Estou a Pedir uma Boleia

Ok Mom, Dad - I need you to not read this post. I love you and I don't want you to worry about me so, for your own well-being, just don't read this.

Now, for the rest of you, uma boleia is a free ride or hitchhiking. Now in the US this might be associated with kidnappings and serial killers, but here in Mozambique it's associated with air conditioning and leg room. Uma boleia can be a five minute drive to the end of the street or a two hour journey to the capital.

Whichever it is, each time is like a new social experiment. Who will pick me up? Will they be a chatter? Will they ignore me? Will they be Mozambican or foreign? Within five minutes, will they love or hate me?

I won't lie; boleia-ing isn't guaranteed to be a safe form of transportation. In Mozambique travel is always risky. Of course, there are ways to reduce risk. Mom, Dad since I know you're reading this I'll list them here: 

1. Talk with the driver before getting in the car and check for alcohol

2. Always ask where they are going instead of giving your destination

3. Say no thank you if you feel at all uncomfortable

4. (My favorite) If you're in the car and want to get out claim that Estou a fazer xixi! I have to pee! 

So yes, there is a risk but for Volunteers in small villages this is the only option to travel. And for me, when I've walked in 100 degree weather with bags full of rice and potatoes, boleia-ing is a really really nice option. So good in fact, I have not taken chapa since my first week in Pemba. 

I shouldn't give you the wrong idea.

Boleia-ing is not that common. Common among Volunteers? Yes. Common among Mozambicans? No. The fact that a Portuguese couple would take my friend and me on a two hour ride to Nampula - directly to the airport- has a lot to do with my skin color, gender, and nationality.

Should I feel guilty about taking advantage of this unfair benefit? In some ways I do. Especially when chapas - cramped, hot, smelly, and costly- are so readily available to me.

Buuuut…. did I mention the air conditioning and leg room? What are your thoughts? Am I abusing my status by taking boleias? Am I missing out on an opportunity to integrate by not using the chapa?

Can you imagine cramming into a chapa for your daily commute? I haven't actually taken a picture from inside a chapa, but this one that I found at http://www.world-around-us.ca/what-i-love-about-maputo-lisettes-top-ten/ is a perfect representation of every chapa I've ever been in. 

love love love

Asking for Help is Never Easy. Except in Portuguese.

In Portuguese when you ask for help, you don't ask for it directly. For example to ask for a pen one would say Estou a pedir uma caneta this literally translates to I am asking for a pen. I first encountered this estou-a-perdir-ing technique from my host sister, E. When I first met her she never spoke, just stared. After a week, when she saw me in the morning she would put her had out and say Da, meaning give. Then after two weeks (and she really got to know me) it was Estou a pedir caneta, Estou a pedir computador, Estou a pedir papel.

It never bothered me. I liked the attention from E and my other irmãos. When they asked for a pen and paper, we colored for an hour. When they asked for the computer, we took pictures on Photo Booth.

Like this!

I was happy to provide entertainment to my host siblings. My favorite pedir came from my youngest irmão D, "Mana Rayna, estou a pedir o luz para fazer xixi. After a few minutes of silence and a few hand motions, I turned on the bathroom light and D went xixi.

I'm getting a bit off track.

My point is that here in Mozambique asking a friend, neighbor, stranger for help is a common part of life. The American in me is dying of embarrassment and loss of pride to ask my neighbor of only three weeks for help burning my trash (more on that - I promise!). But in Mozambique, where the "unified" government is younger than I am, people have learned to support their neighbors because one day (probably tomorrow) they will also need help. And they're not going to get it from anywhere else.

This cultural norm does have a negative side. When I didn't understand E's way of greeting me, I asked my Portuguese teacher what she meant. With some discomfort, he explained that as a foreigner, I am seen as rich and therefore able to give. Give what? Anything. Everything.

More than once I have been asked for my sandals (Not my Chacos!) and the food in my hand (on it's way to my mouth). The people that ask are not beggars. They are teenagers walking down the street, old women waiting for a chapa, and annoying crianças outside my door. The way they ask is eerie and nonchalant, as if they don't expect or even care if you give them the requested item. This isn't begging, it's testing. It's as if they ask just in case you are willing to give up the shoes on your feet or the food in your mouth.

I've learned to roll my eyes at the random pedir-ing from teenagers, but when it's an older woman asking for food, I pause. How many times has she asked a stranger for help? How many times has she received it? How many times has she given it? Is she really hungry? Or is she just testing me?

Obviously, I'll never know the answer to these questions. I just hope one day I'll be just as comfortable asking the question.

love love love

Pemba: Not the Africa You Were Expecting

Ok, admit it. When I told you I was going to live in Africa for two years, what did you picture? A grass roof hut? Dirt floor? Cooking on a coal fire? Miles away from my closest neighbor?

Honestly, so did I.

In fact, I was looking forward to it. I pictured myself carrying buckets of water on my head, building a fire, and growing my own food. I knew it would be lonely, frustrating and (until I built up the muscles in my neck) painful. But I had this desire to say, "I did it...I lived… I survived… I thrived in Africa."

But that Africa is not Pemba.

I live in a gated community with the faculty of the school. My house has electricity, a fridge, a stove, and sometimes (SOMETIMES) running water. If the water isn't running there is a cistern in our backyard. Next door is the school, and next to that are the student dorms. Across the street is a bank, two corner stores, and a bar. Turn right and you're at the beach. Turn left and you're at the airport. At night I hear cars, music, and the intoxicated shouts of night dwellers. As I type this I can clearly hear Beyonce's "Video Phone" from across the street. During the day the night dwellers are replaced by crianças running from porch to porch. Chapas stop right outside the community entrance and is five minutes away from the city center. There I can find whatever I need, if I'm willing to pay the meticias.

If I was looking for a place where I would become a self-sufficient pioneer, well I would be 

disappointed. 

But I'm not! 

Instead of isolation I've found a lively, international, growing community. More importantly, instead of learning to be self-sufficient, I am learning to rely on my community.

I should also mention that my experience is a unique and chique experience. There are some volunteers who live in a grass roof hut, without electricity, and travel hours to the closest town, but the majority are somewhere in between. No matter where we live, all of us are learning to be a part of a brand new and unique community.

I can't wait to get to know my Pemba!

Love love love 

P.S. 

 A goat being slaughtered in my backyard. Note the spider as big as my face in the top left corner. 

As requested, photos of Pemba.

Here's the front of the house.

Here's the view of the street. The girl on the corner always over charges me on mangos. 

Side of the house. That's a cashew tree. Delicious. 

Here's the back of the house. 

Our neighbors. :) 

Our dining room. 

Our kitchen. This is where we spend most of our time. 

Our attempt at decorating: photos of family and friends. Down the hallway are the bedrooms (not clean enough to take pictures of today!) and bathroom. 

Living room. The couch is placed between the front and back door, making the perfect wind tunnel. You think about these things in Mozambique. 

Love love love, 

From Pemba