It Sounded Like Such a Sweet Song

These days I feel I can barely keep my head above water. Back when I was doing freelance consulting, working from home, and waking up whenever I pleased to start the day, time seemed to be an endless commodity. Now that I am working full time at a company, however, it is a completely different story. Not only am I occupied during commercial hours, our office is in Matola (a good 25 minutes outside Maputo) and I have no car, putting me completely at the mercy of pleading rides to go to and from work each day. Either that or pay $15 one-way for a taxi, which gets old after a while. And, just a final little note, because I work with a bunch of crazy people I have no lunch break (not like I could go anywhere on my own even if I did given my transport situation), so the possibility of getting errands done in the middle of the day is out as well.

The result of all of this? I have a to-do list about a mile long that I just can't seem to tackle. I'm stressed enough that I finally had to put up a limit today. I've gotten permission to go to work 2 hours late tomorrow so that I can get a taxi and ride around the city like a mad woman trying to get all my shit done.

And, to add to the craziness, jewelry production is on in full force. Every day when I come home from work I sit at my improvised crafts table and lose myself in silver wire, trade beads and gemstones. Time flies, which is something I have mixed feelings about at the moment. But I am getting a lot done, and I am totally in love with some of my new designs. The big national crafts fair starts a week from today, plus I am making a few custom pieces for a blog-friend in the UK who will be coming to Mozambique next month. Pictures soon, I promise.

Predictably, the honeymoon period is starting to wear off at my job. I still love my work, and am very glad I took the opportunity, but my eyes are now able to see the other side of the coin. I could sum it up by saying that, for all of his amazing qualities, keen business skills and vast knowledge of world history, Hugh Marlboro is also capable of being incredibly difficult. I'm not sure what part of it is due to cultural or generational differences, and what part is due to his own unique personality, but there are definitely aspects of my boss that I find hard to swallow. For now, I am picking and choosing my battles (especially until my 3-month probation period is over), but there are certain things that simply won't fly in the long run that we'll have to work out. So it goes with every relationship, I suppose...

I am starting to pick up some Changana (Shangaan) at work, thanks to the boys in the warehouse. So far I can remember cacata (cheapskate) and mamparra (equivalent to the Brazilian mané - who has a good definition for this in English?). Not sure on the spellings, but at least I am retaining a few words. For as good as I tend to be with languages, Changana has certainly gone in one ear and out the other without leaving much behind over the last 2 years.

The other day I was in my office and heard the boys that help around the warehouse singing work songs as they unloaded sacks of potatoes and onions from one of the reefer trucks in our fleet.

"How wonderful," I though to myself. "What a lovely, authentic cultural experience."

I listened for a few minutes to the strong voice of the leader call out a verse, and the different harmonies that the other boys would do when calling back the chorus. The melody was simple, but made truly beautiful by the blending of tones and the syncopated rhythm. Occasionally someone made a show of hand-clapping or foot-stomping to accent a particular point in the song.

Wanting to appreciate the music from a closer place, I went down to the warehouse and sat with Ahmed, who was observing the workers unloading the truck to be sure none of the stock was deviated or damaged.

"What a pretty song," I commented. "What are they singing?"

"Ummm, it's in Changana."

"I know, but you speak Changana. Don't you understand the lyrics?"

Ahmed shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then took a deep breath and looked up at me. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes!" I insisted.

And he proceeded to translate one of the dirtiest yet simple song lyrics one could imagine.

So much for my impression that this was a nice, innocent manifestation of culture. Well, I suppose it was an expression of culture, just that of a group of horny 16-year-old boys, not that of a wise Bantu heritage. I don't know what I was expecting - lyrics about the rising sun, or the destructive nature of floods, or the blessings of grain and milk - but it certainly wasn't what Ahmed translated for me.

Ah, yes. Boys will be boys, the world around...