My friend Elizabeth is visiting me this weekend. She’s come to town to run some errands, stock
up on supplies, and spend five hours on a Saturday standing in line at the bank
waiting for the 55 people in line in front of her to let their friends cut, and
then use anywhere from one to eight different bank cards to make a withdrawal
from the one functioning ATM Machine (I’ll rant about the bank, and Mozambican
Bank Etiquette at some other point in time).
Anyways, my friend Elizabeth just sneezed. And, out of instinct, I responded by wishing her
good health. In the states, this is just
something we do. It’s a result of a tradition
that developed in the past, maybe in Europe, where people believed that when
you sneezed, your soul was trying to escape…or something like that. By saying something after someone sneezes,
you are essentially helping to shove their escaping soul right back down their
windpipes to wherever it is that a soul resides. This little action is a part of our culture,
and normally, it’s not really something anyone would ever think twice about. We
just do it. But today, after doing, it
sparked a firestorm inside my head.
I was already in a weird sort of “Oh shit, that’s right, I
live like 10,000 miles from my family” emotional state (I think I’m feeling a
little homesick because the emo-punk rock music we’re listening to keeps
sending me back in time to flashbacks of high school), and it evoked a deep
introspective moment about sneezing. As
I dove into my own thoughts, I pondered how a little action like saying “Bless
you” or “Salude” or “Gazudteit” exemplifies one of the many customs that define
our culture, and subsequently who we are.
Then it made me think about some of the cultural tid-bits they have
here. Boy are they different. And then it made me miss home even more.
So now for some Mozambican Cultural Tid-Bits:
- I’m always surprised by how often people tell me they wish they had my skin and hair. It’s like they seem to hate the color of their skin. I don’t understand why. Mozambicans have these gorgeous smooth, dark complexions, flawless and unscathed by white people problems like sun-burns and acne, yet, they don’t seem to like their own color. Maybe it’s kind of like how white people don’t like their color either. They go to tanning salons and the beach in hopes of changing as well. Maybe it really isn’t such a cultural difference. Maybe it’s inherent in all of us that nothing is ever really good enough and sometimes everyone wants to be someone else.
- Nose picking, it’s not really an issue here. In the states, you wouldn’t dare do it public. Some people in the states don’t even like doing it in private. But here, that couldn’t be further from the case. Five or six times a day I will be talking to someone – boy or girl, man or woman – who will instinctively go digging for candy in their nose right in the middle of our conversation. They don’t even think twice about it, they just shove a finger right up that hole and go to work. It usually doesn’t last too long, but it’s one of those scenes that seems to move in slow-mo because of how disgusted you are. As soon as they find what they're looking for, they pull the finger out, give it a little flick, and without missing a beat, they keep on conversing.
- Alcohol. Mozambican’s love alcohol. As a result, drunk driving is really common here too. And to say that it’s frustrating is an understatement. Aside from the obvious danger of losing your life, what confuses me is the contradiction that exists within a culture that is so obsessed with wanting and having money, yet completely careless when it comes to taking care of personal possessions. I hate this topic, so I’m going to continue to put off writing anything more about it so as to avoid snapping my computer in half out of frustration.
- Chapa Foot. It is impossible to describe how uncomfortable your foot gets during chapa rides. You can't ever lay it flat, and after a certain amount of time, you start to feel something that I like to call “Chapa Foot.” First, the front hurts, then you make a casual shift and soon after the back start to hurt too. Then the joint gets sore and your foot locks up. The pain is intense, but you can’t do anything about it because of how tightly compacted you are into your bench seat. Suicidal thoughts start to creep into your mind, or at least the idea that if you chop off your leg a little below the knee, you’ll never have to deal with this excruciating calamity. But then you come to your senses. Who wants to go out like that? Who wants to lose a leg because you were upset about a foot. Chapa Foot, it’s not really cultural, but it’s still something I’ve had to get used to here. And it’s stupid and it sucks.
- I constantly hear popular American/Mozambican pop music throughout the day, all day. It blasts from speakers that someone across the street has and starts when the sun comes up. It sometimes doesn’t end till really, really late at night. Sometimes I get jealous of those who don’t have electricity. Lucky folks get to avoid hearing the same Rihanna song fifteen times a day.
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