Where does your water come from?

I’ve lived in a third world country for over a year now.  I wash my clothes using a three basin system: soap, rinse, rinse.  I wash dishes with two basins.  I “shower” out of a bucket, dumping a smaller cup of water on my head to bathe.  I cook using coals.  Not having conveniences of the modern world has become routine for me, normal.  It’s my day to day life.  But I know it’s only for two years time. 

I have these moments every now and then when I take a step back and think to myself in bewilderment that this is my neighbors’ lives every day, for their entire lives.  The idea of washing machines, dish washers, vacuums, and running water are far away concepts that they may have seen in movies or heard of in that dream place called America, but they don’t give them a second thought.  This is how they have always lived, and, sadly, will continue to live for a long time.  I recently found out that Murrupula first received electricity only about 4 years ago!  They don’t look at it as a lot of work though, it’s just life.

Today I had one of those moments when I went to get water.  My neighbor usually gets water for me from a nearby house that has a well, essentially just a reinforced hole in the ground.  However, my neighbor, irritably, has sort of just disappeared this past week.  Fortunately, it has been raining and I have been able to keep my water buckets filled by collecting rain water, but today my water level was getting low.

The usual visiting children came over this afternoon and offered to go get me water.  We first went to the well, but the owner was not around and the bucket lowered in to the well to reach the water was not there.  The children suggested another location a little further down the hill.

It was essentially a dried lake bed where someone had dug out a hole, placed a ceramic basin in the bottom where ground water could trickle in, and then rimmed the hole with a huge semi-truck tire.  About 5 women were already there, their buckets scattered around the area, waiting for the basin to fill up.  Then they would kneel beside the hole on the tire, lean in so that almost their entire bodies were inside the hole, and use another bucket or bowl to scoop water out, filling their own buckets.  When the water level would get too low, they would sit back and wait again for it to fill up, then repeat the process.

For about 10 minutes, I just sat there watching these women and thinking how much of pain in the butt this would be to have to do every single day!  But they showed no angst or irritation.  They sat around patiently waiting for the water, talking in Macua (probably about the white girl) and filled up their buckets. 

After about 30 minutes, I saw this was going to take a long time and opted to come back another day or find another water source tomorrow.  So me and my six children assistants headed back up the hill towards my house. 

Along the way, we passed a group of women sitting around sorting some peanuts.  I greeted them, explained how I was getting water but would come back another time, and they said no, we will take you now. 

So one woman, who I later learned was named Gilda, grabbed my buckets and proceeded down the hill to fill them up for me.  She was so sweet, not letting me help her as she nearly climbed inside the whole to reach the water.

With two buckets now filled, a little over an hour later, we made our way back to the house: two 8 year old girls carrying the buckets on their heads, one 5 year old boy, one American girl carrying a 3 year old on her hip and holding the hand of another 4 year old girl, and one 7 year old carrying a bowl filled with water just for bonus.  I couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

As a reward, as because I feel a little guilty taking advantage of this kind of child labor, I gave all the kids Tootsie Rolls as payment for helping me.  Can’t wait for them to visit tomorrow asking for more chocolates!

Cooking Peace Corps style

What is carvão?  Why use it if you have an electric stove?

“Carvão” [car vow] is essentially charcoal.  Mozambicans make it by placing a log in a hole in the ground, setting it on fire, and then covering the hole so the log sort of just smolders, creating a charcoal we call “carvão”.  You can buy a huge sack about 5 feet high for just 100mts (about $3.33).

This was my setup for baking a cake.  You
can see the metal fugao, with it's two sections.
Inside of this pot is another smaller pot which
holds the cake batter, set a top a few rocks
so that the bottom of the cake and pan do not burn.
On top of the pot is some carvao.  After some
experimental attempts, I no longer put carvao on top.

The process of cooking with carvão first begins with preparing your “fugão” [foo gow], or stove.  Outside, I have a concrete table on which I place my fugão for cooking.  On the top portion of the fugão, you place the carvão.  Underneath, you assemble paper, cardboard, plastic bags, anything that will burn.  Light a match, start a fire under the carvão, feed the fire until some of the carvão turns gray and is lit, use the lid of a pot to fan the carvão to heat it up faster, wait a few minutes and presto, it’s time to cook.

Yes it can be a pain, but now it only takes me a few minutes to light the carvão.  It gets hotter and thus is better for cooking beans, rice, baking, and boiling drinking water.  On a hot day, cooking inside on the stove can be awful and that kitchen gets too warm, so its can be a nice alternative to cook outside.  Also, I don’t trust the electrical wiring in my house that much to use my stove too often, especially for things that need a while to cook.

What have I been eating lately?  At the market yesterday, I bought my first pineapple of the season.  Breakfast I’ve been having yogurt with homemade granola, a fried egg, or cereal with powdered milk.  For lunch, I’ve been making sandwiches with a squash/zucchini type vegetable sautéed with onions and garlic.  Dinner the past few nights was fried rice, then spaghetti, then black beans seasoned with taco seasoning.  Due to a loving mother who sends me too many packages, I have quite a few American spices and seasoning packets, so I eat decently over here.  It’s the fresh produce and dairy products that can be hard to come by.  Since most of these meals are quick cooking, I’ve only been using my carvão to boil water which I then put in my water filters for clean drinking water.  However, on those days when the power is out, carvão is the only option. 

The Truth about Transportation

Dec 14, 2011: First trip to Nampula city – Went to Nampula.  My what an adventure that was!  Coming back, caught a chapa to Feina chapa stop. So overwhelming there and by that time, I had lost all my patience, it was so hot and obnoxious people saying “amiga, give me money.” It sucks because it is hard to distinguish people that are jerks trying to take advantage of you and those who really are trying to help.  We opted for a chapa back.  Mistake!  Hot, cramped, waiting forever to fill the last “seat” even though it was packed already (30 people!).  As we waited, vendors attack through the door selling chargers, soda, cakes, bread, whatever.  Finally we made it home, to our hot stuffy house, but it’s still nice to kind of shut ourselves away and relax.

This was a journal entry after my first trip to Nampula city.  Oh Nampula.  It’s not my favorite city in the world.  Actually, it probably tops the list of my least favorite cities.  But, for us Northerners, it’s our city, our go-to place to buy cheese and other groceries, eat out at a restaurant, use free internet in our PC office and most importantly, pass through to get to other places.  Why is Nampula so bad?  Because the above is really all you can do there.  And, it’s not the safest place, definitely not somewhere I ever walk around at night.  Fortunately, I have learned to navigate the streets of Nampula and know those places to stay away from or where to keep my guard up and I haven’t had any issues walking around, yet. 

The second part of this journal entry, transportation.  Getting around Mozambique, you basically have two options: use public transportation (“chapa” [shop ah]) or try to hitchhike (“boleia” [bow lay ah]).  The further south you go, the easier it is to boleia – more people have cars, thus more traffic plus there are better road conditions.  Up north, “catching a boleia” can be a little harder.  Many volunteers opt for the hitchhiking option because 1. it’s much more comfortable 2. it’s faster 3. it can be safer (seatbelts).  The thing about hitchhiking is that you never know how long you are going to be waiting on the side of the road and when or even if someone will ever stop for you.  However, most people can easily rationalize this by arguing that it typically takes a long time for chapas to fill up.  So either you sit on the chapa or you can wait outside for something else to drive by.

Let me explain this further.  Chapas.  These are mini-buses, with four rows of seats plus the driver and passenger seats in front.  Though there are technically only three seats in a row, you always sit four people to a row and two up front in the passenger seat.  Frequently, they squeeze in a fifth row of four people facing backwards behind the driver’s seat, legs interlocking like a zipper with the front row of passengers.  So, that’s a minimum of 22 people, plus the driver, plus the “cobrador” [coe brah door] who stands in the second row by the door and is responsible for collecting money and opening and closing the door.  So a total of 24 people sitting very close together plus the usual babies or young children who sit in their parent’s lap.  It’s certainly an experience ha.

The chapa driver will not leave until every seat is filled.  That means, even if they are missing just one person and have 21 people, they will continue to wait, sometimes upwards of an additional hour, for that last person to come.  Fortunately, for me in Murrupula, because I am only about 75km from Nampula City, people frequently are coming and going to the city so my chapas usually fill up pretty quickly, averaging about 45 minutes.  (You can see my sense of time has changed a little bit ha.  Anything under an hour I consider fast!)  While travelling to other sites, however, it is not uncommon to wait over 1 or even 2 hours for the chapa to leave.  The longest I ever waited?  Over six hours!  When there are no other options though, all you can do is wait.  Patience is key in this country. 

I usually opt for the chapa option for my trips in to the city, just because I can see and have an idea of how much longer it’ll be.  Admittedly, I have “boleia-ed” several times (don’t freak out too much Mom and Dad, I’ve almost always been with another volunteer), and they are always much better rides complete with seat belts, sometimes air conditioning, and you can meet some cool people.  For instance, my last ride in to the city was with two South African gentlemen who told me all about places to go in Cape Town, which was convenient since I am going there for vacation in a few weeks.  The thing about hitchhiking is being selective, taking in to consideration the condition of the car and the driver, and not being afraid to speak up if you feel they are going too fast.

So that’s my adventure for getting in to the city.  Then you arrive at the chapa station, which is pretty much as I described in the journal entry: busy, crowded, people asking for money, vendors, marriage proposals, etc. 

As I reread that journal entry again, I smirk to myself thinking about how ridiculous it sounds but knowing that it’s my reality here and something I have grown accustomed to.  I still just shake my head when I see the six sheep tied to the roof of a chapa or a family of three driving by on their single motorcycle, baby sitting in front holding the handle bars, but no longer does it shock me quite as much.  I’m not really sure if that’s good or bad, to be honest.  Yes, I do get anxious while travelling, some times more than others.  Having had two friends pass away due to a car accident in this country, the risk is something I think about every time I travel here.  But you take all the precautions you can, mitigate the risk, and hopefully get to where you need to go safely.  

My Mozambican Family

The Uarila’s are a family here in Murrupula that I have grown close with.  I met the teenage son, Inocêncio, through my neighbor (they were classmates).  While my neighbor was away from April to July, Inocêncio became my go to person for questions like finding a carpenter to build a bed frame, finding someone to bring me water, and controlling my house while I travelled.  He now is the one person I let stay in my house while I am away.

A few months ago, Inocêncio’s father wrote a letter to my parents that I’d like to share here. 

Parents of our dear Teacher Sara,

It is with great pleasure we remember you, that in a magnificent and unforgettable form brought to the world an intelligent, beautiful, and admirable daughter to whom you gave the name Sara.  After her national travels to America and others, she returned to be with us in Murrupula, and resumed her indispensable teaching activities and projects for creating conditions for a library where children, teenagers and adults can easily pass to read and write Portuguese and English.  It will be joyous and unforgettable if she succeeds this effect.

                 She can give the name that she wants, but we will call her by the name Sara and we will preserve it with all merit and quality for a long time and the name Sara won’t disappear between us.

                Sara is really a good teacher.  She teaches there to work, to read, to write, to know and to distinguish living things, to speak, to live correctly, to cook.  With her we know what happens beyond the border.

                Our family is always happy for the fact that God has brought us another member.  We feel happy and encouraged since she does not ignore us, which happened with some Russians of her color that worked in Mozambique who ignored, discriminated and isolated us.  With her we feel freer.  Before I had four children, now I have five with Sara.  She even knows how to live in a typical African hut.

                You are with congratulations for having a daughter, seeing that you worked a lot to create, educate and form someone like this with a lot of kindness, gentleness, and workmanship.

                In her departure, we feel we will become full of longing.

                We are waiting for the day you will be with us, the parents or whatever member of Sara’s family, to visit us, exchange experiences that the distance, climates, races, and cultures offer us.

                Although we had delayed quite a lot in responding to your letter, it brought for us quite a lot of happiness and we have revised the moment for another.

                We know that still they have not received the touch of Christ, but we plead that you locate there in your city a church, a group of churches, with whom we could establish ties and exchange experiences in the faith of Christ.

                We hope that we will write forever.

A great embrace to all of Sara’s family, health, peace, tranquility, harmony, prosperity and longevity in the love of live.

I don’t visit the family as often as I should maybe (maybe once every few weeks), my excuse being that their house is about a 30 minute walk from mine.  Also, though I feel welcomed in the family, it can sometimes feel awkward sitting with a Mozambican family.  Due to my American lifestyle, I am still not comfortable with those moments of silence where people just sit around.  I mostly communicate with them through Inocêncio, either by text message (usually attempted in English) or when he comes to visit me.  All in all though, they are a very sweet, caring family, particularly the father, Mario.

From what I have gathered, Mario has worked in many different areas including being a professor, school director, government employee, and, currently, a pastor.  He’s even travelled to Brazil where he worked with some missionaries!  He’s a smart man who has a strong grasp on the size of the world and I’ve had many interesting conversations and discussions with him about problems Mozambicans face in this country like poverty, malnutrition, problems with the education system, corruption, and health issues.

Thursday was Inocêncio’s 19^th birthday and I decided I would make him a cake and visit the family for lunch.  I fashioned my “oven”, lighting some charcoal, placing some rocks in the bottom of a large pot, mixing my cake batter while estimating the amounts without measuring cups, and placing the cake batter in a smaller pot inside of the large pot to cook.  I attempted to make a marble cake, and it came out okay.  Kind of sad looking and lop-sided, not super pretty to look at, smaller than I had anticipated, a little dry from overcooking, but a cake nonetheless.  Honestly, I was a little embarrassed to present it to the family, but butter is a rare commodity and I didn’t want to have to go buy more materials.  Cake, in the Mozambican culture, is somewhat symbolic, its cutting the center moment for the party’s beneficiary.  I hoped my cake would suffice.

I arrived at the family’s house around 1pm, ate a small meal of a few fingerling potatoes and a small piece of chicken with xima (corn flour mixed with water to create a thicker consistency than mashed potatoes, no flavor but good for absorbing sauces).  Then the rest of the family including his two younger sisters, mother, father, uncle, and nephew, came in for the cake cutting.  His father explained the story of Inocêncio’s birth, revealing how he received his name.  (Apparently, his father was waiting and waiting to hear how the C-section had gone, and had no idea if the baby had even survived for hours.  He thought the baby had died innocently, hence Inocêncio.)  Should have seen this coming, but then I was asked to say a few words so I thanked the family for their hospitality and congratulated Inocêncio on his completing another year.  His sister’s led a song saying, “Cut the cake. Cut the cake. We want cake. We want cake. Eat the cake. Eat the cake.” 

This was not a rambunctious, loud, energy-filled kind of event.  We sat in a circle modestly listening while his father spoke, ate the cake pretty much in silence, and then everyone left.  In fact, I’m pretty sure there wouldn't have been any kind of recognition for this day if I had not been there, probably mostly due to a monetary deficit among the family.  I’m also certain my presence had something to do with the demeanor of the room, his sisters and mother pretty shy, as they are still becoming accustomed to me.

I stayed around for another hour or so, chatting with Inocêncio’s father about my upcoming travel plans, life in America, etc.  Then I returned home. 

It got me thinking about the differences in family dynamics between here and the US.  I think that “family” is a much more general term used here, extended to neighbors and friends.  I don’t mean to say that families aren't close, as family is a central part of their culture, but it’s almost as though they are much more individualistic in a way.  The women clean, cook, and care for the babies.  The children entertain themselves.  The fathers work and do their own thing.  Everyone coming together to eat, usually not discussing much, and then they return to their own things again.  It’s an interesting dynamic that I can’t quite figure out yet.  Though ,I’m sure my being there has a huge influence on the general going-ons as well…  

Mud

Rainy season is beginning here in Murrupula.  For me, that means cooler weather, albeit a higher humidity when the sun does come out; the sound of rain pattering on the zinc roof,  sometimes relaxing, other times so loud you can’t think; thrill from filling up your water buckets with rainwater; and mud.  Walking in the rain, getting a little damp or even soaked, not a problem.  The problem is the mud that accompanies. 

Here in the north, there isn’t much dirt, it’s mostly sand.  Thus, the mud becomes this slushy, sandy, though still “muddy”, sticky substance along the walking paths.  There are no paved roads, no cemented sidewalks here, just mud.

You begin your walk tentatively trying to stay out of the mud puddles and mud rivers that form, walking daintily in an effort not to flip up too much mud with your sandal, or more importantly, to ensure you have a secure foothold before lifting the other foot.  You forget about the umbrella and realize the wind is blowing the rain anyway and turn your focus to scouting out the best path with the less mud. 

Then it gets to the point where you stand, blocked by the mud river that has formed in your path.  No way around it.  No way over it. 

You start to look around and realize that all Mozambicans have vanished and you are the only one walking in the rain.  A few people look out from their covered porches.  Children take baths in the water falling from rain gutters.  But ultimately, everyone has hidden themselves away from the rainwater. 

Still facing the mud river, your only option really is to go through it, hoping it’s less deep than it looks.

A little reflection

I know I have been slacking on blog posts lately (delicately re-emphasized by my mom as well).  I have been travelling around a lot , but honestly I can say this lack of writing is at least partly due to the fact that I just don’t really know what to write about anymore.  I forget what I have written already and now that things are normal for me here, it’s hard to think about what kinds of things will be interesting for any readers I have.  So I was inspired to maybe read through my old journal entries (I have been pretty regular, writing in a journal almost every day) and see if that conjured up some topics to entertain you with.

I went to today’s date to see what I was doing/feeling exactly one year ago, and interestingly enough, it was exactly the day that I left to first arrive in Murrupula.  I thought maybe I’d share a few passages from those first days at site to show the emotional rollercoaster that it was and then to compare with where I am now.

Optimism and excitement before the last night of our conference before heading to our sites.

Dec 11, 2011: The night before driving to Murrupula – Hard to describe the feeling I have now.  Realizing the awesome adventure that is about to begin. I’ve tried not having expectations, but it’s impossible to have none, so I hope it is the community feel or that it gets there with time.  It’s gonna be an exciting, challenging, difficult, maybe lonely, scary, but great adventure these next few months, two years.  It’s almost like now my mind is slowly changing from two years sounding like forever to sounding super super exciting and I can’t wait for the challenge.  Excited to see what is in store and to begin this time for adventure.  This is what I came here to do and what has been months in the making.  Let’s do it!

To be honest, I don’t really remember this last night in the hotel before we came to site.  But reflecting back now, I can definitely confirm that this adventure has been all of those things, and then some.  I still don’t really know if it is all what I expected, but I do feel part of a community now, I know where to go and who to go to, and now I’m excited for the next year to begin.

And then reality hit as I saw my house for the first time.

Dec 12, 2011: Arrival at site (remember I had a roommate at this time) – Arrived at our new home today!  Initial reaction was complete shock!  We walked into a house with dirty walls, doors made for midgets and barely big enough to fit through, tin roof, gate anyone could easily jump over, hole in the ground bathroom….what did we get ourselves into!  A few times we were both on the verge of crying just by the sheer overwhelming-ness of it.  A day filled with every emotion possible.  But I couldn’t imagine doing this alone.  It’s gonna be a long next couple of weeks, needless to say long two years!  And definitely going to be hard and a challenge, but that’s part of why I am here right, to challenge myself.  It’s just a crazy thing to describe, total overwhelming feeling.

Jan 13, 2012: Back at site alone – It’s just so hard.  Plain and simple.  Hard in every way.  And yeah maybe it will get easier and I have to take it day by day and I am staying strong, but it sucks!  I don’t want to eat because food is so limited and sucks to make.  I am tired of throwing things out because I can’t cook for one person and have no fridge still to save things.  Only one outlet works still.  I still have no bed frame and there was a lizard inside my mosquito net.  Yeah I’m gonna meet people and get into a routine and start working, but its just really hard!  I know it’s not really ever going to get easier per say, but gosh how much easier life is at home and how easy it would be to escape this and go!  I know I truly don’t want that and would be totally lost as to what to do with myself there, but right now ease, convenience, and comfort sound awesome!  I can continue to sit here and pout and cry, or I can complete something on my list to get through another day.  It’s easy to fall into a lazy, depressed mode of nothingness, but that’s not me.  So I still feel sucky, but I’m gonna get up and get through another day, even if it is just going through the motions zombie-like.  At least I am still making motions and that’s progress I guess.

I very clearly remember arriving at my house that first day and that complete overwhelming feeling.  I think that Jan 13^th entry really sums up my mindset during those first months at site.  Don’t think everything was negative though, because I promise I had some positive moments in between there too, but it was hard and quite the emotional rollercoaster.  My mantra was, and still is, one day at a time.  Now though, I can honestly say, time goes by a little faster.  It still gets just as frustrating, but now I can usually laugh things off as just quirks of the country I live in and think to myself, yup I should have seen that coming.

I laugh to myself now re-reading that part about the description of my house because really it hasn’t changed much, if at all.  Though the walls are painted and I’ve hung up some maps, artwork, and pictures, I still have a hole-in-the-ground toilet, the doors are ridiculously tiny, and the house is nearly impossible to “clean”, let alone keep clean.  What’s changed is my mindset in regards to it all.  I still have moments like that Jan 13^th entry where it’s frustrating and the convenience would be a very much welcomed relief, but I’ve settled in to this routine now where this is my home, my life here in Africa, and it’s doesn’t seem weird or unusual anymore.  I sit with a flashlight always by my side in anticipation of the electricity going out.  I get a strange sense of pleasure from filling up my water buckets by catching run-off water from the roof.  I feel relaxed after my bucket bath.  I get as creative as I can with rice, beans, tomatoes, onions, and garlic recipes.  I kill bugs with my bare hands.  Ha, Peace Corps Volunteers.  We really are a strange breed.

A Strange Apparition

On Sunday, I stayed in Nampula city before Adam flew home for the holidays.  Upon returning home, I had a strange conversation with Inocencio who had stayed in my house Sunday night.  Below, I have translated the text message conversation.  What do you think?

Me: I just got home.

a few hours later…

Inocêncio: I am sorry for the delayed response, I was sleeping from 3pm until 7pm because at night I did not sleep because I became frightened.

Me: What happened?  Was there a problem?

20 minutes later (meanwhile, I’m running through all the scenarios of what might have happened.  Attempted break in? Successful break in? Am I safe here tonight alone? So Mozambican to say that with absolutely no further explanation!)

Inocencio: Yes because when I arrived there I encountered a white girl sitting in a chair close to the door of your house but the door was not closed.  Then I saw her eyes brighten.  I became frightened and then she disappeared.  I was afraid until 2am.

Definitely not the response I was expecting and it raised many questions. 

Me:  The door wasn’t closed?  A white girl? What time did this happen?

Inocencio: At 7pm.  The door was closed.  When I informed an older woman she said it was a ghost.  I will come tomorrow to explain better.

So then I was left to continue trying to figure out what might have happened and, as you might expect, I didn’t sleep well.

So today, Inocencio came over to explain better.  He repeated the story about how he opened to gate to my yard and then turned the corner and saw a little girl sitting in a chair next to my door.  But then he turned on his light and she had disappeared.  He did not think it was a ghost because he doesn’t believe in ghosts, but he had no other explanation for this apparition.  Do I have a Casper at my house?  (**cue Twilight Zone music**)

A Mozambican Wedding

Saturday, a family that I’m close with (The Uarila’s) invited me along with them to their friend’s wedding.  Attending a Mozambican wedding has definitely been on my list of things I’ve wanted to do here and they assured me that my tagging along was absolutely no problem.  His words, “They invited me and my family, and you are part of this family, so you were invited also.”

A typical Mozambican wedding has two parts: the civil ceremony and the church ceremony.  At 9am, we arrived at the Civil Register Building and joined about 50 others in a small room to watch the bride and groom officially register their marriage in the eyes of the government.  Like American tradition, the bride wore a fancy white dress and a veil.  It was hard for me to hear what was going on the whole time, but the big events included a quick kiss between bride and groom while the crowd sang a song in Macua about how weddings are good, and the bride and groom signing their names in a book while the crowd sang “Do not be afraid to sign”.  A representative of the government led the ceremony, diverging off into a long speech about how domestic violence is not tolerated in a marriage, something I thought was good to address but was maybe not the right setting for such a lengthy speech.

After the hour or so ceremony, we filed out of the stuffy room and sang as the bride and groom entered the car to drive to the church.  The rest of the wedding participants jumped in to two small pick-up trucks, filling the beds of the truck in true Mozambican transportation style.  Inocêncio and I decided to walk to the church.

It was a short albeit really hot 15 minute walk to the church.  On the walk over, I asked Inocêncio some questions about marriage and this couple in particular.  I told him how the bride did not look particularly happy during the ceremony, I don’t think I saw her smile even once.  Soon, I learned that this couple had been married for a long time already and had several children.  According to Mozambican law, if you live together for over two years you are recognized as being married.  This couple just hadn’t had an official wedding and had not yet legally registered their marriage.  Inocêncio explained that the bride was probably just afraid because now it would be much harder to ever decide to end the marriage as it costs about $2000 to get a divorce.  Also, this is just part of the culture here – they don’t really smile in photographs and don’t typically show a lot of excitement during formal events.

We arrived at the church, a small cement building with a thatched roof decorated with torn pieces of paper strung along lines of string and the occasional bunch of purple flowers dotting the ceiling.  Not surprisingly, no one was there yet.  Inocêncio suggested that they probably went to take pictures somewhere in town before arriving at the church.  We sat around for about 30 minutes until we heard the rest of the wedding arriving in honking cars, singing and clapping to a song saying, “It is very good.”  The bride and groom walked from their car to the church through an arch made of palm fronds and down an aisle way decorated with the same torn pieces of papers, the bride walking atop capulanas laid on the ground to prevent her dress from getting too dirty. 

The ceremony in the church was much less formal than any wedding ceremony I’ve attended.  People walk in and out, children kind of roam around, the pastor kept forgetting the bride’s name (she didn’t seem bothered by it at all), there didn’t really seem to be an order of events.  People stood as the bride and groom walked in together, but there was no wedding song (no musicians, in fact, just people singing) nor a wedding party.  The pastor read a couple passages from the Bible and discussed the importance of a monogamous relationship.  The bride and groom read their vows, essentially similar themes to American vows, proclaiming their freewill in getting married and their promise to protect each other and be together forever.  Several singing groups sang songs in Macua, the local language, for over an hour.  To be honest, after a while, every song sounded exactly the same to me and I was itching to get out of that hot church.  After about 3 hours, the singing finally ended, people were done talking, and the bride and groom led the way out of the church, stopping right outside the doors to great everyone as they exited single file. 

By then, the wedding audience had grown to about 75 people and we all proceeded to their house for the reception.  They had set up a covered area with chairs, speakers and a TV, and a few tables filled with food:  buckets (yes, buckets!) of rice and beans, chicken, coleslaw salad, and goat stew – the typical Mozambican meal.  We sat around for a while as, I think, the bride and groom changed clothes and the hosts finished preparations for the party (not really sure what was going on at that time), the food just taunting us just sitting there as my stomach growled.  Finally, the bride and groom came out and everyone was welcomed to eat.  It still baffles me how much rice Mozambicans can eat!  I was telling them that what they ate in one meal would take me probably two days to finish!  I had no idea paper plates could even hold so much food! 

Sitting there, it was interesting to compare the Mozambican wedding with American weddings.  The biggest difference?  The simplicity of everything – simple decorations, simple food, no wedding party, no stress over the number of people and random uninvited people (like me) showing up.  Simplicity.  That pretty much sums up everything about life here.  Much simpler and slow paced. 

Another thing that surprised me was the lack of enthusiasm shown by the couple.  Thinking about it afterward, it really is a big part of the culture to not show much affection and enthusiasm, especially during such formal events or ceremonies.  Quite the stark difference to American culture where toasts are held and glasses are clanged to encourage such displays.  Out of curiosity, I did ask about marriage for love versus marriage for family obligations and was happy to discover that marriage for love is much much more common nowadays.  Maybe the bride was just too hot in her wedding dress in one hundred-something degree heat!  The crowd on the other hand had so much enthusiasm!  Mozambican women make this incredible cheering sound by “wooing” and wiggling their tongues back and forth.  And the amount of music, though I couldn’t understand it, clearly emphasized everyone’s happiness for the occasion. 

We left the wedding reception before the cake cutting, but I’m sure the party went on late into the evening, complete with more singing and dancing.