Estou a Pedir

The term “estar a pedir + [noun]” in Portuguese means “to be asking for [something]”. For example, I would say “estou a pedir lanche” in order to ask Mãe if I could have a snack. Or Lukey will say, “‘stou a pedir auga” whenever my water bottle is within his sight. Or my Mãe will tell me “estou a pedir leite” when the milk for coffee is near me on the table and she’s preparing her chá (tea). 

At this point, y’all are like, “cool Sarah, we now know how to say ‘can I have a snack’ in Portuguese”. And I’m like. Yeah, you do. But actually, I have a point.

The Mozambican culture relies heavily on this phrase because it is a culture of sharing and lending support whenever necessary. Since being here, I have realized that asking for help in America can sometimes—scratch that—most of the time--have a negative connotation. In the States, independence is an extremely valuable characteristic and people strive to do things on their own, and take pride when they complete tasks sozinhos (alone) rather than relying on others. Furthermore, in the States, when a person does need to ask for help, it usually is only asked of close friends, family, or a person who already owes some kind of favor. For example, there were only certain people I would feel comfortable asking to drive me to the airport, to take care of Lucy/Stoli, or for help moving from one apartment to another (#thanksRyan). And honestly, as I’m sitting here typing of this, I cannot even think of other instances where I would ask someone for a favor. I would never ask someone for money, food, or to help me cook something or make something or do something that I could eventually figure out how to do on my own. And I think the reason is two-fold: 

1. I take pride in being an independent woman living in the heart of Dallas and I don’t need no help from no one! 
2. I understand that everybody is busy and I would hate to intrude on someone else’s to-do list unless it was absolutely necessary. 

If you are an American and reading this and cannot relate to this, then you must live in a commune or something. The busy must-get-all-the-things-done-everyday attitude is a basis of how many of us live our lives. The positive connotation around independence as well effects how we carry out day-to-day tasks, and therefore effects how much we rely on others to #getshitdone. I am not writing to say that this is bad or that this is good; it just simply is. But my value of independence is something that I have not really acknowledged as being a guiding rule for the way I had been living until I came to Mozambique, where I now hear estou a pedir multiple times a day. 

So far I’ve mentioned that I have heard estar a pedir in the family setting: Lukey to me, Mãe to me, me to Mãe, Pai to Mãe, etc. And that’s true and probably seems normal even to Americans (please pass the potatoes, mom). But consider this:

We left Namaacha to visit various sites around Mozambique on a Saturday morning. We had to be at the central meeting place at 3:30 am. The central meeting place was about two houses down from my own, which meant less than a 2-minute walk. When I told my Mãe about this, she told me I needed to ask Nelson (my 19 year-old host cousin) to walk me to the place at 3:15am, because there was no way she was letting me walk by myself in the middle of the night in the dark (I know my mom appreciates this but c’mon it was one block). 

Me: You’re telling me I need to ask Nelson  to wake up literally in the middle of the night to walk me one block? Hell. To. The. No. (I didn’t say that last part out loud). 

Mae: Sim. Ele vai fazer isto. (Yes, he will do that). Não é problema. (It’s no problem).

She said this without any emotion. Like, “duh filha (daughter), of course he will”. So then I had to swallow my Independent Woman pride and ask him. And he said yes. No questions asked. Said that he would be waiting at the front door at 3:15 to walk me over. And when that morning came he was there at 3:15am. While I said thank you approximately 417 times, he laughed at me for saying thank you so much and said the same thing my Mãe said: Não é problema. Furthermore, he greeted me with a smile on his face and asked me all about where I was going and what I would be doing. He wished me a good trip before heading home to catch a few more hours of zzzZ. Not only did I not feel guilty about him getting up in the middle of the night for me, but I felt like he was happy to do it. Wow. It was an experience that taught me that when I estou a pedir, I should allow myself to accept the response humbly and without guilt.

Kids also use estar a pedir without hesitation. I can be walking down the street and a child I have never seen before (or at least do not recognize) will esta a pedir agua, if I’m carrying a water bottle; esta a pedir bolacha, if I’m eating a cracker; esta a pedir camisola, if they like my jacket; esta a pedir dineiro, because I’m white and it’s assumed I have money; or best yet: esta a pedir cabelo, if they want to take my hair to the market and sell it. 

As an American, my first thought was: RUDE! I don’t know you and you’re asking me for the coat off my back? The small amount of money I earn as a volunteer? The cracker I’m about to take a bite out of? Literally the hair off my head? AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU?! Go home kid, you’re delusional (and socially incompetent).  

But that wasn’t the case at all. 

These kids aren’t asking me for things because they are rude or socially inept. It’s because the Mozambican culture doesn’t look down upon the idea of asking for things, whether it be support or assistance or physical things. It’s not looked down upon to ask for help, or ask for a thing. Not only is it acceptable to ask things/favors of families and strangers alike, it is also necessary, considering the apparent lack of resources that exists here. Family members would not be able to get basic, necessary tasks done without each other’s help; families would not be able to get by without the help of their neighbors; and the entire community would not be able to function without the exchange of hard work between each of it’s individual members. Estar a pedir is necessary in order for all of us to have the things we need to live healthy and joyful lives. 

I’ve also learned that I won’t be able to survive here for two years without asking for help. I have a feeling (and I have been told) that the mães in the market will become my best friends and most helpful allies in the community. So far, I have asked for help finding places, getting dresses made, having meals cooked, figuring out where to buy things, and obtaining materials necessary to do my laundry. If I had not been able to estar a pedir thus far, I would be hungry, dirty and confused. No doubt. 

Every day I am learning to, little by little, let go of my Independent Woman I-can-do-all-the-things-by-myself mentality and exchanging it for the humble beauty of estar a pedir. 

#thankyouMozambique

#alwaysroomforgrowth

Mães: Necessidades.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve shared some stories about my Mãe: she cooks great food, she takes great care of me, and she can get a pair of pants cleaner than a washing machine can. However, I have not yet taken the time to describe the value of the Mãe in Mozambican culture, so I’m going to do that now. 

My Mãe does absolutely everything. She wakes up early and starts each day by cleaning the entire house: Sweeping, mopping and making the sure kitchen is spotless. She makes the bed, ties up the mosquito net and ensures that everything in Mãe and Pai’s bedroom is exactly in its place. She also ensures that my Pai’s work clothes are clean and pressed. Then she prepares lunch/dinner. This takes about 3-4 hours. She eats breakfast (chá and pão—tea and bread) around 11am, and by noon lunch is ready for me when I get home from morning class. Imagine that. Half of every single one of your days is spent cleaning the house. Every. Single. One. She does it with bright eyes, a smile on her face, and usually humming a tune. While this sounds like, and from experience I can confirm is, very repetitive and mindless work, Mãe radiates positive energy while she carries out these tasks. She takes pride in having a clean house and a husband who looks sharp for work each day. She takes pride in the meals she makes and genuinely accepts each compliment I give about her cooking. 

The Mãe is also the person in the family who works the machamba (garden or farm depending on the size). Mães plant, tend to and harvest all the crops the family needs to eat and/or sell. Driving through Mozambique, you will see from the road huge machambas and many mães bent over doing the plant work. Families need crops for both income and nutrition and the mães ensure that they have it. They work the farm, secure fruits and vegetables and then sit in the market and sell the product of their hard work in order to earn supplemental income for their family. There are mães in the houses, mães in the machambas and mães in the market to ensure that their own families—and the entire community—has food to eat. 

I believe that my pai does not know how to cook. Like anything. Seriously. I have seen him in the kitchen twice—once to get a cup of water for his grandson and the other time to put a dirty dish on the counter. He probably felt very out of place both times, too, because the cozinha (kitchen) is a mãe’s workshop. Traditional mozambican dishes, such as Mboa and Matapa (or what I like to call green mush) require multistep processes to make, including manually crushing peanuts into powder and manually shredding coconut. These delicious dishes cannot be whipped up in an hour; more like 2 or 3. Mães make these multiple times a week, and considering many families don’t have a fridge, leftovers are not an option. Mães spend at least 3 hours per day preparing food for their families to eat. Without Mãe, Pai would starve. No if, ands or buts about it.

Mães are also the prime caretaker of their children and their husbands. They ensure that every member of their families has clean clothes to wear, a clean house to live in and a bed to sleep in. They make sure their children are healthy, go to school, and learn life skills. My host siblings are all grown up and are living/working/studying in Maputo, Mozambique’s capital; it’s rare that I get to see Mãe interact with her children. However, the past two weeks her grandson Lukinney or Lukey for short (my host nephew), who will turn 2 years old next month, has been staying with us for the past two weeks. Not only does Mãe continue to carry out her daily chores with a 2-year-old running around or tied to her back, but she also offers Lukey brain-building moments throughout her chores. She describes what she is doing, points out new words and repeats them until he says it correctly. She teaches him songs, offers him other household items to play with. He is never further than 5 feet from her, and there is always a conversation between the two of them being had. Lukey learns from her, depends on her for food and water, and you can tell by the way he looks at her that he truly adores his grandmother. And she finds great joy in watching his eyes light up while he learns and grows and plays. 

Mãe and Lukey

It’s pretty clear that a family would not have a healthy, necessary structure if it weren’t for the mães. However, the community as well depends on a Mãe’s strength in order to stay organized and productive.  I went to church a few weeks ago and the first 1.5 hours were Mães singing hymns. They all brought their hymnbooks and sang song after song after song in Changana (the local language). I didn’t understand any of it but it was beautiful and joyful nonetheless. There were four men sitting in front of the congregation and throughout the three hours of church, the four of them combined spoke for less than 10 minutes. Two mães of the church gave the sermon, and each talked passionately and animatedly to the congregation for 45 minutes each about something to do with God (this was also in Changana so I didn’t understand). The men were there seemingly as figureheads and the mães shared their words of love, Jesus and inspiration, which is what we were all there to hear. 

Mães plan and execute all types of ceremonies in which the community participates. This includes weddings, funerals, birthday celebrations, holiday celebrations, etc. Mães are charged with buying and cooking the food, making the dresses (for example for a wedding party), providing the music, preparing the space, and planning the agenda of the event. This weekend there was a two-day long wedding. My Mãe has been helping in the preparation of it for many weeks now, and both mornings this weekend she has woken up at 5 am to go to the house of the wedding and begin cooking. On Saturday they started cooking around 0600h and we didn’t eat until 1500h. That’s a whole lot of cooking if you ask me. I got to the wedding early and all the Mães were in the backyard cooking over fire and singing and gossiping and laughing and joking. While I would hate to cook a giant meal for over 50 people for 10 hours straight, the mães made the environment positive and joyful. I will also mention that later in the evening, they brought the singing and the dancing and the party would not have gone on without them. 

All this being said, the Mozambican world would struggle to function without the Mães. They cook, clean, care, work, sell and plan. It’s hard work. It’s long work. It’s repetitive work. But they do it with light in their eyes and smiles on their faces. They take great pride in providing for their families and for the community. And they find the most joy in seeing the ones they love benefit from their hard work. These women are among some of the strongest and most loving women I have ever met. I am blessed to have lived with and learned from my Mãe over the past 8 weeks and am so excited to continue to forge relationships with the Mães in my community. 

Bits of Familiar

In my current world, I rarely say that things feel normal: the food is different and the language is different and the schedule is different. The way that simple tasks around the house are done is different. Gender expectations are different. The education system is different. My life—my world—is more different than it ever has been, or that I could have imagined it ever would be. However, one night about a week ago, a feeling of familiar happened and it was beautiful. Tiny—maybe even could have gone unnoticed—but I noticed it and I’m so glad that I did.

Some volunteers met up after a long day of classes to grab a drink and speak in English and we stayed a little longer than usual. By the time I got home, it was dark and almost dinner time (don’t worry mom, someone walked with me). Anyway, it was dark outside and I thought my family might be irritated that I was home later than usual, so I knocked on the door with some dread and was expecting to be met with a quiet hello but not much else (Mozambicans are not very confrontational). 

Instead, Tia Jacquelina answered the door with a giant smile and a hug—she had been in Maputo for a few days so this was our first time seeing each other in a while. Phew—no quasi-silent-treatment. I asked her how her trip was and she said it was great. My Mãe was also in great spirits—big hugs and smiles and asking me how my day went. Not only did they not think twice about me coming home late-ish, they were in happier moods than usual! #winning

I quickly noticed that Mãe and Tia got their hair done that day—they both usually wear it wrapped up but today both had it down and it was shiny and styled and they looked like total babes. I commented on how nice they both looked. Sheepish grins, giggles, and thank-yous followed. Pretty much the same reaction that any girl anywhere would have after receiving a compliment when they already know they look #bangin. It was adorable and familiar and I’m glad I said my complements aloud. 

Mãe was cutting leafy greens in the kitchen and I asked what she was making. She said kakana and she and Tia busted up laughing. Naturally, I asked, why is that so funny? And they laughed some more. At first I thought it was because that sounds like cocaine, but these two don’t seem like the type of women to laugh at their own jokes about hardcore drugs. So I asked again and they laughed again. Then Mãe said não vai gostar. You’re not going to like it. Excuse me, but I’m a vegetarian and you’re cooking leaves. I’m pretty sure I’ll like it just fine. When I told them I think I’ll like it, they laughed some more. And then I said I would try it and see for myself and they laughed some more. I laughed along with them because I didn’t understand at all why they felt so strongly about this sounds-like-drugs-but-not food. My face was red and my forehead was scrunched and I was confused but I kept laughing and kind of sweating because I’m awkward and this was just weird. How bad could a leaf really be? 

When dinner time came and the kakana looked exactly like every other green mush I’ve eaten since I’ve been in Mozambique, I was certain I would like it. Not to mention the pot was sitting right next to another pot of green mush called Mboa, which I know I like—and I couldn’t tell them apart. Mãe put a tiny spoonful on my plate and said that I could try it but since she knew I wouldn’t like it, that’s all I get. I playfully rolled my eyes and tried it. 

…It was disgusting. It was super bitter and the texture was extra mushy (the bad kind of mushy #ifyouknowwhatimean) with chunks of gosh-knows-what. I think before my face even made the inevitable expression of disgust they both busted up laughing. I admitted that there was no way I would eat another bite and Mãe served me Mboa while she and Tia talked about how funny I am. Note: While I do believe that I am quite hilarious, that laughter had nothing to do with my funniness and everything do with kakana in all of its do-people-actually-eat-this glory. 

That whole scene is absolutely something that would happen in my North American life. Suggesting a friend tries a food you know they will hate just to see their reaction, and then laughing your ass off when they react even more dramatically than you expected. The joke was on me, but I’m not sad about it. 

After dinner we washed dishes like usual and then went to hang out in the living room. Usually during this time I pretend to understand what the TV is saying and Mãe and Tia fofocam (gossip) about anything and everything. However, that day Tia had returned from Maputo with Mozambique’s version of a smart phone (somewhere between an LG Chocolate Touch and an iPhone). Well, said phone was equipped with a camera and Mãe and Tia went to town; it was perfect timing with their new fancy hairdos.

Begin photoshoot:

Tia poses for a picture. Mae takes some. Mae shows Tia. They both laugh.

Mae poses for a picture. Tia takes some. Tia shows Mae. They both laugh. 

Tia poses for a picture. Mae takes some. Mae shows Tia. They both laugh.

Mae poses for a picture. Tia takes some. Tia shows Mae. They both laugh. 

They take a break from posing to scroll through the pics they’ve taken after many rounds of the photoshoot. They point and laugh at each picture although multiple in a row are identical. 

I offer to take one of the two of them together, and compliment their new hair again. I call them chique, which means fancy/luxurious. They giggle and blush and dance and it’s adorable. They pose for a picture together and their reaction to that one is the best. I think they probably haven’t taken a photo together since the last big formal event (wedding or graduation), and I can tell they are getting so much joy from this.

They insist that I pose for a photo by myself. I’m in my pajamas after a long day of Portuguese and Teacher Training and some beers and I am the opposite of chique right now. But they insist. And I oblige. And now there are at least 5 identical pictures of scuzzy, no-make-up, hair in a messy bun Sarah Biz in Tia’s phone forever. Wonderful.

But this too was a scenario that my North American self recognized. Getting a new hairdo (or outfit or lipstick or whatever) and then taking all the selfies because you want evidence of your chique self thoroughly documented. Ladies, we’ve all done it. The difference is, these two women had no intention of posting these photos anywhere and therefore were not hoping for likes or comments. They were content to pose, view and feel beautiful, no follow-up or outside voice needed. 

In a place that is so far away and different than what I have known for the last 27 years, it was amazing to experience multiple instances of familiarity in one night: the new-hairdo-beautiful feeling; playing not-so-nice-jokes on friends; all the selfies. It also reminded me that no matter how different the culture here is, we are all human beings. We find joy in similar places, welcome silliness, and as women, sometimes feeling beautiful is worth more than gold can say. 

“Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for a kindness”.