We're Foreigners!

Going for a walk through Maputo is a great way to really catch the pulse of the city. In fact, it was while out walking this week that I made the (rather obvious) discovery that I'm a foreigner.

As I walked down the street, it was hard not to think that everyone was looking at me. And truth be known, they probably were.

Skin colour is the most obvious sign of being a foreigner. There is very little racial diversity in Mozambique -- and, in particular, very few caucasians. I wondered out loud whether or not people in Mozambique are racist. Yes, Raul assured me. Particularly in the villages, where their exposure to white people has been limited primarily to their Portuguese rulers several decades ago. In these villages, Mozambicans sometimes run at the sight of a man with light skin -- perhaps assuming he's there to kidnap them or steal their land.

In Maputo, people are generally more progressive. Here, my light skin isn't feared, but is certainly a symbol of my power and wealth. (Here, Laura hypothesizes a sharper distinction: light-skinned men are seen as wealthy and powerful; light-skinned women, by contrast, are seen only as wealthy.)

As I walk down the street, three boys stop rooting through a dumpster and look my way. One of them calls out to me using the label, "patrão." Boss.

(There is another word that people sometimes have for light-skinned men, again reflecting their limited exposure to our variety. At the pre-school in Khongolote, I'm mobbed by dozens of knee-height children chanting, "Pastore! Pastore!" That's the Portuguese word that they have discerned in their short lives to refer to one with light skin.)

Sometimes I want for these people to see me as a person, not a patrão (or a pastore). The reality, though, is that the donations that Laura and I have received to pay for our living expenses this year -- and drawing no salary -- puts us in a league far beyond the means of most Mozambicans.

Before sitting down to write this blog, I was counting out an envelope full of cash. The envelope contained of 7,800,000 meticais, which seemed like a lot in my hands, but is only worth about $300. The fact that Mozambique currency is so inflated provides a constant reality check -- having nearly 8 million of anything, even if it is just meticais, makes me feel rich.

By contrast, Laura and I bought a few samosas from a lady selling them in front of her house. She had made them herself, and was selling them for 1,000 meticais each. That's about four cents. Her day's work, if she sold all 1,000 samosas that she and her family made, would net her family about $8 after expenses -- which is an above-average income.

(This is another great example of micro-enterprise in action!)

Of course, sometimes I feel like I'm right back in Canada, surrounded by power structures to which I'm more accustomed. A few weeks back, while I was at the Khongolote bakery buying bread, I noticed that the shop employees had an old ghetto blaster playing a familiar bit of rock 'n roll -- was that Bryan Adams? Yes, Bryan Adams is big in Mozambique. And yes, at least some people know he's Canadian.

For that brief moment, I was just a regular guy standing in a bakery buying bread.

I'm trying to fit in as best I can, though the barriers are huge. I need to constantly remind myself to set aside my pride in order to surmount these barriers. Nobody wears a watch, so a common way of gathering a dispersed group is to start singing. At one micro-enterprise training session, the group asked me to choose a gathering song. I quickly realized that I had to swallow my pride and pick one of two options: either sing a song that I knew (and sing alone!), or try remembering one of their songs so that they'd sing along.

I tried singing a Shangana song that I had heard them sing before: "Acuna matata na jez-oo" ... or was it, "Nuncoona nutella and me too." Something like that. I probably sang jibberish, but they recognized the tune and (mercifully) joined in quickly.

One thing that's great about the people of Mozambique is that they're always smiling. They're always having fun. And they very graciously accept people who are obviously foreigners.