acculturation

acculturation-- n.  1. The modification of a culture of a group or individual as a result of contact with a different culture. 2. The process by which the culture of a particular society is instilled in a human being from infancy onward.

A few weeks ago my three-year-old daughter ran up to me with a pout and stated in no uncertain terms that she “doesn’t like Africans.” 

Shoke.  Swallow. Shock.  Mortification. 

Of course at that very moment I was in a public setting while I was visiting with…an "African."  What is a parent to do?  At the time all I could think of was to mumble something about being careful that only kind words come out of her mouth and that we would talk about what she meant later…while also saying a quick prayer of thanks that my daughter had chosen to say those words in a language not commonly understood by the general public.

Later came. And my sweet, honest little daughter, once again emphatically stated that she doesn’t like Africans.  And so began an ongoing conversation that came up over the course of several weeks.  As any sensitive parent we started off with gentle questions like, “What makes you say that, sweetie?” (I just don’t like them.)  We discussed God’s  love for all people and how we want to be like Him. (Yes, I know He died for Africans but I just don’t like them).  We talked about the inherent inaccuracy of her statement in that off the top of her head she can name a half a dozen people she adores who are African.  (Well, I love them, but I don’t like all the other Africans).  

And we have taken the opportunity to spend a good deal of time addressing the point that one doesn’t need to speak out loud every thought one has—especially if it is unkind.

I have to say that after several weeks of this issue re-surfacing I was beginning to experience some very strong feelings of inadequacy both as a parent and as a believer living in Africa.  I mean, these are some fundamental issues—“loving your neighbor as yourself,”  “unity in the body of Christ,” “in humility considering others better than ourselves,” imitating Christ in making oneself nothing so as to be relevant to those we have come to serve, not to mention “taming the tongue”—ideas that we value and have attempted to instill in our children.  Where have we gone so wrong?

Then the other day as we were driving down the road, literally out of the blue she leaned forward and asked, “Mom, can I laugh too?”  (Whaaaat?)  “I’ve decided that I will like Africans if I can laugh, too.” (Oh.  Um.  What exactly are you talking about?)  “They are always laughing at me.  And I know you said it’s their culture and they aren’t being unkind.  But I still don’t like it when they laugh at me when I get hurt.  But if you say that I can laugh at them, too, then I won’t get angry any more.  So can I, Mom?  Can I laugh at them, too?”

“Yes, sweetie.  You can laugh, too.  They want you to laugh with them.”

So...all this time I've been worrying about how to address prejudice and snobbery in my three-year old while she's been wrestling with being embarassed by a culture she's trying to understand.  And in the end she decides that rather than remain hurt and offended  she will adjust her own thinking (North American culture--We don’t laugh at people when they get hurt) to that of those around her (Mozambican culture—We laugh to lighten a tense or embarrassing moment). 

Acculturation.

P.S. In the off chance she laugh's hysterically at your child when he falls and scrapes his knee...oh...we'll deal with that when it comes.

 

trip to the bush

A week ago we packed up our children and a trailer full of supplies and set off on an eight hour trip to the province of Zambezia to visit our colleagues who live in the bush.  This family has lived among one of the people groups in Mozambique for the past six or so years, have learned the local language, and have presented the Gospel in that people group's heart language and continued on with discipleship and Bible translation. 

We spent five days with them and thorougly enjoyed our visit.  We were able to visit with the new believers in the community and Stefan had the opportunity to share with some of the men in the evenings.  I went with my friend to visit some ladies in their homes and was so encouraged by their joy in their newfound faith. It was a privilege to pray with them and talk to them about how they are connected to a great community of believers accross the world.   And at one of the homes I "got" to eat monkey--something I haven't eaten since I was a child in the Amazon jungle.

 Our kids were delighted to be out of the city and played outside all day long chasing the chickens, playing in the sand, finding interesting plants and animals and...(definitely their favorite part of being in the bush)...making fires.

Each day the kids faithfully collected wood and built a fire to warm water for our "dip baths" each evening.  And although they clearly took their task seriously, mostly they just had fun playing with fire all day long.

Christian kept an ongoing collection of frogs during our visit.   However, the chickens and hogs that our colleagues raise for food also drew a lot of interest from all of our kids.  Not to mention the goats and hogs and dogs wandering around from all of the neighbors.

Although our children of course do not speak the local language and the local  children don't speak Portugese, children are natrually attracted to eachother and they were soon playing together as children typically do.  At many times our kids were laughed at mercilessly since their mannerisms are so different and strange to these African children. 

The kids also enjoyed all of the simple and fresh food we ate during our visit.  Although we did bring a hefty trailer of supplies in for our colleagues, most of their diet consists of unprocessed locally grown food.  Naturally food preparation and storage is a part of their daily living and everyone helped and learned from the food preparations.

Part of life here is, of course killing your own supper.  However, up until now, our kids had not really experienced that first hand and they were very excited to be able to participate in preparing a rooster for dinner. 

Christian, had no qualms about holding the tied rooster as preparations were made for it's demise.

In fact, the boys were pretty excited about their responsibility to hold the rooster while their daddy was to do the actual killing.  Now, if you know anything about killing a chicken and if you know anything about my husband, you know what was about to happen and why Stefan was trying to keep from smirking as he explained to the boys to hold on tightly.

Stefan quickly and mercifully ended the poor rooster's life.  And unfortunately, I have no picture of the chaos that ensued because I was too busy laughing.  For those of you who don't know, chickens seem to put up most of their fight AFTER they have been killed or beheaded as their nerves continue to work for a short while.  So about the time Stefan stepped back, the rooster's dead body began its mighty fight and the boys (predictably) let go in terror.

They ran around the yard after it screaming and when they finally caught up to it the look on my fearless son Christian's face was priceless.

Cohen eventually braved picking up the rooster again and held it up proudly.  Least you think this experience was traumatic for them in any way, they were eager to kill their own dinner again on another day.  But I do think they have a healthy appreciation that even a rooster's death is not merely exciting entertainment...if Christian's white blood-spattered face was any indication.

Speaking of entertainment...on our return trip to Nampula the trailer hitch broke (again and in a different place than our last trip).  We were stranded in an isolated community for two and a half hours while we looked for help.  And if you wonder what a girl's to do with four wound-up and exhausted children out in the middle of no where while her sweet-heart is trying to fix a trailer hitch...well, that would be a good question. 

Mostly we provided entertainment for the community by...just being us.  According to the one or two  men who spoke Portuguese, the villagers had never seen white children before.  So they all crowded around staring and laughing at every expression or movement our children made.  As for our children, they were not so thrilled about having their pale skin caressed or their their hair pulled by strangers....or having to use the bathroom behind thin grass with everyone peering at them.   But they survived (as their parents--who had the same things done to them as children in South America--told them they would).  And eventually help came and we made it home to Nampula later that same night.

And although their daddy and mommy enjoyed a nice hot SHOWER...the kids were already wishing for a dip bath with water they had heated themselves.

trip to the ocean

This past week we packed up our vehicle and trailer to head out on a four-day trip to the coast.  The kids have been asking to got to the beach since we first returned to Mozambique six months ago as their memories of Mozambique had most definitely included sand and water.

Cohen (now seven years old) has been enjoying more and more responsibilites and seems to sit just a bit straighter and taller every time he his given a man-sized task--like helping to lock up the trailer withe all of our food and supplies for our get-away.

Alex said her goodbyes to her very good friend, Jacinta.

Spirits high, the children pleaded for one "crazy" picture.  And then we were off...

...and this is not the beach.

This is us broken down on the side of the road.

Although a majority of the two and a half hour drive to the coast is pretty smooth, the last half hour the roads are quite terrible and on one particularly bad jolt, the trailer hitch broke.  Thankfully, it was ONLY the trailer hitch and nothing serious on the car.  And thankfully, we had friends who were only an hour and a half behind us who had planned to meet us at the beach.  So we made the best of it and the kids played in the sand on the side of the road while we waited.

Apparently our being stranded on the side of the road was THE sight to see for all passing by.  I kid you not, people count our kids every time they see us out as a family.  Although Mozambican families always have a passle of children, they are not usually accustomed to seeing "white" people--let alone "white" people with four children. 

We did finally make it to the beach, after our friends came along and picked up our trailer.

It was just as much fun as the older ones remembered. Alex got to experience the ocean for the first time as I got to re-live the panicky feeling of my babies being completely unafraid of the water.

We found hermit crabs and starfish and all manner of other sea creatures.

When not at the beach, we relaxed at a cabin while the kids explored.

Wesley and Alex found the hammocks and claimed them for our stay.  (Don't let this picture fool you--most of the time they were screeching at eachother for their turn).

We spent the evenings around a fire with our friends and co-workers.

There is nothing quite like huddling around a fire on a cool evening after a day in the sand and water.

We brought back little red noses, towels loaded wtih sand, and a few hermit crabs destined for an untimely end at the hands of over-zealous keepers. 

Love the ocean.

"daddy's chores"

The kids usually look forward to a family movie and home-made pizza on Saturday evenings, but halfway through dinner, their daddy got a call that changed our plans.  One of Stefan's Mozambican friends was going through a family crisis and needed someone to talk to--so in less than a minute he was gone. 

And there I sat with four children sitting around the table staring at me--their expectations dashed--not to mention my own...and a mountain of dishes in the kitchen.  So I put it to the children--their daddy was called away on an important task to help someone who needed help--what could we do to make that happen?  The kids thought about it for a moment then suggested that maybe they could do "Daddy's chores" so that he could go help his friend and wouldn't have to do them when he got home later this evening.  So glad they thought of that themselves (wink).

And so we began our evening of service.  Cohen (6) volunteered to wash the dishes and Christian (5) offered to dry.  Wesley (3) was given the task of playing with and caring for Alex (1 1/2).  We turned on some music and set to work.  Admittedly, the dish towel is a bit greasy this evening after cleaning off some food our volunteer dish washer missed.  And admittedly the volunteer dish drier got distracted when Steve Fee's "Glory To God" song played over the ipod and he dashed off to lead his two younger sisters in a jamming session in the living room.  And truthfully, Wesley has a very limited ability to corall and entertain her younger sister without simultaneously making her scream.  Between dishes and sweeping and drumming, it was soon bedime. 

I of course appreciated their help and cooperation, but mostly what brought so much joy to the evening was seeing that they seemed to grasp that they were doing it SO THAT their Dad could do his work.  It was not just a "salvaged" evening together--it became a purposeful and meaningful evening--right on down to little Alex clapping her hands and dancing to the music.

It also struck me that this kind of evening was possible because of who Stefan is.  I'm not talking about him being the kind of guy who will drop his home-made pizza on a Saturday night to go help a friend--although he is that.  The truth is, many fathers miss their dinners because of work.  Many fathers miss family movie night to go hang out with friends.  Many fathers miss tucking their kids in to bed because their "ministry" has called them away.  But my kids' father doesn't.  He makes it a habit to be home to share dinner with us.  He works hard and we juggle schedules so that Saturdays are spent together as a family.  He washes Saturday evening dishes (usually).  As a family we are "full."  And because we are full, when an emergency comes up, we can swallow our temporary dissappointment, wave good bye, and "do his chores."  We know that tomorrow we will have supper together and that chances are, next Saturday we will all watch a movie together. 

 And of course he'll do next Saturday evening's dishes...right honey?

smells

Standing outside the bread store the other evening, after jostling our way throgh the streets, the girls and I waited as Stefan and the boys bought our bread for the evening.  As we stood to the side trying to keep out of the way of the crowds making their way home for the evening, Wesley scowled and said, "Mommy, I smell something." 

In Africa there are always strong smells--I love the smell of fresh rain wetting down the dusty roads,  of frangipani and jasmine stretching over our neighbor's wall into our yard, of fresh tropical fruit sitting on my kitchen counter, or of the neighbor's maid making chicken curry for their dinner.  But just as those smells are so acute here, so also are the other smells of life--the garbage heaped up accross the street, the blood from the goat slaughtered next door,  the stench of urine on all the trees in the city.

So in the midst of all those competing smells, what did my little daughter detect that made her scrunch up her pretty little nose? Was it the freshly baked bread from the store?  The overripe bananas at the vendor's feet beside her? What do you smell sweetie?  SnifF, Sniff..."I smell...I smell...people."

Ah yes.  Indeed you do.  

That IS the smell of people.  Hundreds all around her walking home in the African heat to no showers...and no soap. Fortunately the "smell" of people is just a candid observation for a little three-year-old who will still laugh and hug and hold and never turn away in disgust.

We did get out of the crowd of the city the other day, though, and had a lovely walk in nature.

We examined leaves and  collected rocks and flowers. Chased dragonflies and shy crabs.  Walked through tall grass and accross "scary" marshy pathways. Smelled dry fish, deisel and rotting wood.   Smelled freshly cut grass, a grilling chicken and leather on a slingshot. There really is no excaping "smell" in Africa.

lies and truth

I laughed tonight during a most mind-boggling conversation with Fernando as we heated up his water for tea. I laughed so that I wouldn't get angry.

Fernando works for us in the evenings as a security guard. As such, he spends the night hours walking around our apartment building, sitting guard at the front gate, and (who are we kidding?) sleeping. But it is comforting to know he is there.

Every month we give him a big bag of sugar and box of tea to help him stay awake during the long nights. And every night we heat up a thermos of water and Stefan chats with him. Tonight we got on the subject of the rats that also roam freely about our yard at night. Fernando noted that our neighborhood has some extremely large rats and that his wife had been asking him for some time now to catch them and bring them home (for food). Stefan asked him why he wasn't killing them and Fernando began to laugh and say that they were too big and too fast for him. So we joked about sending our son Christian down to help him.

And then Fernando said one of those things that people say here that you're not quite sure if you heard right. He said (roughly translated), "Well, they won't let me catch them because they know I'm going to eat them. But if you were to come down, they will let you catch them because they know you're just going to kill them and throw them out." And then he laughed. And we laughed. And then he said it again. And just to be sure he was saying what I thought he was saying, asked, "So, the rats have a preference? They don't mind to be caught to be killed and tossed, but they won't let YOU catch them because they know you will eat them?" He laughed and said "Yes." And he was dead serious. And Fernando knows I don't believe a word he just said, and he laughs and thinks I'm just an ignorant white lady. And I laugh because...

Well, because if I don't, I'll just get angry. Get angry once again at all the lies people believe. Granted, this is a somewhat "silly" or inconsequential lie that obviously doesn't have far-reaching consequences on his life. But it is just a small representation of all the deception that so many people live under here in Mozambique and accross Africa. And how those lies affect every aspect of their lives.

The other day I was working on a meal with Jacinta in our backyard. The kids were playing around us and suddenly she stopped what she was doing. She had been tossing peanuts in the air with a winnow. She waited for a while and then shyly asked if I wouldn't mind moving Wesley, who had walked in front of her and stood their watching. I directed Wesley to the side and then as Jacinta began working again, she explained that one cannot winnow when a young child is in front of the winnow. If she were to continue with the child there, the food that she was preparing would not "satisfy." In fact, the winnow would be cursed in such a way that from then on, all food that was prepared in it would leave a person feeling hungry. It would be necessary to get a traditional healer to "bless" it with traditional medicine before it would once again work properly.

In America we throw around the phrase, "The truth will set you free" as a trite saying. (Maybe because we are blind to our own lies that we cling to so tennaciously?) But really and truly, the lies around us here in Africa are so pervasive. And they are so crippling. And I'm reminded of the hold the Deciever enjoys on the lives of so many people around us through his lies.

"Walk in truth." Up until now I have tended to think of that phrase as a command to follow. An exhortation to live up to. But tonight I feel overwhelmed by the privilege I have of walking in truth. I'm overwhelmed by all the aspects of my life that God's truth has already impacted--by all the ways I'm free. I'm humbled by the responsibility of walking in truth--so that lies around me will be exposed and the people around us will come to know the joy and freedom that comes from knowing Truth.

jacinta

We have been blessed to finally find a house helper (or "empregada" as they are called here) to work with us! The girl who worked for us previously (Ana) was able to get a good job working on the farm of some friends of ours while we were away in the States. But a few weeks after our return, Ana came to visit us and brought along her younger "sister" to introduce to us. Although Jacinta had never worked for a Western family before, we knew that if Ana was recommending her that it would be a good idea to give it a try. After a week "trial" period, we have been so thankful for not only her help, but the opportunity for this to be a person we get to know and in whose life we can invest!

In a Mozambican household, a typical "empregada's" duties would include everything from handwashing laundry, ironing, washing dishes, making meals, cleaning the house, buffing the floors, buying groceries, to caring for the children. It is not uncommon for them to arrive at their employer's house by 6:30 and leave after dark when the evening dishes are done--six or seven days a week. Technically their duties do not fall under the "labor laws" here in Mozambique and they are often paid far less than the minimum wage.

Anyone of "means" living in Mozambique--and particularly expatriates, would be expected to hire one or several house helpers]--not only for practical purposes and as an indication of status, but also as a way to help out the local economy by providing an income to someone who otherwise would not have a job. The few people who do not hire house helpers tend to be seen as "stingy" and secrative--possibly with something to hide.

As an expatriate, and as a Christian, obviously we have some ethical and Biblical issues with hiring, treating, and paying an empregada in what would be the widely-accepted Mozambican culturally appropriate way. However, there are some tricky implications to work through as we try to navigate a compromise between what we would consider "reasonable" as expatriates and what can quickly become an imbalance and problem as we live and work among other Mozambicans. Many expatriates tend to want to significantly overpay their workers, give them very reduced "Western" work hours, and "bless" them according to our Western ideas. Not only can this eventually become a problem between the employer and employee (think: all kinds of co-dependence), but it also has community-wide implications since that worker has to "fit" somewhere in his/her community without upsetting his position in the family or becoming a target for crime.

As we have tried to work through these issues the past four years of living here, we are acutely aware of the importance of finding someone who is not only going to be a help to our family but someone that we can invest in and bless in ways other than simply materialistically.

Every family, I'm sure has something slightly different that they are looking for in a house worker. But generally, there are some basic "qualifications" that can be actually pretty challenging to find.

1. Honest. It is not that an overwhelming majority of workers are dishonest, per se. It is just that the material wealth of an expatriate compared to the near poverty of most locals is so striking that it can be extremly tempting to steal.

2. Hard worker. We have four children. Self-explanitory.

3. Teachable. Many people look for someone who has had previous experience working in an expatriate home--the material and physical differences can be SO significant between a local Mozambican's life experience and the reality of a Western home (think: standards of cleanliness and hygeine, working with a gas-burning stove vs. cooking over an open fire, and mopping a floor verses sweeping a dirt floor, to name a few) that it can be a long process to work through. However, in the end, we have found through experience that we would much rather work with someone who has a teachable attitude than someone who may even have previous experience.

4. A female. Although it is more common for men to be house workers here in the north of the country, since I am a stay-at-home mother with four vulnerable little children, we have been praying for a female house worker.

5. The "fit" factor. It is a bit hard to describe, but this is a person who will be spending hours in our home with me and with our children every week. This is someone who will be working along side me in the kitchen and who, like me, will probably get kicked by a wayward ball while she is hanging up laundry. We look for someone who loves children and will engage with me throughout the day.

In the past week, we discovered that Jacinta definitely meets our basic qualifications and in some ways has exceeded our expectations. Only God knows how long she will be a part of our lives and us a part of hers. But we pray that with her help we will be able to "function" and thrive as a household here in Mozambique. And we pray that we will be able to invest in her life and live out God's love to her so that, despite all the inadiquacies I know she will witness in our family, that she will be drawn to the One who brought us here.

surrounded by beauty

Africa is beautiful. And it is ugly.

When most people think of Africa, they think of nature and of wild animals. They think of dense jungles and sprawling savanahs. Of glittering dessert sands and exotic beaches. But that is not the Africa that is our lives. We live in a small city overflowing with millions of people without running water and sewage systems. It seemse every bit of usable space is covered in either concrete, mud, or garbage. Alleys and backyarads are overrun with rodents.

In a space that used to be a park accross the street from our apartment, piles of garbage heap up every day. Scavenger birds quarrel endlessly with stray dogs over bits of rotting food. Street children and drifters sort for pieces of usable trash. The stench of feces and urine is often overwhelming because with a lack of public restrooms, the overgrown grass in the "park" has become the place people use to relieve themselves while in town.

(Just the other day, as my children and I playing on the front porch, one of them shouted out, "Look mom all of those children just pulled up their skirts and...." SHEESH! African cultural lesson #1, my children, It is YOUR job not to look; not theirs to protect privacy.)

It is hard to describe, though, long-term what a lack of beauty does to a person. How despairing it can be day after day to only see cement and garbage, man-made buildings and iron bars. How you just long to run your feet accross a green lawn. Or drink in the simple smell of a flower. Or stand so small against a great cliff. I know this because although I'm just at the beginning of my time here again, I remember how this little longing for beauty eventually becomes a desperate need.

And I'm thinking, "How am I going to do this again?"

And my God, who knows my every need, brought my toddling baby to clench at my skirt. I swung her up and watched her giggle delightedly. I did it again. And watched as her belly rolled up and down with laughter. Her little face flushed. Her heart beat. Her eyes sparkled. And my breath caught as realized I was gazing at beauty.

I looked over at my sons battling with Legos on the kitchen table. Bare chested little men with sweaty hair and stern expressions. Perfectly dirty feet. Strong arms. A mischevios grin spread across the face of my four year old and I saw beauty.

I thought of my sweet little girl lying sprawled on her bed for her afternoon nap. The fan blowing her hair softly on her peaceful little face--quiet and still for those few moments of rest--rest from climbing the railing on the porch, from running away screeching with the toy she stole from baby sister, from keeping up with her big boys...rest from challenging everything and all of her little two-year old life each day. Beauty.

I am surrounded by beauty.

finding home again

We've been in Mozambique just over two weeks now and although I've had a thousand subjects to write on, I kept on waiting until I thought I could put together a coherant thought. Have decided against waiting until I'm sure my thoughts are "put together." Might end up being a while.

We have been falling into bed, exhausted, just about every night by 8:30. And getting up between 4:30 and 5:30 every morning. Unfortunately we can no longer blame that on jetlag. It is just the new reality. The sun comes up here at 4:30. Houses are built on top of eachother and since all our neighbors (including wailing babies, chickens, and the drifters that sleep in "parque" accross the street) are up with the sun...so are OUR little ones...and hence, so are we.

We had a very smooth trip and spent the first two nights in Mozambique at a guest house where our children had the run of a large property where they climbed trees, ate mangoes and explored new wildlife to their hearts content. Meanwhile we gathered our household items from storage and moved the furniture into the apartment that we had set up to live in.

And then we moved. And it felt like we were plunged into the deep end of the pool. We were without running water for some time due to electrical issues. We discovered that the apartment had some significant plumbing, electrical, and carpentry problems. As we began to unpack boxes, we discovered that some had been broken and all of the contents had been covered in mold. Several of us got sick for a few days. And we were having a terrible time figuring out where to buy even basic food staples since there had been some big changes in markets and stores while we were gone. We found rats nests in the house. (rats, not mice). Although I hesitate to mention that as one of the challenges we faced when we first came because the boys thought it was great fun chasing them down the driveway.

Laundry piled up. Dead cockaroaches piled up. Banana peels piled up. (I truly thank God for banans. They are the one food that our kids can eat happily as they adjust to new flavors and foods of whatever country they are in.)

And then one day...it just felt like home again. It's not that all that much has changed. (Although we do thankfully have running water again!) There are still unpacked boxes around. The sink still drips. The security guard next door still blares his radio at 2:00 in the morning. The kids still wake up sweaty. And I still crave a huge bowl of lettuce and a nice thick slice of cheese.

But this is home for now. It is home because it is where my baby and toddler and two boys and husband and me all sit down and eat these new foods together at the dinner table. It is home because it is where we curl up on the couch in the midst of messes to read Little House in the Big Woods together. And on the days I long for home to be somewhere else... somewhere more comfortable...somewhere more lovely...somewhere more ideal...I remember that mostly it is home because it is where God has placed me.