Cuisine

Ok, I have to admit it: I do not like “funje”. “Funje” is the local maize or manioc “mash”, which forms the basis to pretty much every meal. Most Angolans would say they couldn’t imagine not eating funje at least once a day. The real “test” for a good housewife is her ability of preparing funje. No party would be complete without a hearty funje meal. But while I’m curious enough to taste anything, no matter how “weird” it looks or smells, I am just not able to go crazy for funje and crave it when I have to go a day without it. So, I end of confirming local stereotypes. White people like potatoes. Check. And pasta. Check. White women prefer vegetables to chicken or beef. I’m no vegetarian, but check. They also think that a bowl of fruit can actually be a full meal. The perfect lunch when it’s 30 degrees outside: mango, pineapple, passion fruit and a bit of guava juice. Check. White folks can’t live without coffee. Check!! And perhaps their skin colour is due to the fact that they drink so much milk… Who knows! But check the milk-drinking bit. It’s nice to know that in any case we can all sit together at the same table and wonder and laugh about each others “weird” food preferences!

Moments

There are moments when things seem a bit hopeless and impossible: nothing seems to move anywhere, the medical centre further from being ready than ever, people difficult to work with, untrustworthy, lazy, not interested. A huge cockroach runs over the just cleaned kitchen floor; it’s too hot to do anything without sweating profusely; the person you needed to speak to is incredibly late again; the telephone line is dead once again. The family next door has just bought a new generator and sound system and insists on playing the worst possible techno music as loud as possible. The car has a problem that no one seems able to identify and fix. Tomatoes have again gone up in price and all shops in town have run out of soap (or mineral water, or toothpaste, or toilet paper). Will this place ever progress, ever change, ever get even slightly better? And, most of all, what does it mean to "get better”?

And then something happens: a kid rides by on a bike that’s far too big and smiles and waves. You become aware of the incredible shades of green of the trees against the amazingly blue sky and the rich, red earth. A gentle breeze refreshes the air and carries the smell of mangoes ready to fall from a tree nearby. The sun drops at the horizon in one of those glorious sunsets that seems unreal and gives you goose bumps. You see two women chatting with each other, while smoothly walking along and carrying their babies on their backs, wrapped in colourful textile. The neighbour finally runs out of gasoline and in the following silence you hear a bird sing, a distant group of people rehearsing church songs, clapping their hands and playing the drums. The mind goes quiet, forgets to be angry and hopeless and decides once again that being here is the best choice of all.

Social networks

When we hear the word we are by now used to think of “chatting to people online”, “poking”, “connecting”, “e-mailing”, etc. We are always informed, always reachable, always “in touch” with everyone.

What about walking 10 miles to go see your uncle who is sick? Or seeing the new born baby of the cousin who lives three villages away? What about sitting at the fireplace, telling stories with friends who seemed to be long gone and suddenly reappeared? What about calling the “phone booth” of a village, only to have one of the boys run to the house of the person you are trying to call and announcing the phone call?

To be sure some speed has been added to the process, a general “easiness” of keeping in touch, but are we really that much closer? Didn’t we loose some “poetry” in the process and are we really being able to use all this speed to our advantage, or does it end up just being all more superficial?

Coffee

Why is it that in the “West” we consume almost all the coffee that is grown almost exclusively in South America, South Asia and Africa? The only Angolans I’ve ever seen drink coffee are the ones that are “westernized” or trying to be.

How is it that the Swiss are known for the chocolate they produce and dominate the market of this product, when they haven’t even had colonies and all the cocoa is produced very far away from their borders? I think in Benguela I’m one of the few to buy chocolate every once in a while, along with the foreign doctors and a few NGO employees.

Puzzles, to which so far I haven’t even been able to find the slightest hint of a solution!

Christmas

Despite a few invites to spend Christmas in Angola this year, I decided I couldn’t face the holidays without the cold, woolen blankets, duffle coats and the family. But before heading north in a couple of weeks, I’ll pack my suitcase full of memories. I’ll take Teresa’s loud voice with me, when she tells stories about her family and I need all my concentration to follow the words that seem to run out of her mouth. I’ll think of tia Luciana’s proud smile when I appreciate her latest “experiment” in the kitchen. Lino’s laughter when the “white woman” asks him for the fiftieth time to do something he just can’t be bothered to do. Luzia’s stories about being a nurse during the civil war, and losing a husband and finding him again 10 years later. Dona Maria’s happiness when I told her that the dress she made for me was a huge success “out there”. The songs in church. The taste of a mango just taken off a tree. The silence in the mountains and the chilly breeze of the evenings that smells of eucalyptus. Mario’s voice when he recites his poetry about love and life and politics. Girls plaiting each other’s hair. The huge dark eyes of my little godchild. The smell of lemons and tomatoes in the kitchen. And many many children’s hands waving goodbye.

Democracy

I’ve had this glimpse about democracy the other day: democracy is a place where one doesn’t need to say “thank you”. (sorry, very fortune-cookie like, but let me explain):

Not that democracy wouldn’t need civility and politeness, not that it should be about forgetting “good manners”, but it does have an element of “anti-bowing” that I find fundamentally dignifying.

The lamppost on your street doesn’t light any more? It might take a while, but if you complain, someone’s going to come fix it. And while you surely will say a word of thanks to the guy who actually did the work (if you meet him), you won’t then run to the mayor and thank him for his “extraordinary effort”. You won’t bow a million times in front of the mayor’s secretary or doorman and declare to be eternally grateful, just because he let you into the mayor’s office. Some things are just your “right”. Full stop. No unnecessary politeness. No over-the-top thankfulness.

Around here, you have to be prepared to “be grateful” well before anything gets done. You will start saying thank you just to get a chance to hope that anything might get at some point done. So, thank you Mrs. Secretary for answering the phone and giving me a chance to ask for an appointment with the doorman of the assistant of the secretary of the person in charge of lampposts. Thank you, Mr. doorman for actually letting me into his office, allowing me to wait for 5 hours in order to speak to the secretary of his assistant. Thank you, Mr. Assistant for looking at me and agreeing to listen (with half an ear) to my concern, after I professed my complete devotedness to your grandness. And… wait, what did I want to complain about???

War

I’ve only heard “fun” stories and anecdotes about the three decades of civil war in the country. It seems like, collectively and silently, it has been decided that the atrocities are not something that should be passed on, while fun stories thrive and get told by different people in different versions. One of the stories goes like this: Cuban soldiers (11,000 of them were in the country in 1976) were known to like pork meat very much. As it was quite rare in supply during the war, the Cubans were also known to stop whoever was transporting pigs and seize the animals to have a special dinner. Once, a group of Angolan soldiers got offered (or stole, versions differ…) a pig in a village (it could have been in pretty much any of the provinces: I guess the story is one of those myths that get then appropriated by different groups and populations, as it represents a “universal” for the specific time). As the Angolans had to pass a Cuban camp, they started thinking about a solution that would avoid them to “share” the gift with the Cubans. One soldier suggested to dress the pig in uniform and to put it next to the driver in a “sitting” position. When they got to the Cuban camp, they got stopped and the Cubans searched the car: “Do you have pigs?” “No, no”, was the answer. “And what is this???” said one of the Cubans pointing at the pig in uniform. “It’s our chief!” “The pig is your chief?” “Yes, don’t you see the medals on his jacket, and the hat, and the uniform?” “So, the pig is your chief…” Smiling nods. Eventually the Cubans had to let them off, together with the chief-pig. The Angolans had a big party that night and that’s also when this story started being told and retold to everyone who wants to listen to it.