“estou aqui para trabalhar, nao para ‘namorar,”

Thursday night-8:03pm,

August 30^th.

 The days are passing quickly. I feel like the time is flying by… I’m tired… and I haven’t even started any projects yet (as far as work is concerned; & I probably won’t for another few months).

 My ‘work’ is pretty flexible and relaxed for the time being (although I have an indication that it will probably remain like this for my time here).

Some days I don’t feel like writing. Nothing seems worth sharing. Other days- my head is filled with funny, quirky, or aggravating anecdotes.

Like I mentioned in my last post, I’m keeping this blog in order to share my experience with those back home (& frankly, anyone who thinks my writing is worth the read), but also because the act of writing is therapeutic to me. Writing helps me get my thoughts in order… it helps me make sense of things… and it helps me reflect on my own actions, thoughts, emotions, etc.

Sometimes I find myself thinking, “god, I hope this isn’t boring.” So, sorry if it is., ahaha. Actually, no. I’m not sorry. Close the page & move on about your day. I won’t be offended. Promise. Ha.

Anyway, let’s see… Like I said, work is seemingly flexible for the time being. Our first three months at site are designated as an ‘integration period.’ We are not technically held responsible for any ‘work’ at our organizations (although this will largely depend on the org.; a few, very few, volunteers have legit 9-5 jobs with office desk & such), seeing as we are still settling in and getting a hold of things.

Today I rolled out of bed around 8am. I walked around my little house, opened up all the windows/curtains and then made my way to my kitchen. Remember how I got a gas tank for my fugão on Friday? Well, I was still missing the hose & the valve in order to connect it and be able to use it. I finally got a hold of these items yesterday and I was able to get it up and running, … finally. Well, today I walked over to my stove and tried to turn it on. It didn’t work. Fucking figures.

It worked yesterday so I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong. Was the tank low on gas? Did I mess up the connection somehow? Was I going to have to take more baths with cold water? Merrrrp. Who knows. I figured I would go to work and ask my site mate for help later…

I went to work (about a 5-8 minute walk from my house) and arrived at 10am. I sat in our main sewing room for a little bit and helped sew on the chin/neck portion of the anatomically correct dolls. My site mate (the volunteer I’m replacing) had arrived before me.

At around noon, I was getting antsy and I felt like taking Gome for a walk around the neighborhood. Gome is the association’s dog. He’s a sweet little guy. Well, he’s not so little. He’s medium-lrg sized and looks like a German Shepherd that has been shaved. Since I met him, I’ve been meaning to passear (stroll/walk around) with him but he didn’t have a leash. On Tuesday, I bought him a leash at the Shoprite (the super market- like a Ralph’s) near my house.

Gome is a little timid and not thoroughly socialized. I was told that he associates a leash with being taken to the vet so I approached the situation with some tasty treats for him. I’ve been bringing him bones and chicken scraps here and there, so even though I haven’t been here too long, he already likes me and knows I feed him some good stuff once in a while. I brought bits of chicken sausage that I had cut up and put a few of those in a napkin to take with us on our walk.

Passear-ing with Gome was quite the cultural experience. Even though plenty of Mozambicans have dogs- they don’t walk them like we do in the states and they don’t seem to like them that much either. Dogs here are usually kept to deter ladrãos (thiefs) from people’s houses because most Mozambicans fear them. Weird. Most people have dogs… but at the same time, they are afraid of [other] dogs. Not sure how this works…

 Sadly, dogs here are not treated as nicely as we treat our pets. Most of them look hungry- their ribs are visible, and the majority of them have open scabs and wounds that don’t seem to heal (especially on their ears). Because these wounds don’t heal, flies swarm around them and feed of the blood in these wounds. It’s a sad sight to see. PETA activist-beware. As much as it saddens me to see these poor dogs in these conditions, I know I can’t be overly judgmental. People here live hard lives and I’m sure that the wounds on their dogs’ ears are the last of their worries.

Anyway, back to my story. I took Gome out for our first walk! At first, he behaved like a dog that had never been walked. Although he’s a little skinny, he’s still strong enough to pull me. He kept running to different piles of trash in the neighboring yards as if enchanted by all the new and different smells. I pulled him close to me and led him down the street. As soon as we started walking, I felt the piecing glares of onlookers. They looked at me like I was fucking crazy!! Here is this ‘branca,’ first of all- which is novelty enough. But now she has this big dog on a leash! Ahahahaha. While some gave me looks of confusion others quickly scattered to the opposite side of the rua (road) to get away from Gome. I immediately overheard the queries, “ha de morder?” (does he bite?) & “e seu guarda?” (is he your guard?), ahahahah. -I don’t think so & not, not yet, anyway. Aha!

I was quite amused to say the least. I’ve always wanted to have a power breed dog (all of my bebes have been little guys under 10lbs- Max, Mikey, and Sneaks) but my city life in Los Angeles never quite permitted the opportunity. I’ve taken quite a liking to Gome and I think I might adopt him while I’m here. It’s the perfect scenario in my opinion. I don’t have to fully commit to having a dog and feeling guilty when I leave in 2 yrs, but I can feed him, give him a bath from time to time, and take him with me when I walk around by myself around town.

Remember how I said I felt like a walking target at times? Well, if I had this big-ass dog with me, I definitely think fools would think twice before pulling any stunts.

But I diverge.

I was passearing with Gome, getting all sorts of crazy looks, and getting stopped from time to time with curious passer-bys asking me what I was doing. I told them I was taking him for a stroll and that I was training him too. I showed a few people that I had taught Gome how to sit. They were REALLY impressed. Dogs here don’t passear with their owners, and they certainly don’t do tricks.

 When strangers would ask “does he bite,” I would respond, “sim você não faz mal, ele não faz mal” (if you don’t hurt him, he wont hurt you- ‘do wrong’ in literal translation). I’m not too sure how true this is (aha) but I didn’t want to give away all my tricks.

I definitely plan on training and socializing Gome more as time passes, and perhaps he will protect me if anything ever goes down.

The entire experience, which lasted less than 20 minutes, was quite a cultural experience. I found myself constantly repeating, “eu se que vocês, Mozambicanos, não habituan passear con caes, mais na America, nos gostamos muito passear con nossos caes,” (I know that Mozambicans don’t usually walk their dogs, but in America, we love to walk our dogs).

And then came the more personal questions…

 I was taking my second lap around the block (not really a block, but you get the gist) when a group of 3 young guys (around 17-19 prob) started a casual conversation. It started off as a conversation about Gome/dogs in general, to who I was/what I was doing in Moz, and it lead to the topic of dating/“’namoraring,” (enamorar- fall in love).

It went a little bit like this- (translated over form Portuguese)

Mosso (guy): “When did you get here”

W- “I’ve been in this community for about 3 wks, but I’ve been in Mozambique for 3 months,”

M- “3 months!?”

W- “yea, I had to complete a training in Namaacha for the first few weeks,”

M- “in Maputo?”

W-“No, but it’s close by.”

M-“So, are you going to get married and stay here?”

W-“ahahah! No. I don’t have any desire to get married.”

M-“you don’t?! how old are you?”

W-“24”

M- “So, then why don’t you want to get married?!”

W- “How am I going to get married, start having kids, if I don’t have money to take care of them/feed them?”

M- “Well, if you’re not ready for marriage then you can still ‘namorar,” (date/fall in love)

W-“ahahah, no, I’m not here to ‘namorar.”

M- “what’s the matter? You don’t like Mozambicans (i.e. blacks)?”

W- “It’s not that…. But the culture here is very different. Mozambican men like to have 3 girlfriends at a time! One here, another there, and another on the side! I’m not OK with that.”*** 

M- “But not everyone is like that,”

W- “Yea, I know. But still…”

M- “But still what? I agree with you! And I wouldn’t do that!”

W- “ahahaha. I believe you… mais  eu estou aqui para trabalhar, nao para ‘namorar. Ciao.” (But I’m here to work, not to date. Bye.” )

 *…sidenote: {long term concurrent partnerships are very common here, ie. Multiple partners for an extended period of time@ the same time= not down with that. Not to mention the HIV rate is crazy high here. Not down for that either. Not worth the risk. Oh yea, & did I mention that my heart is in another place?}*

 Constantly negar-ing (negar= deny + ing; this is how we, PCVs conjugate our Portuguese and English verbs together. It’s slang. Don’t take it as how we actually speak, lol.) marriage proposals is part of our daily reality as female PCVs. Since people here tend to marry at an earlier age and contraceptives don’t seem to be used at the level that we use (back home), the idea of a ‘single’ 24/almost 25 year old mossa (slang for girl) that has not fulfilled her gender role as a mother/wife/ and/or both, is a concept that is beyond their comprehension, or so it seems.

I’ve had a few lengthy conversations with Mozambicans trying to explain the reason why I have no strong desire to get married (now… or in general, really… “le tengo miedo al matrimonio, antes de casarme prefiero pelear con 20 demonios,”) and why I don’t have kids. They must think I’m crazy. But not all of them. Many of them understand… and they realize that fulfilling our gender role as passive and submissive Marias is no longer a role many of us care to play anymore. And this is for the women I’ve spoken to.

 The men that I constantly turn down can’t seem to understand why I would negar their generous proposal, aha. They are persistent with their questions and don’t seem to want to take NO for an answer. “Porque?” (why?! How come?) is always their counter argument. I’m not down. End of fucking story.

Is it that they are not use to women asserting themselves to them? I don’t think that this is it and I certainly don’t want to do Mozambican women a disfavor by assuming such, and making broad generalizations about their gender relations in this insignificant and misinformed blog. 

It’s 10:03pm. Have I seriously spent 2 hours writing this?? Fuckk.

Anyway.

After passear-ing with Gome, I went back to the sewing room and helped out a little bit more. At around 2pm, my site mate and I left work and came to my house to look over this fugão situation. She helped me re-connect the valve and she even figured out that my fugão does NOT, in fact, have the capacity to be used as an electric stove. HA! Well, that’s a relief. Atleast it’s not broken, like I figured. Turns out the cord can be connected, and it serves as an electric starter! You connect both to the gas tank and outlet, turn on the knob, push the button at the far right corner and it lights! No matches needed!

As a new comer to Mozambique and admittedly clueless to this entire fugão situation, I obviously had no clue as to wtf an electric starter even was. Ahahah. “Learn something new everyday!”