- Finish writing investment memorandum for local paint company project - almost there!
- Take clothes to tailor
- Update blogroll (sooooooo overdue!)
- Make Rico's birthday boat collage painting (again, super overdue)
- Finish calligraphy on wedding invitations for Moz friends - done
- Pick up bed we bought from our friend T. who is moving away
- Blog about spa experience in Swaziland
- Collect payment from jewelry sales at Franco-Moçambicano
- Wash white canvas sandals
- Email makeup artist and DJ for our wedding
- Call Beth
- Photograph and post descriptions of jewelry - done
- Go grocery shopping - done
- Buy beets I requested from vegetable lady last week - done 14/05
- Watch Guns, Germs and Steel and return DVD to T.
- Hang photograph of veiled woman
- Sync iPod
- Join the stupid gym
- Learn to properly parallel park
- Read manual for big Nikon camera
- Buy tea and jewelry supplies online - half done
- Mend 1940's black dress
- Organize closet and drawers
- Get rid of aphids on hibiscus plants - done 14/05
- Sleep at some point - done 14/05, though certainly can be repeated ad infinitum!
No, I don't plan to do it all at once. My goal is 4 items per day. Still...
Anticipating what might happen with the warehouse, I was motivated to start writing about some of the things that I will miss the most...
Twice a week, when the company trucks would cross the border and enter Mozambique with fresh produce deliveries, I would shut down my computer early and go downstairs to the warehouse to keep Ahmed and Paulo company. It was their responsibility to watch the trucks being unloaded to ensure there was no theft or damage to the sacks of potatoes and onions imported from South Africa. We would sit on warehouse dock in the late afternoon heat, the sky hazy with particles belched out of the nearby cement plant, the toxic dust making the sun glow fiery orange.
It was a slow job, each truck taking around 3 hours to unload, as the company did not own a forklift to efficiently move the product. Instead, everything was done manually. A crew of local boys hired for a half-day’s work would form a line inside the belly of the trailer to unload the produce, heaving sack after sack into the next waiting pair of sweaty hands, and finally into stacks on pallets on the loading dock.
One boy in the crew was a hunchback, his shoulder blades twisted at such an angle they looked like the back legs of a grasshopper, tensed and waiting to spring. He walked with a limp, laboriously dragging a misshapen foot against the floor, but nonetheless helped unload the truck. His job was to ensure that the sacks of produce were stacked properly on the pallets outside the truck, adjusting and rearranging when necessary until there were 100 sacks neatly piled high. Ahmed nicknamed the boy Notre Dame, and would call for him in this manner, his startlingly loud voice echoing off the warehouse walls.
In the US we are taught to be blind to physical handicaps. We are supposed to speak to the man with a deformed arm as if we didn’t notice the missing fingers or lumps of scar tissue, for it is rude to stare. We are meant to carry on a conversation with the person in a wheelchair without any mention of whatever accident or medical condition caused paralysis of the limbs, lest we cause the person embarrassment. Only after sufficient intimacy do the unspoken social rules allow that we ask what happened, and even then any reference to the handicap is shrouded in political correctness.
Here, however, it seems that physical handicaps – among other things – are acknowledged with a bluntness that seems to be a trait of many an ex-Portuguese colony. (I am reminded of Brazil, where people casually comment to your face, “You’ve really put on some weight since the last time we met, haven’t you? You’ve gained, what, 4 kilos?” or “Is that a zit? Wow, it’s gigantic! You should stop eating so much chocolate!”) Or perhaps, sadly, it is the vestige of years of civil war, where land mines made physical deformities commonplace.
Whatever the reasons, in Mozambique, you might find the vegetable lady on the corner who is cross-eyed is called just that – Neusa vesga; the vendor who hobbles around on a crooked foot at the car parts store might be known as José manco, literally José-who-limps. The nicknames don’t seem to be taken with offense; rather, the handicap seems to be accepted as a descriptive quality, much like one might talk about a girl with green eyes.
One day, Ahmed asked the hunchbacked boy if he knew what Notre Dame was. He shook his head ‘no’, and Ahmed promised he’d bring him the book the next week.
I shot Ahmed a sideways glance, for not only was the boy likely illiterate, Ahmed himself wasn’t exactly the type to appreciate the classics of literature.
“Have you even read ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’?” I asked.
“No, no!” Ahmed laughed at my question. “I saw the movie!”
“The cartoon, you mean?”
“Of course.”
While unloading the trucks, the boys in the work crew would go shirtless, with the exception of Notre Dame. He always kept on a torn and stained t-shirt while he worked, faded red letters proclaiming the FUN TIMES! that were had in Tampa, Florida at the JAMESON FAMILY REUNION, 2002. Clearly this was a charity shirt, one of the thousands hawked at used clothes markets all over Africa. I could only imagine the trajectory such a shirt must have followed, from a church donation bin in the Southern US to a crowded stall in Xipamanine, the largest popular market in Maputo.
The boys in the crew would sing as they worked, the rhythmic melodies helping them keep up the pace of unloading the produce, one sack thrown down the line of muscular arms for each beat of the song. Each sack had its own unique markings – not just the logo of the farm where the potatoes or onions had been grown, but full color geometric designs. At the top of each paper bag, the name of the product inside was written in 3 different languages: English, Afrikaans and Zulu.
The name for ‘potato’ in Afrikaans particularly caught my eye, and I would whisper the name repeatedly under my breath, trying to imitate the pronunciation of my South African colleagues in the administrative sector upstairs. “Aart appel. Aart appel. Aart appel.” Each time I would accentuate a different part of the word, trying out all of the variations I could imagine. Unexpectedly, one day what had before been meaningless trills and vowels were suddenly words I recognized. Earth apple! Of course - the same root as the French name for a potato.
I would sit with Ahmed and Paulo until the truck was empty and the warehouse had neat, colored bags of produce covering the floor. All of the sacks would be accounted for, including those that had ripped open during transport, or that contained rotten potatoes and had to be disposed of before fouling up the entire building. The work crew would then be paid for the afternoon's labor - $2 per head, plus a loaf of bread. Sometimes Ahmed would let the boys take home the loose potatoes and onions that had spilled out of the sacks in the truck, or those that were salvageable amongst a bag of otherwise rotten product.
I would keep Ahmed and Paulo company while the warehouse was swept, the paperwork for the load filled out, and the truck sent back to the farm. Many times, this meant I would be at the office for several hours after my workday was meant to end. I didn't care. On some level, I already knew that those afternoons spent chatting with my warehouse friends and watching the workers unload a truck full of produce would be one of the things I'd miss the most about my time in Mozambique. The humid air, the work crew's harmonies, the earthy smell of the produce, the subtle process of establishing a friendship across cultures. I would recline in my chair on the loading dock and take everything in, occasionally becoming overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia for something that hadn't yet ceased to exist.
Remember this request for help in identifying a couple of snakes I've come across while driving through Mozambique?
Well, this morning one of the ladies at my work brought in a snake book and I finally managed to identify one of the beasts. There is no doubt in my mind that the snake in the first photo on the linked post is a FOREST COBRA (Naja melanoleuca).
The forest cobra is found throughout Africa and presents many color variations depending on the region, which is why, in my endless Google searching, I failed to identify it as a potential candidate. The forest cobras that are usually featured in internet photos are those from central and west Africa, which usually have spectacular banding, or are all black.
The variation of the cobra found in Mozambique, however, tends to be a light olivey-brown, with dark speckles increasing along the length of the body so that the tail is solid black. The snake has a light-colored underbelly, glossy scales, and is the second-largest cobra in the world!
I wish I had a scanner at work, because I'd show you the photo of the Boskobra (name in Afrikaans) that is in this book. It is virtually identical to the snake I photographed in the road, with the difference that the one in the book is hanging out in a tree (how supremely creepy - a cobra in a tree!).
When we stopped the car on the road to Boane to look at the snake, I was overcome by instictual fear. As long as the windows were up, I was cool. Kind of freaked out, but relatively speaking calm. Like being at the reptile house in the zoo. But the minute my friend rolled down my window to have a better chance at unobstructed photography, my entire body prickled in goosebumps, I screamed, and squished myself against the other people in the backseat as far as I could to get away from the window. There was something about that snake that provoked pure fear in my body.
Now, at least, I feel justified in knowing that I was looking at one of the continent's most venomous creatures.
Oh, and by the way, when I first posted this request for snake identification, my Dad guessed that it was a cobra. Nice work, Dad!
Recently seen/heard/tasted/contemplated in my world:
I have very serious things on my mind tonight related to ethics and the funding of projects in the developing world, spurred by recent news here of slave-like conditions in a start-up roses production project run by the ex-Minister of Foreign Affairs of Mozambique. To what point are the consultants, multi-lateral institutions, commercial banks and donors involved in a particular project responsible in part for its outcome?
Certainly when the project goes well, all involved in its support and preparation are quick to lay claim to some of the merits. Even when a project fails due to poor market conditions, faulty strategy, lack of training or whatever other "legitimate" reasons one can point a finger at, for the most part the people and institutions involved in its realization step up to the plate and recognize the situation, drawing up a ubiquitous "lessons learned" report to hedge against damage.
But what happens when a project or a company goes seriously awry? To the point of involving abuse of power, abuse of funds and abuse of human life? Who is responsible then, in the large chain of players, and to what extent? Was it possible to see such an outcome before it happened? Would a different approach, or more cautious decisions along the way have prevented such a disastrous situation? Or are such things bound to happen no matter how careful the consultant or how many strings the donor institution attaches to the support it extends? Will unscrupulous people concerned with filling their own coffers always find a way to manipulate, bribe and oppress their way to the top?
In all aspects of the problem, I see money at the core. Financial gain is what motivates the consultant to push a project, even though he may see red flags associated with the feasibility of the idea proposed or the moral character of the project promoter. The need to spend the year's aid budget is what pressures many donors and development institutions to give money to beneficiaries who are, perhaps, less than deserving in an ideal scenario; but there are no other viable projects to be found, and that money must be allocated before the end of the fiscal year, so out it goes lest the next round of funding to the institution be put in jeopardy. Similarly, the desire to make money, either in the form of interest payments or by reclaiming assets on a failed venture, is what motivates banks and other lenders to back projects. Who can blame any of these players, especially when the entire game is given the positive spin of "development for [insert poor country here]"?
I don't think that any one of them deliberately acts in ill will, funding projects they know shouldn't receive support; no, it is much more subtle - an intuitive pang in the gut that something is off, numbers that don't quite add up, a scenario that looks a bit too perfect on paper for the reality in the field, etc. It is easy to overlook these issues and write them off to the conditions of doing business in the developing world. Still, at some point, I believe that at least one person involved in the support of a project hears the little voice say, "This isn't right." How does one act on that when there is such tremendous money-related pressure, on both a personal and an institutional level, to ignore what seems to be a small detail - intangible, even - and push forward with the deal?
It is certainly a complex situation, especially when a project promoter shows up with the right image, the right credentials and the right talk, a true chameleon when it comes to playing into the development system, only to turn around and carry out his project in a way that tarnishes the image of all of the players involved, if not the entire country as a result.
Happily - and quite surprisingly, given the political and economic clout of the owners of the roses project - the Human Rights League and the Mozambican Labor Ministry have conducted a serious investigation following the allegations of slave-like conditions for some 100 workers brought to the Moamba district of Maputo from far-away home towns in Manica and Tete Provinces. The latest news is that operations have been suspended, the minimal response appropriate given what has happened.
This is the subject for a much longer post than I have time for now, but the thoughts still swirl heavily through my head.
To add to my development-work-related ethical debate, I have an observation that Ahmed made this afternoon on repeat in my mind, weighing my conscience in a similar way to the discomfort I feel about the situation of the roses project. This morning Ahmed asked if I take a taxi to work every day, and I said yes, that I still don't have a car and I can't feasibly take a chapa (mini-bus taxi) since I'm hauling my laptop back and forth from home to the office (not to mention that chapas are inconvenient, piloted by maniacs with no regard for road rules or human life, and too much of a hassle for me to justify saving the money - who cares if they are "authentic").
Ahmed did a quick sum on his calculater and whistled at the result. "Who pays for your taxi?"
"The company reimburses me," I told him, not seeing the point in covering up the truth.
"Your taxi costs the equivalent of 4 minimum salaries each month!"
"Thanks for pointing that out," I said. "Now I'm going to feel guilty all afternoon."
And I did, despite all of the justifications in my head that the value I add to the company will bring about growth and job creation for much more than 4 minimum wage workers, not to mention the constant voice popping in to ask me why on earth I even felt guilty in the first place. Still, there is something about such a comparison - an expense you take for granted being equivalent to the lifeblood of a person's monthly existance - that is impossible to ignore in good conscience.
On a lighter note, Ahmed has thankfully gotten the message about the unsolicited grilled chicken lunches and afternoon snacks. I still get a daily ice cream cone, but I'm satisfied that he buys them for several other people and that, while I am certainly the most frequent recipient, I'm not the only one.
This afternoon I was down in the warehouse doing an inventory of all the things that need to be bought/fixed/etc. (I have a new addition to my job title - Building Administrator - though Hugh Marlboro used some latin word when he first described it that sounded totally dirty to me, phonetically it was along the lines of "fuck-totem", though I'm pretty certain this isn't correct. Must Google later. Updated: I did Google - the word he used is here.)
As Ahmed and I were putting together the master inventory, I was snacking on some carrot sticks I'd brought from home. Everyone in the warehouse thought I was clinically insane for eating carrots, as if my tupperware were filled with toenails or something equivalently revolting. Finally Ahmed had a few, but not before everyone on the warehouse floor had taken a good, light-hearted jab at my eating habits.
Later in the afternoon, one of the assistants from downstairs came to my office bearing a gift: a gigantic wooden spoon, quite rustic looking, with some charred designs along the hand-carved handle. "This is from Ahmed, but really from all of us, so that you can do some tasty cooking at home."
I nearly fell off my seat laughing. Apparently the boys in the warehouse have a spot-on sense of humor! The oversized spoon now sits in the glass utensil jar next to my stove, taking up a bit more than its fair share of space, just taunting me to make a green chile stew and knock their socks off with some homecooked spice.
