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| Vovo Rachel....and her goat joking around.. |
“Mana Colleen, esta na hora.” (Miss
Colleen, it’s time).
It’s 4:00 a.m. last Wednesday morning.
Vovo (Grandma) Rachel had sent her grandchildren as a wake-up call.
After months of her inviting me to her machamba
(farm/fields), I was finally going.
I grabbed my hat, a capulana (fabric cloth) and a bottle of
water before heading out with them into the moonlight. I met up with Vovo at
her house and she and I set off walking along the main road into the Limpopo
River valley that reaches out to the provincial capital, Xai-Xai. She balanced a
basket on her head as we walked. We met up with a friend of hers and then
joined the other women who were making the journey on foot to the fields in the
valley. The air was still, the lights of Xai-Xai were along the horizon, an
occasional car would pass and there was a constant mumble of Changana, the
local language. It was about a 45-minute
walk down into the valley and then we turned off the main road into the fields.
From there it was about another ten minutes. When we got to her plot of land, I
asked her how did she know that this was her
land. She seemed to think it was quite the silly question responding that
of course it was her land, she had planted it. But what I meant was where was
any indication or separation from one plot to the next, there was no defining
line, no sign, no nothing. But, I didn’t doubt it was her land.
She dropped her basket and pulled out her capulana. She
instructed me how to tie it in order to use it as a sack to collect corn we
were there to harvest. First, she wrapped it around her waist with the two ends
in front. Then she tied the two corners on top together, then the two bottom
corners together. Then she shifted it around so the tied part was in back. She
then gave me a small wooden stick and showed me how to pull off the corn from
the stalk, use the stick to split the top of the corn husk and then shuck the
corn. Then insert it in the capulana sack tied around my waist. We were ready. And
so we started.
We worked in a line together so as not to miss any corn. We
worked our way down the field, filling our capulana sacks, then emptying them
into a rice sack that we then emptied into a pile hidden in the middle of the
field. She had arranged a truck to come the next day to transport all the corn
to her house. We started working before the sun was even up and then watched a
beautiful sunrise over the fields and the river valley.
Vovo was surprised at how quickly I picked up the process.
The day before she had come by my house and said how going to the fields was no
joke. She said it was hard work, almost doubting that I could actually work.
This is after months of her telling me that I had to go to the fields with her.
Months of her telling me, “If you want to eat, you have to work.” And that is
the mantra here. She and her family are dependent on this corn. They will use
it to make xima, the main staple food here for months, maybe even the whole
year if she stores it well. As we worked side-by-side in the field she asked me
about farms in America. I told her how my family just had vegetable gardens.
But I told her how most of the midwest in America is cornfields just like the
one we were in. The difference is that they are owned by companies that have
lots of technology and machinery to harvest.
“If you want to eat, you have to work.” She just kept
repeating it. And it is true. This was the first day of my year and a half here
that I made the trip out to the fields. But, for so many women this is the
daily routine, daily struggle, just to put food on the table at the end of the
day.
By 9 am, Vovo said that I had worked well and that I could
go home. Her friend remarked how of course I worked well, I was a woman, not a
man. Eek. But after all, it is usually the women here who are responsible for
the fields. I told her I wanted to stay until she was going home. But, then
around 10 am the sun emerged from the clouds and was beating down full force. I realized I didn’t have any sunscreen on or
with me and my Irish roots had nothing against the strength of the Mozambican
sun. It was time for this Irish lassie to head home. By 11 am, I started making
the trip back, my capulana sack slung over my shoulder with just about 10 husks
of corn Vovo insisted I take home to cook. At that point, we were only about
halfway through the field. She ended up staying well past 3 pm. But, the work didn’t end there. She was back
the next day at 4 am, this time with the truck in order to haul all the corn to
her house. From there she then had to sort it and store it properly in order to
be able to last the duration of the year. And she still has to care for the
land in order to plant the next harvest. I almost felt guilty. I didn’t even make it
one whole day in the fields. While for me, this was some fun cultural exchange experience,
this is the reality for Vovo and so many families I live with in Chicumbane. They
are dependent on the land and what they harvest. Period.
Vovo and her family have been such an important part of my
experience here in Chicumbane. I remember the first time I met her when I was
on site visits still during training. She called out “Amiga” as I passed by
with Vivienne, the volunteer I was visiting at the time. Vovo lives on the
corner of the main road coming from the market to the hospital. I use this road
just about every day so you could say I see her a lot. Our relationship started
out as that, she would yell out, “Amiga” as I passed by. And we would exchange
the usual “Tudo bem?” “Tudo bem obrigada” greetings. Then she learned my name
and we would stop and talk a little longer. Soon after, her granddaughter, Lalina,
six years old, joined the brigade of children who come by my house to color.
Then she started sending Lalina over with pineapples. I was then invited to a
party at her house and I was able to meet more of her family. When my family
arrived in town, she greeted us with a bunch of avocados. And then after months
of invitations, I finally went to church with her.
Just a month later, her 15-year-old granddaughter, Katia,
arrived at her house with a baby just a few days old (born September 4th)
and nowhere to go. Vovo accepted them both with open arms, and even gave the
baby MY NAME. I was more than surprised
that afternoon I passed by her house and she passed me a baby telling me it was
my “charra” (namesake). I told her I wanted to see how it was spelt. Turns out
she is spelling it “Calita”, but I guess we won’t get too technical. Charras
are very special here and people will talk about charras sharing the same names
and then also being birthday charras if you have the same birthday as someone.
Vovo likes to talk about my namesake and me as if we are the same person. When
she sees me she’ll sometimes say, “You…you cried all night” or “Your mother
didn’t feed you, you were so hungry.” I like to joke with her that my mother is
very far away, she hardly knows when I eat. But, she’s referring to my
15-year-old mother. Unfortunately, however, the 15-year-old is hardly prepared
to be a mother at all.
About a month ago, Vovo yelled across her yard as I passed
by, “Your mother fled. She left.” Katia left the baby in the middle of the
night crying, without saying anything. I, of course, had a hundred questions
for Vovo. “Where did she go? Have you heard from her? Have you called any
family members? Does this happen often here? What are we going to feed baby
Calita?” She said she had gotten help from some neighbors in order to buy a can
of formula. When I went to the hospital the next day, I started asking some of
the nurses what to do. Enfermeira Suzete told me to go to Accao Social, Social
Action, which is basically the social work department of the hospital. Of
course, why didn’t I think of that?
The next day, Vovo arrived at the hospital to fill out a
form requesting milk. She had to have the neighborhood leader sign it and bring
it back to the hospital. From there, she was to wait a response. Since I work
at the hospital, I told her I would check in on the status of the document once
in a while. Every time I passed by, they said that there was still no response.
About almost two weeks after Katia fled, she returned. Vovo threw her in jail for
two nights on account of neglect. Katia never said where she was, why she went,
how she went, how she came back, nothing. I refrained from drilling her with
questions. And Vovo started calling her “crazy.” When she returned she had lost
some weight and could no longer breastfeed the baby. So we left the papers at
Accao Social, awaiting a response. About two weeks later, Vovo was at the
hospital so we decided to stop in Accao Social. This time, the counselor said
that we should fill out another document and take it to the city in order to
make the request personally at the social action department instead of waiting
for a response from the hospital. She said how it often took a long time
through the hospital. So we filled out said document, waited about another week
just for the doctor to sign it so we could bring it to the city. Within this
week, Katia fled again in the middle of the night. She stole a cell phone,
capulanas and money. I don’t think she will be coming back this time. And finally, just last Friday Vovo was able to
take the document and Calita to the city. She left with a box of formula that
will hopefully last a month and then she can return to get another month’s
supply.
When I went to her house later that day, I can’t tell you
just how happy, appreciative and truly elated she was that her great-granddaughter
now had formula. I was so happy to be able to help her out with the process,
but also my heart ached. What happens to the people who have to make the same
requests and don’t have a foreigner working at the hospital to help them? I
didn’t know and still don’t know how many people they tell about the shortcut
to fill out one more document and expedite the process by going yourself? How
many requests are lost in the process because of all the formalities? I just
remember how the counselor in the social action sector of the hospital, kept
telling me how long the process would take if we waited for the hospital to
process the request. Why is that? If one is making a request for milk it is because
they have nothing else to feed their baby at the time, what are they supposed
to give them in the meantime? Everything always seems to take so much longer
here in Mozambique…but why is that? Some things I don’t think I will ever understand.
Needless to say, Calita is now eating well and growing. She
is lucky to have Vovo to take care of her. In fact, we both are.
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| Vovo Rachel and Lalina |
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| Meet Calita....She's my namesake, but they changed the spelling. Not too many Irish here in Moz. |
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| Lalina and Calita |
