honest Businessmen (except sometimes they say they are leaving RIGHT NOW when they are really going to be sitting for another hour) who point you in the right direction when you look totally lost, and up for a little chatting if you are sitting in the front. So far the only incidents: a few popped tires in the middle of nowhere, once the hood started smoking and the driver poured water, which was carried to the vehicle by an ancient women from her hut next to the road, all over the …engine?… and we were on our way.
Up north most of the transport is open-back flat bed trucks. Once two women got in a fist fight, which was physically limited by the 25 people standing and sitting around them. Open-backs mean big sky wind and sunburn, and for whatever reason I see more male passengers drinking in the open backs then the regular chapas.
Buses are my least favorite. The rows have fold down seats so that there is no aisle, the last row sits 5 across rather than 4 like the other aisles… I’m not sure, guess the bus is slightly wider in the back? Once coming home I was stuck in the back seat, and this adorably cute fat baby was sitting next to me with his mom (so we were 6 across technically). I dozed and woke up because my leg was damp, okay more than damp, it was wet. Juices from the baby’s cloth diaper had leaked on me. A man up front started complaining about the smell and the mom started changing her babe. It was a difficult process to coordinate because we were all packed so tightly on the bench that I would say we were more like snuggle-buddies than strangers on a ride home together. I pressed my fontside up against the bus wall, stuck my nose out the window and took big calming breaths hoping that the yellow baby sludge wouldn’t get on my backpack. Poor mama!
So, public transport is an experience but I’ll take a private car anyday. I don’t have to worry about a private car falling apart halfway into a trip. Hitching is, in my opinion, a safer option and my preferred mode of travel. I meet businessmen, workers, tourists, ex-pats and I awkwardly try to make engaging conversation, not that small talk has ever been a strong skill of mine. But it usually works, somehow, the chitchat goes between two complete strangers.
When public transport is not coming and private cars aren’t passing, you can pay to ride in a semi. Semis are slow. I avoid them but sometimes you just have to keep moving. In terms of what happened the other day, what I mentioned to my grandparents on my birthday: I ended up in a semi with two friends I was traveling down south with. They snoozed on the trucker’s mattress, and the driver turned up the stereo and started to serenade me with passada songs: “Listen to these lyrics, they are for you, listen carefully.” He passed his cellphone to me: “Your friends will never know, look they are deep asleep, they don’t have to know, just give me your number.” He talked about how if he had a white American woman traveling around with him in his truck nobody would question him, nobody would challenge him, everybody would just be in awe, and everybody would know he had unique prowess intelligence and success. I told him my husband (um … yeah that one who is teaching English down in Vil) would be soo angry with me, I just could not give him my phone number, and so on. The driver persisted: teasing joking complimenting. He started fiddling under his seat and pulled out a machete. And I thought: Oh no! Machete, again! He held it to his throat, he was going to commit suicide if I didn’t give him my number, he was heartbroken, he could not live without my love…he said everything with a little smile but tried to keep the theatrics serious … and, machete still out, he started singing passada songs to me, again.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Making Business
Though I feel, in some ways, like I have just rolled off the airplane, there comes a point when you forget that Business could be conducted in any other way than what is at hand. Before this Mozambican commercial system gets more normalized to me, I feel like I owe it a description… and this will more than satisfy repeated requests from Dad for mundane details of the ordinary life.
The Road Into Town:
Couches. Lots of couches. That is the first thing I noticed driving into Chimoio when I moved. Surprised? I sure was. The couchmakers line the main road going into the city and their products are pulled up alongside the road. These are really nice looking couches with a straight-out-of-Lazy-Boy SuperMegaStore look: sharp lines, various styles with decorative pleats at the headboard or along the corners, tight tan or black vinyl, wooden feet, usually sold in a couch loveseat armchair combo set. Granted I’ve only been in two houses with couches since getting here, but there must be a market because there are sure a lot of couches being made. What makes these couches special (at least in comparison to Lazy-Boy) is that they are built essentially with just hard manual labor. Every time I ride or walk by I learn something new about how you make a couch and there seems to be a few key components: chicken wire, used heavy bulk rice bags, and plastic grocery bags… you see: once the vinyl is pulled decoratively over the basic frame you don’t really have to know what’s inside the couch… that is if you are just looking at it… sitting on one, well that is something else. Wicker furniture venders sell their wares alongside the couches, for buyers seeking an economic alternative. I, personally, had a to go with a wicker item, specifically a standing basket shelf, but it is full of a healthy population of woodworms that are munching it down, leaving little yellow sawdust piles on my bathroom floor. In the mornings, the couchmakers wipe down the couches that are left sitting by the road day in and day out, the wicker furniture venders carry in their sets—2 chairs+loveseat+small coffee table can be roped together and carried all at once on your head or bike… if you are skilled.
The couchmakers share the road with chalkboard makers, woodshop co-ops. Street sold chalkboards are painted plyboard, so after one lesson you can’t hardly use it again and students complain so it is better to get the real thing. The woodshop wares are fine quality chairs, cupboards, tv stands (bookshelves not so common), bedframes (nothing beats the one chosen for my room: seductive purple velvet headboard, classy I know) cribs, etc. all well crafted with attention to style. Various carpenters share a shop (shack with a powerline) and tools, and each one has their own style or specialized item.
In town:
Being American I am constantly bombarded by whoever selling whatever, heck I’m foreign, I’ll buy whatever… men’s suit jackets:yes…baby shoes:yes…brooms:yes…briefcases:yes. If it’s been a legally acquired good it will be draped around arms, if it is an illegally acquired good (usually cellphone, sometimes jewelry) it will be held down low by the crotch and flashed up… a technique that would result in a lot of guys getting slapped in the face if it were used in the states. If there is a niche, or something that could be a niche even if there isn’t a market for the item, it is filled. In the city, people want money and will do what it takes.
There is a corner with shoe polishers. There is a corner with men who buy and sell dollar bills. There is a corner with legless men who repair shoes. Their tricycle, hand cranked/peddled wheelchairs (basically a metal chair enhanced with spare bike parks) sit on the street while they work on the curb. There is a corner for the medicinal (and probably some non-medicinal ones too) drug venders with their little suitcases propped up on a wall filled with packages of pills, and they will run fast and manically if the police seem like they are moving in, though this has only happened once that I’ve seen. The black sandals you see around town are made from old tires, and they are cut and stitched together by men working next to the bicycle repair lean-tos. On all corners there are boys selling prepaid cell phone credit, they clump together and each shake a long laminated ribbon of linked used cards as you walk by… “credito credito credito”. For one cell company you can whistle the jingle and they will come running, shaking their strips at you, eager for the sale.
In the park you can buy grey egg sandwiches in plastic bags to go with your mini-bagged koolade-like frozen beverage, or your bagged yoghurt. On the main road the newspapers are sold next to candy, which is laid out thoughtfully on homemade cardboard box displays with the lollipops propped upright in little holes. On rough days I go for the round chocolate bomboms instead of the street egg sandwich, still not brave enough for that one. In front of my work, ladies sell bananas and tangerines (now that they are in season). One lady also sells these rather alien looking baked goods: flakey cones with hot pink cream (if Barbie were a flavor these would be Barbie flavored) filling and sparsely stuffed chamussas.
In the Station/On the road:
The most … insistent… vendors hang out at paragems, where the overflowing chapas (like a minivan but really crappy) move in and out. Candy, chips—my favorite are straight from Maputo and the chutney tomato cheese beef etc. flavoring turns fingertip skin dark magenta, crackers, sodas and waters (though the bottles are usually refilled and glued shut: no that is not a Fiz beverage it is actually a Divita juice powder rehydrated), socks and belts, and fried dough knots piled in baskets and covered with cloth (sometimes they are sweet and soft, more often dry and disappointing). All paragems have the same vibe. As your chapa pulls up the vendors come running, the boys with bagged cashews will run alongside the windows trying to seal the deal as the chapa or bus putters on, the women will come with flat woven rice sifters filled with fruit on their heads…. 10 at once all with bananas or all with tangerines… and they wail at you to buy buy buy. Based on the discounted sale items, usually on the brink of expiration date, at the local supermarket I can accurately predict the hot items that will be at the paragem in coming weeks.
The Way of Business
The philosophy of making Business, of selling your product is different Mozambique than America. Okay that statement seems self-evident . . . duh, Alexandra, of course it is! But sometimes completing a transaction is so mystifying, and I can’t help but come out of the deal asking: But why…? Here the customer is not always right, actually the customer can sometimes be an inconvenience especially if there is a working tv in the shop. But why is it so hard to buy white envelopes? But why didn’t you show me this voltage regulator initially when I asked for this specific style? But why are you saying you don’t sell markers when I can see markers displayed behind the counter (is my Portuguese really that bad)? The pressing-pushy mood of Transaction on the street is the opposite from the leisure Transaction in a shop. The Buyer in a shop is in no hurry and the Seller is not to be rushed. A business owner will, frequently, harshly criticize a shopworker on the floor in front of customers (me, in my head: hey it’s cool if this is a bad time for me to buy something here I can come back later… me, actually: don’t make eye contact). But why were things so heated in there? In the market once a woman selling eggplants and greenbeans scolded a herd of other vendors for harassing/bombarding me (carrots carrots carrots beans beans beans tomato tomato tomato potato potato potato pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin). But why won’t you just let me be? But why do you have to say everything 100 times over? This woman leaned under the hanging scale dangling from the top of her stall: “She has eyes, she can tell what you have laid out!” One of the men said, “I’m just trying to tell her what I’ve got, I just want to make sure she knows! I’m just trying to make a sale!” …. Oh that is why, just making Sale.
The Players of Business
Regardless of where the place of Business is, and I would say this is true in the states too, there is the collision of vendor, buyer, thief, and beggar. For me the most irritating are the beggar boys in town, 5-10 years old, they will stand under your chapa window, or chase you down the street, and try to look at pitiful as possible (“mili mili mili”), one arm slung over their forehead, their pained expressions well practiced because they don’t know any better and not much more is expected of them…. asking the mazungo is like playing lottery, except they have nothing to lose. Child beggars make me extremely uncomfortable, and frustrated because I know that my coins are going straight to a little cake, but their poverty and lack of opportunity is real. I feel disgusted with how the way I communicate with child beggars, awkward with how spoiled I am, and depressed that this is how the world works.
Okay… a slight digression: I’m not sure about the validity of this but I heard that, especially in Southern Mozambique, South African vacationers will toss candies out of their car windows at the kids on the street as they pull in with SUV plus trailer (if they have a boat trailer they probably are from Zim not SA, check the license plates, I swear everyone in Zim has a boat that accompanies them on all trips… I’m not sure where they go boating but there are apparently lots of boating hot spots in Moz) plus food plus supplies for eternity as if they were entering Armageddon. And the kids love the sweets because who wouldn’t?! The beggar kids are there because, sometimes, they get goodies. If you can’t already tell, I am critical of creating a generation who expects handouts, this is the paradox of help. Less so with hand-outs from tourists and more so with foreign aid efforts I wonder: how do you help without making dependents, how do you help by empowering? Or do we just say fuck it? I try to think no.
The Road Into Town:
Couches. Lots of couches. That is the first thing I noticed driving into Chimoio when I moved. Surprised? I sure was. The couchmakers line the main road going into the city and their products are pulled up alongside the road. These are really nice looking couches with a straight-out-of-Lazy-Boy SuperMegaStore look: sharp lines, various styles with decorative pleats at the headboard or along the corners, tight tan or black vinyl, wooden feet, usually sold in a couch loveseat armchair combo set. Granted I’ve only been in two houses with couches since getting here, but there must be a market because there are sure a lot of couches being made. What makes these couches special (at least in comparison to Lazy-Boy) is that they are built essentially with just hard manual labor. Every time I ride or walk by I learn something new about how you make a couch and there seems to be a few key components: chicken wire, used heavy bulk rice bags, and plastic grocery bags… you see: once the vinyl is pulled decoratively over the basic frame you don’t really have to know what’s inside the couch… that is if you are just looking at it… sitting on one, well that is something else. Wicker furniture venders sell their wares alongside the couches, for buyers seeking an economic alternative. I, personally, had a to go with a wicker item, specifically a standing basket shelf, but it is full of a healthy population of woodworms that are munching it down, leaving little yellow sawdust piles on my bathroom floor. In the mornings, the couchmakers wipe down the couches that are left sitting by the road day in and day out, the wicker furniture venders carry in their sets—2 chairs+loveseat+small coffee table can be roped together and carried all at once on your head or bike… if you are skilled.
The couchmakers share the road with chalkboard makers, woodshop co-ops. Street sold chalkboards are painted plyboard, so after one lesson you can’t hardly use it again and students complain so it is better to get the real thing. The woodshop wares are fine quality chairs, cupboards, tv stands (bookshelves not so common), bedframes (nothing beats the one chosen for my room: seductive purple velvet headboard, classy I know) cribs, etc. all well crafted with attention to style. Various carpenters share a shop (shack with a powerline) and tools, and each one has their own style or specialized item.
In town:
Being American I am constantly bombarded by whoever selling whatever, heck I’m foreign, I’ll buy whatever… men’s suit jackets:yes…baby shoes:yes…brooms:yes…briefcases:yes. If it’s been a legally acquired good it will be draped around arms, if it is an illegally acquired good (usually cellphone, sometimes jewelry) it will be held down low by the crotch and flashed up… a technique that would result in a lot of guys getting slapped in the face if it were used in the states. If there is a niche, or something that could be a niche even if there isn’t a market for the item, it is filled. In the city, people want money and will do what it takes.
There is a corner with shoe polishers. There is a corner with men who buy and sell dollar bills. There is a corner with legless men who repair shoes. Their tricycle, hand cranked/peddled wheelchairs (basically a metal chair enhanced with spare bike parks) sit on the street while they work on the curb. There is a corner for the medicinal (and probably some non-medicinal ones too) drug venders with their little suitcases propped up on a wall filled with packages of pills, and they will run fast and manically if the police seem like they are moving in, though this has only happened once that I’ve seen. The black sandals you see around town are made from old tires, and they are cut and stitched together by men working next to the bicycle repair lean-tos. On all corners there are boys selling prepaid cell phone credit, they clump together and each shake a long laminated ribbon of linked used cards as you walk by… “credito credito credito”. For one cell company you can whistle the jingle and they will come running, shaking their strips at you, eager for the sale.
In the park you can buy grey egg sandwiches in plastic bags to go with your mini-bagged koolade-like frozen beverage, or your bagged yoghurt. On the main road the newspapers are sold next to candy, which is laid out thoughtfully on homemade cardboard box displays with the lollipops propped upright in little holes. On rough days I go for the round chocolate bomboms instead of the street egg sandwich, still not brave enough for that one. In front of my work, ladies sell bananas and tangerines (now that they are in season). One lady also sells these rather alien looking baked goods: flakey cones with hot pink cream (if Barbie were a flavor these would be Barbie flavored) filling and sparsely stuffed chamussas.
In the Station/On the road:
The most … insistent… vendors hang out at paragems, where the overflowing chapas (like a minivan but really crappy) move in and out. Candy, chips—my favorite are straight from Maputo and the chutney tomato cheese beef etc. flavoring turns fingertip skin dark magenta, crackers, sodas and waters (though the bottles are usually refilled and glued shut: no that is not a Fiz beverage it is actually a Divita juice powder rehydrated), socks and belts, and fried dough knots piled in baskets and covered with cloth (sometimes they are sweet and soft, more often dry and disappointing). All paragems have the same vibe. As your chapa pulls up the vendors come running, the boys with bagged cashews will run alongside the windows trying to seal the deal as the chapa or bus putters on, the women will come with flat woven rice sifters filled with fruit on their heads…. 10 at once all with bananas or all with tangerines… and they wail at you to buy buy buy. Based on the discounted sale items, usually on the brink of expiration date, at the local supermarket I can accurately predict the hot items that will be at the paragem in coming weeks.
The Way of Business
The philosophy of making Business, of selling your product is different Mozambique than America. Okay that statement seems self-evident . . . duh, Alexandra, of course it is! But sometimes completing a transaction is so mystifying, and I can’t help but come out of the deal asking: But why…? Here the customer is not always right, actually the customer can sometimes be an inconvenience especially if there is a working tv in the shop. But why is it so hard to buy white envelopes? But why didn’t you show me this voltage regulator initially when I asked for this specific style? But why are you saying you don’t sell markers when I can see markers displayed behind the counter (is my Portuguese really that bad)? The pressing-pushy mood of Transaction on the street is the opposite from the leisure Transaction in a shop. The Buyer in a shop is in no hurry and the Seller is not to be rushed. A business owner will, frequently, harshly criticize a shopworker on the floor in front of customers (me, in my head: hey it’s cool if this is a bad time for me to buy something here I can come back later… me, actually: don’t make eye contact). But why were things so heated in there? In the market once a woman selling eggplants and greenbeans scolded a herd of other vendors for harassing/bombarding me (carrots carrots carrots beans beans beans tomato tomato tomato potato potato potato pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin). But why won’t you just let me be? But why do you have to say everything 100 times over? This woman leaned under the hanging scale dangling from the top of her stall: “She has eyes, she can tell what you have laid out!” One of the men said, “I’m just trying to tell her what I’ve got, I just want to make sure she knows! I’m just trying to make a sale!” …. Oh that is why, just making Sale.
The Players of Business
Regardless of where the place of Business is, and I would say this is true in the states too, there is the collision of vendor, buyer, thief, and beggar. For me the most irritating are the beggar boys in town, 5-10 years old, they will stand under your chapa window, or chase you down the street, and try to look at pitiful as possible (“mili mili mili”), one arm slung over their forehead, their pained expressions well practiced because they don’t know any better and not much more is expected of them…. asking the mazungo is like playing lottery, except they have nothing to lose. Child beggars make me extremely uncomfortable, and frustrated because I know that my coins are going straight to a little cake, but their poverty and lack of opportunity is real. I feel disgusted with how the way I communicate with child beggars, awkward with how spoiled I am, and depressed that this is how the world works.
Okay… a slight digression: I’m not sure about the validity of this but I heard that, especially in Southern Mozambique, South African vacationers will toss candies out of their car windows at the kids on the street as they pull in with SUV plus trailer (if they have a boat trailer they probably are from Zim not SA, check the license plates, I swear everyone in Zim has a boat that accompanies them on all trips… I’m not sure where they go boating but there are apparently lots of boating hot spots in Moz) plus food plus supplies for eternity as if they were entering Armageddon. And the kids love the sweets because who wouldn’t?! The beggar kids are there because, sometimes, they get goodies. If you can’t already tell, I am critical of creating a generation who expects handouts, this is the paradox of help. Less so with hand-outs from tourists and more so with foreign aid efforts I wonder: how do you help without making dependents, how do you help by empowering? Or do we just say fuck it? I try to think no.
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