On Street Charity

Last weekend I was having lunch with expat friends Maarten and Alexandra on the patio area of this restaurant when a beggar child came to us asking I think for money at first, and then for food.  The boy was probably eight or ten years old.  Perhaps he was a small teenager.  Needless to say, chronic starvation and undernourishment hinder physical development.  Now, we had just finished eating, and I was actually about to collect the left over bones for our pet Machu, so it was awkward for all of us, wanting to give the boy food, but not wanting to demean him by giving him our left-overs.  In the end, Maarten and Alexandra ordered bread and an egg sandwich for the child. 

Maarten and Alexandra at Casa Msika

Normally, I don’t give to beggars, whether they are children or adults.  This seems cruel, and the incident at the restaurant made me question why I am stingy and ungenerous.  I hope I'm not really cruel and stingy and ungenerous.  But I’m afraid after three years a PCV in Africa, I have become pessimistic and cynical.  Or more pessimistic and cynical than I normally am.  Giving the boy food was an act of kindness and generosity.  Had the same thing happened in the states, I think I would’ve given the boy bread.  I have actually done that, but to a grown man not to a boy, on Market St. in San Francisco.  Once, I even served in a soup kitchen there.  But here, I’m sorry to say, my tendency is to look away.

Many beggars people the streets of Chimoio.  There are blind elderly led by kids asking for “ajuda,” (help).  There are disabled men and women sitting cross-legged on the streets, calling for “patrão” (a patron).  While I turn away, I’d like to think that I still see.  And it is a sight painful to the eyes.  Unlike last year in Cuamba, where I biked almost everywhere, here in Chimoio I walk almost every day in the city to go to the market, to go to work, to meet up with other PCVs, to get something done.  I don’t mean to excuse my turning away from beggars, but at least I can see how it is easier or less painful than interacting with them every day.  Luckily, they don’t usually become aggressive like the ones I’ve encountered in San Francisco and Berkeley.

I do take issue with monetary handouts, however.  Yes, we impoverished PCVs don’t have much of it, but a couple of meticais is not a lot out of our pockets.  I think my issue with it, though, is that it’s an act rooted not so much in generosity but in pity.  And while this feeling isn’t necessarily bad or negative, I do think its effects can be detrimental.  I do not want the kids to learn that it is okay to be pitied.  I do not want them to learn habits of servility.  I do not want them to see foreigners as casual distributors of change, as the natural “haves” while they are born into the lot of the “have-nots.”  

While it saddens me to see anyone beg, I do not want the person to learn that to beg or “pedir” is fine as the natural (and only) way of interacting or being with us.  So many times we hear the phrase “estou pedir” (I am asking or begging for something), not just from street beggars but also from other host-country nationals, from neighbors and acquaintances, from Mozambican friends and even colleagues.  Some say that this habit is based on a culture that shares resources. . . Perhaps.  But I do believe that giving away money based on pity has unfavorable, cultural consequences:  maybe we feel better temporarily, but I’m not sure how real that emotion is if it is founded on this unequal relationship and unfair cultural exchange.  Perhaps pitying another person is okay in and of itself.  But if that person learns to be okay with being the object of pity, if that person doesn’t learn what it means to act with dignity, then this is the real danger.  It is not only unsustainable, it actually sustains the unequal relationship and unfair cultural interaction.  Giving handouts so casually can be an easy way to accept how things are, normally.  It is giving in to the way things are.

A Chimoio Winter

So, it is now winter here in Chimoio, which is to say we’re experiencing cold evenings and mornings, but the middle of the day is still fairly sunny and somewhat warm.  Most days are overcast now, though, and lows are usually in the 60s (Fahrenheit), sometimes in the 50s, which, for my brown ass, is cold enough.   This winter actually reminds me of northern California early spring.  It’s been nippy, and even windy, but not at all miserably freezing.  

Still, it’s cold enough that I’ve reverted to my old, homebody self. . . I had planned to return to Lake Niassa, to say a proper goodbye to a good friend, but, as I said before, the distance is long and time is short.  Colin, man, we’ll just have to hang out and chill again in the future.  Next time, brunch is on me.

The future.  Time.  For something so intangible and even illusionary, it sure is unrelenting.  It’s almost time for our Moz18er colleagues and friends to leave Mozambique.  I’ve been talking to some of them, and pretty much everyone has told me they are ready for the next chapter in their lives.  I can’t help but compare myself and feel how so unready I am for whatever is next.  Thank goodness I’ve still got some time. . .

See, here’s what I mean by it being illusionary:  no one has got, or possesses, time.  Really.  I guess it’s a problem of language—we’ve only got words to grapple with such an abstract thing as “time,” as if we’re referring to something concrete like words for “chair” or “book.”  It’s real, yes, don’t get me wrong.  We feel it passing.  We see changes.  Some say we see its “ravages,” i.e., deterioration, death.  Sheesh.  That sounds so depressing.   “Illusionary” is better because the root of this word refers to the Latin “ludere,” which, I think, means “to play”. . . I won’t bother to look it up, I already sound so bloody dorky.  All I want to say by describing time as illusion is that, like most things in life, indeed like life itself, it is like a play.  I try to keep this in mind when I get into discussions about age with folks, with fellow PCVs and expats.  Some, I think, try to make me feel better by trying to convince me I don't look my age.  I end up wondering if they pity me, if they feel sorry for me being here surrounded by so many young Gen. Y or millennial or internet generation, whatever name or word supposedly refers to folks born in the 80s and 90s.  My usual response is that their eyes deceive them.  If they look closer, they’d see that I am old.  Sometimes I feel like I could be older than the rocks of Cabeça do Velho, the cluster of inselbergs right outside downtown Chimoio. 

There are moments, though, when I do feel like I’m much younger.  I remember one time we were in this club called Coqueiros (which, I guess, refers to flirts, or coquettes and dalliers) I felt like I was still my insecure, 16 year-old self.  I’m not going to get into the specifics of that moment; I’m just trying to explain how age is not only relative, but also, I guess, emotional.  Just because I am in my 30s, doesn’t mean that is my identity.  And if it is, then since 30s includes 16, it’s only normal that my 16 year-old self is still inside me.  Honestly, I don’t think there’s an essential difference between 16 and 26 and 36.  Essentially, at the core, I haven’t really changed.  I guess I’m better able to manage.  At least, I’d like to think so.  I think that once we’ve reached a certain age, for some it’s maybe at 18, for others maybe 25, but at a certain point in our lives we don’t really change at the core.  Or maybe what ever change we perceive is just another illusion.  I don’t know. 

Anyway, here I go again sounding like some dork.  I wanted to talk about winter in Chimoio, and how I’ve turned into a homebody due to the cold.  Enough digression.  Here’s another reason why I find myself hibernating inside the house:

 Machu, a.k.a. Mata-bichu, a.k.a. Machu Pichu, a.k.a. Machubombu

 It’s the first time this little guy is staying at my place, and, while he likes exploring, he seems to like napping even more.  He’s hibernating, too.  We get along.

I do get out of the house, mainly to run errands and play chess.

And last weekend PCV Brian and I went on a UCM “retiro,” an excursion or retreat to Marera, this village about maybe 40 kilometers south of Chimoio.  

PCV Brian and UCM colleague Frank

UCM had arranged for all staff and faculty to attend a “palestra,” a talk/discussion on the topic of corruption in the schools.  It took about an hour to get to Marera on a UCM minibus over dirt road, which, though dusty, wasn’t very rough or “batida.”  The venue for our retreat was this “Centro Polivalente,” a sort of recreation center, but also a place where missionaries and nuns live, as it is I think run by the church.    

The palestra was interesting.  First, it was good Portuguese listening practice.  I picked up words and phrases like “deveres,” (duties), “subornos” (bribes), “propinas,” (tips) and “falta de confiança” (lack of confidence).  Second, it was cool that our speaker broke down the Latin roots of the word “corrupção,” how it is related to rupture, to something broken in society, or, in our case, in the university.  The palestra seems to be a response to the problem of professors taking bribes from students who want better grades.  Apparently, there have also been cases of professors asking for sexual favors from students who want better grades.  So yes, most definitely, there’s something deeply broken in a society or an institution in which these take place.  But I also thought, as my attention appeared and disappeared during the palestra, that corruption is not specific to Mozambique, and that listening to a speech on corruption probably will not do much to solve the problem.  It was interesting, yet unsurprising, that our speaker referred to stories from the Bible.  But perhaps these stories are not enough to move people to change values and behavior.  I don’t know.  Perhaps the “corruptors” did not even attend the retreat.  Who knows?  Leaders must know and lead not just by example but also by holding followers accountable.  We all are, after all, followers, aren’t we, if we’re to follow the Bible stories that our speaker talked about.

I’m no church-goer, but I do like stories.  I love good stories.  It is unfortunate that much of the palestra is rhetorical exposition because I think if we had more stories or case studies and more of a discussion about them, then maybe there would’ve been some change or movement, at least for me.  The biblical line inscribed above the entrance of our meeting hall is ironic.  

I think it translates as, "And the word (or the 'verb,' the action word) became flesh and lived among us (or perhaps 'lived inside of us' or just 'inhabited us.')."  It's been ages since last I went to Catholic school.  I don't remember what that word is.  

After our palestra, we had a terrific lunch, and then mass with a priest who was, I think, originally from the Congo.  He ended his sermon with this story of a kid, a son of missionaries staying at the center.  Apparently, this kid "cabeçou” a girl.  Most laughed and seemed to understand the priest’s use of this unusual verb in the past tense.  At first I thought he meant a boy had butted his head (cabeça) on a girl, but then he went on to explain that the two are about to be engaged to be married.  I was told that the priest really should have used the verb “descabaçar,” which is not in my dictionary but supposedly means “to deflower.”  My Portuguese is too weak to understand the humor or the point of the story.  All I’m going to say is that perhaps in this case the action came before the word, yet many, many more words and stories must come and even much more silence and reflection, before actions can change.