Today was good, real good. But then it got bad, like real bad. So many things. Yuck.
I blame the experience. They say that serving your country as a volunteer in the Peace Corps is both physically and mentally challenging. Yeah, I see that, and yeah, I’d agree. But thus far, I don’t think I’ve had to deal with anything I was able to hurdle. Stomach problems, language issues, isolation, homesickness, discrimination, corruption, a lack of just about everything…yeah, there’s a lot to deal with out here. But then there’s also that whole “immerse yourself and integrate in a new culture” thing. And yeah, that part’s always been really fun for me; probably one of the things I’ve liked the best. It’s all fun and games (literally), that is, until you find out one of your 28 year-old friends married a 12 year-old.
So I found that out today. Here’s how.
A friend of mine, someone I’ve known since the first week I arrived, someone I’ve trusted and never had a reason to dislike, invited me to come see the new plot of land he recently purchased on the outskirts of town. He’s proud of it, like really, really proud, and he wanted to show it to me. Seeing an opportunity to not only hang out with him, but learn about land ownership here in Mozambique, I accepted his invitation to hike out there and check it out.
We set off in the morning. Starting at Anna’s house, and walking west. “It’s not far from my old house,” he said, “maybe 200 meters.” I quickly found out that in reality, he has no freakin’ idea how long a meter actually is. His current house is already a 45 minute walk from the center of town, and it took us another 30 to get to his new plot.
When we got to his current house, we hung out there for a while, talking about his current land and his new business. Him and his wife recently started buying in bulk, and then selling small items like bars of soap, razor blades (for haircuts, because lots of people use one to do it themselves here), one-time-use packets of laundry detergent, cookies, thread, incense, and a few others little things. I had a chance to meet his wife, as well as her aunt, as they both sat on a woven reed mat, chatting about whatever it is that Mozambican Woman like to talk about with each other. It was probably like shoes or matapa, or buying like 14,000 capulana or something. Anyways, as I walked around his fenced in plot, looking at some of the trees and plants he’d recently sown, I couldn’t help but think that his wife sort of look, well…odd. She was cute, but not in a sexual way. More like an adorable sort of cute. Cute like a child is cute. Like when my six year old neighbor comes over, stands in my doorway as I’m making breakfast, looks at the peanut butter jar with hungry eyes and excitedly goes “Ooo la la!” Well, it wasn’t till later, during that 30 minute/200 meter hike that I found out there was a reason for that.
After we left, we got to talking. Our conversation turned to marriage and I asked him how he met his wife. He explained: “Well, I used to be married to another woman from the matu. We met in my hometown when we were kids. We grew up together, and then got married. We had a son too.” Interesting…he used to be married…and has a kid from the previous relationship. I was curious, so I asked him what happened. “Well, she’s really tall. And me, I’m not so tall. I didn’t like that, so I left her. Also, she has a lot of volume.” Seriously, this is a direct translation. He used the word “deixar” and followed it up by saying that she’s got volume, which I guess it’s a semi-not-so-horrible, but still pretty awful way to say that she was fat. So yeah, that’s what happened. Oh yeah, also I cried a little inside.
But that was only half the story. “So this is your second wife then?” I asked him. “Yeah,” he replied. She’s from this bairro (neighborhood) actually, our new plot of land is right near her parents’ house. Maybe 100 meters.” Again, he was totally wrong about the distance, but he was right that it was in fact closer. We ended up passing by the house she grew up in right as he was telling me how they met. “Three years ago, when I was working in this bairro right by here, I used to pass by her house while fetching water. I’d always see her outside working, and I always thought she was so beautiful. Much younger than my wife, much more beautiful. During holidays, I would go with my boss over to her family’s house to celebrate. We would talk, we’d dance, hang out and have a good time. I think she liked me!” he continued.
“So when you say much younger…like, what does that mean…” I said, trying my best to keep a straight face and not throw up on him.
“She was 12.”
“Oh shit…I mean, oh…shit!”
“Yeah, so anyway, one day I decided that I wanted to marry her.”
“You decided?” I asked him, wondering if she had any say in the matter. “Yeah,” he replied, “when I had decided this, I went over to her house to talk to her about it. She said ok. So I then went to ask her father for permission. He agreed, and set the price: 700 Meticais.” Now, the concept of a dowry, isn’t surprising. It’s a traditional thing that’s been around for a long time, though it’s more or less starting to fade out. What is surprising though, is how low that price is. Its $23 and change. And even though it was a ton of money for my friend, the poor subsistence farmer, this guy and his family weren’t struggling. I saw their house, we walked right past it. They had electricity and a metal roof on a mud-walled home. At least up in Cabo Delgado, this usually means that they had a little bit of disposable income.
So just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, and I was holding on to some hopeless optimism that maybe, just maybe, even though he married her at such a young age, maybe he’d hold off a few years before getting her pregnant. You know, to let her actually be a child for a little longer. Nope. Sure enough, she got pregnant at 12.
I’m not sure I’ve been more confused about something. On one hand, I’m horrified, disgusted, and trying to fight off a strong desire to self-immolate in protest. On the other, I have this stupid little whisper in my ear trying to excuse the whole thing because it’s cultural here. This is tradition.
I dunno. Personally, I’m not sure this is something I can let go. This guy has been nothing short of an amazing friend. He’s trustworthy, kind, courteous and always wants to help. But on the other hand, even though he’s all those things, I now know that he’s also a guy who left his first wife cause she was fat, ditched his kid, bought a pre-teen girl off her father for less than what it costs me to get a haircut in the states, and then got her pregnant. And apparently, that’s all ok.
The truth is that isn't not okay, and a good serving of Mozambican's are just as sickened by it and really working to change this sort of behavior. Not only does the government recognize that it's bad practice, but they educate students about it in schools and have country-wide campaigns working towards the goal of ending it. It's a out-dated custom that's on it's way out. It's certainly not unique to Mozambique, nor Africa. The sad thing is that some of my ancestors probably practiced it, and your's too. Eventually it'll go away, it just takes time.
So yeah, Peace Corps is hard. The threat of exotic diseases complimented by the omnipresence of diarrhea, the never-ending feelings of loneliness, constant reminders that your family is 300 million miles, and then, just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, there’s the icing on the cake, there’s the culture-shock.
