Culture Clash? Melting Pot? My life here is full of contrasts.

My life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in a midsized Mozambican city is one of stark contrasts. Life in general in a developing country in the era of globalization is full of contrasts: woman walking down the street carrying baskets of fruit on their head while texting. A man leading his goat through the paved parking lot of the big, multi-national grocery store. But this weekend has really put those contrasts front-and-center for me to appreciate. To illustrate, let me walk you through the last couple of days.

Friday was the university’s official opening ceremony for the academic year. As it is a Catholic institution, the day began with a mass. The service was a sort of microcosm of  the intense blend of cultures that exist here. We sat in an plastic chairs set in rows in an auditorium whose walls have been painted with two large advertisements declaring in Portuguese that Coca-Cola is best enjoyed cold. The professors all sat to one side, most wearing their caps and gowns. (As no one told me to bring my graduation regalia to Mozambique, I was wearing the capulana dress that I had made for our swearing-in ceremony).

For a relatively small group (maybe around 30 full time), the faculty is diverse. Predominantly male, but with maybe six or seven women, we are Mozambican, Zimbabwean, Ugandan, Polish, Dutch, Italian and American. Our Mozambican director was educated in Texas, while the Polish director of the English department went to university in Britain, but is now married to a Mozambican.

As the mass began, the Mozambican Bishop of Chimoio entered, flanked by three other priests, two African and one French. Their vestments were what you would expect: fine white fabric edged with ornate, metallic-threaded embroidery. But the bishop’s cassock was also adorned with an appliqué of sorts, in a capulana-like fabric printed with fish. His mitre was beautiful, embellished with brightly colored patches of fabric alternating with leopard print. They walked past the choir of university students all wearing matching white UCM polo shirts, the women in matching wrapped capulana skirts and the men in jeans or pants made of the same capulana. They took their seats at the altar that had been fashioned on the stage and decorated with swaths of capulana and tulle.

The bishop and other officials at a ceremony in January.

Throughout the mass, the choir sang hymns in Portuguese, Chitewe (the local language of Chimoio), and Shona (another local language). Some were in the chanting style of masses I have attended in the US, but many included the beautiful harmonizing and clapping that characterizes the traditional acapella Mozambican music I have heard here. I met the French priest before and he speaks fluent Portuguese (with a charming French accent) but I saw a few times that he was also singing along with the hymns in Chitewe.

The mass was followed by a series of speeches by various administrators and finished with a presentation by the Minister of Mineral Resources for Mozambique. A well-educated, impressively-experienced woman, she gave a detailed presentation on the history and current state of mineral resources in Mozambique, then opened the floor to questions.

My favorite interaction of the day came when a first year student studying law stood, not to ask a question, but to take the opportunity to offer his criticism of the government. The student was eager to lodge his complaint regarding the state of development in Mozambique, specifically infrastructure and healthcare. He did not like that so many Mozambicans leave to go to hospitals in South Africa and other neighboring countries. The ministra took it all with good humor, interrupting his complaint about a recent trip to a hospital with, “You left alive, didn’t you?” and pointing out that as a law student, he would have to learn to back up his case with more facts. I should note that the student made all of his rambling, poorly-focused argument while wearing skinny jeans that were falling off of his butt and large headphones around his neck, using the cord of them to gesticulate.

It was a pleasure watching the woman who had graduated high-school during a time when Mozambicans with a secondary education numbered in only the triple digits and finished college during the civil war, when there were as many people in the country’s one university as there are currently enrolled in college in the province of Manica, skillfully take down the kid who is a beneficiary of the current boom in development here. And all with a smile. Yet another contrast in cultures, just this time it was between different generations of Mozambicans.

The ministra speaks about mineral resources.

Saturday, I spent most of the day planning my lessons for the coming week. More specifically, making PowerPoint slides for my lessons, something I did not expect to be a regular part of my work as a PCV. During the morning, another volunteer came by the house with a Mozambican friend of his who we will be hiring to help take care of our yard. We have had an ongoing drama surrounding the cleaning of our yard, which finally seems to have been resolved. The house I live in is much bigger and nicer than I should have as a PCV and it has been very difficult to find someone to just cut the grass and trim the hedges for a price we can afford. The last person who came by to quote wanted to do a full landscaping job with two assistants and charge us half our monthly stipend. I think it is hard for most to understand that, despite the fact that we are muzungus (white/foreigners) living in a large house in a nice part of town, we do not have large salaries.

The young man who will now be helping us needs the money to pay his way through the last two years of high school. As we talked about the payments, he told me that really all he cared about was having enough to finish his education. He explained that his mother had died and father lived in a northern province with his other wife and new family. “He is living his own life” now, the boy explained to me with a shrug. We finalized the agreement, he left with a guava from my tree to the house he shares with his grandmother and cousin and I went back inside to finish my work at the nice table in the three-bedroom I have to myself.

In the evening, after finishing my lesson plans and Skyping with a friend in the Peace Corps office, I had dinner at a pizza restaurant with two fellow volunteers. We were surrounded by tables of expats: one of Japanese JICA volunteers, another overflowing with South African and British men and a third with a Brazilian woman and her companion. We had a long conversation with the JICA volunteers in Portuguese. It was a little surreal.

But today promises to be one of the most surreal so far. This morning, my Canadian VSO friend and I met up with one of the young men who works at my university to go to church. The worker was one who had helped renovate the dependencia behind my house for the other volunteer who lives there. We had the opportunity to talk plenty while I was doing laundry or they were taking a break from their work and he asked if I would come to his church some time. This was in December. He asked again last month, but it this was the first week when it would actually work. We met at the school and he explained that the church was “bem perto” (really close), but we would have to take a chapa. His way of saying it wasn’t close at all, but he didn’t want us to decide not to go. No worries, it was only 8:30 and I finished most of my lesson plans yesterday.

We took the chapa to the edge of Chimoio-proper and got off on a dirt road. After following winding paths through corn fields, mud-brick and thatched-roof houses, and eventually crossing a stream, we arrived at the little Igreja Missão Baptista Internacional de Moçambique. The church was only established last June and is currently housed in a small, simple, windowless building also made of mud-bricks with a thatch roof. The one room consisted of riser-style benches facing an altar with a portrait of Jesus and four chairs arrayed behind it. We were led to the front and told that as guests, we would be sitting in two of these chairs, beside the pastor and his assistant. Oh, and as we entered the church, my friend from school’s brother asked, “You are ready to say some words? To preach?” No. No, I am not.

Igreja Missão Baptista Internacional de Moçambique

Shortly after we arrived, the room began to fill with parishioners. The pastor explained that the service was supposed to begin at 9:00, but many were accustomed to arriving at 10:00. While they were waiting for the rest of the congregation to arrive, those present began to sing. The twenty or so worshippers there included children, young mothers in t-shirts and the omnipresent capulana wraps, young men in slacks and ties, and a two or three stooped avós (grandmothers). The songs were all in Chitewe, so I couldn’t understand the words, but the music was beautiful: a sort of overlapping call-and-response, with one or two people taking the first lines and the others singing the rest, all in rich harmonies. The only accompaniment was a pair of maracas and everyone’s clapping. Occasionally, the women would break out in a stomping dance; one pregnant, another breastfeeding a baby tied to her by a capulana, a girl of about 6 or 7, and a tiny girl in pants that wouldn’t stay up and her mother’s giant slip-on pink shoes. One of the avós joined in at times, to complete the range of generations.

Once it began, the service itself moved along at a decent pace. My friend greeted the congregation, went through the schedule for the service and explained that there were visitors today. (All with his English-speaking brother translating the Chitewe). We each got up and introduced ourselves and I got an enthusiastic round of applause when I greeted them with the one Chitewe word that I know. There was more singing and dancing interspersed between the testimonials of those present, the sermon from the minister and prayers for the sick. In lieu of preaching, I agreed to read the bible verses that the pastor had selected. It was clear that our presence and participation meant a lot to the small congregation.

After the service had ended, the crowd of parishioners left to pray for a sick member of the church. We stayed and spoke for a little while with the pastor. They brought us cookies and soda and insisted that we eat and drink. We ate some of the cookies, but when a crowd of children peeked through the door, I asked if it would be okay to share with them. The kids eagerly took the cookies and ran out to play. We listened as the pastor told us the story of how the church had been founded and the many challenges it had faced in its first year. Once the snacks were finished, we walked back to the chapa, stopping to drop chairs at the house my friend shares with his brother, sister and her children. He explained that he is currently saving to build a house of his own so that his wife and kids can move in from the distrito (rural area).

So, why is today surreal? After starting with a morning in a church service in Chitewe, full of traditional music and dance, surrounded by people living in much simpler homes than where I live, I am getting ready for dinner with the US Ambassador to Mozambique and Deputy Assistant Secretary of State. Like I said, my life here is a study in contrasts.

Update: Here is a picture of me with Ambassador Griffiths and DAS Brigety (as he explained, he is the assistant to the deputy in charge of African Affairs). We had a really nice dinner with them and two other State Department staffers. They answered all of our questions and took time to hear all about what we are doing here in Manica. Apparently, he tries to meet with Peace Corps Volunteers whenever he is traveling through Africa. It was fascinating hearing more about the workings of the State Department and nice to know that they will take the time to sit down with us little guys.