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.

Rain

I distinctly remember complaining about the lack of water not even that long ago, and getting really worked up because of it and the problems it caused. Now these complaints seem completely unreasonable and out of place. Time has come to complain about too much water: rainy season!
So, I was driving from Ganda to Tchikuma this morning, despite the rain that had started around 2am. Weirdly enough for this time of the year it hadn’t stopped after just a few hours and actually looks like it’s going to keep going until the evening hours.
The holes on the road were all filled with water, but problems really started after around 15 km. There’s an area where the earth is yellow instead of red and turns into mud with the addition of only a few drops of water. The car started “dancing”, slipping, and finally stopped with one wheel half buried in mud. 4-wheel driving didn’t help to get us out and as there where only 2 of us traveling there wasn’t enough “man-force” to push the car. Finally we asked some kids from the nearby village to help and only a few minutes later a group of men on motorbikes came by. (one is rarely as happy to see people as when one is in trouble on an African road…). I actually knew one of the men, which helped cutting short the story-telling about where one is going and coming from, comments about the weather, the status of the road, who you’re working for, why you’re going where you are trying to go. They laughed about my shoes covered in mud (not that much more than the rest of me…) from jumping out of the car and trying to “evaluate” the situation, then they all started telling me the “best” way to get out of the hole. I believe this is a universal: men are intimately convinced that no woman can “really” drive and that it is their “mission” to teach any woman they meet, especially if she’s in trouble on the road. So I accepted my “inferior” position, smiled, said thank you and tried to do whatever they were telling me to do, providing it was doable (you can’t really go backwards and forwards at the same time…). They finally agreed on pushing the car forwards and while I pressed my foot on the accelerator, I closed my eyes, hoping the car wouldn't slip again and end up off the road, in the river. In between more discussions, shouts and “teachings”, the team effort actually seemed to work and the car was finally “freed”. I then listened patiently to each persons opinions about the road ahead and the chances of “making it”. Again I smiled, said thank you, finally got into the car, looked at my fellow traveler and we tacitly decided to drive back to Ganda and to leave it for a less “wet” day…

Zulu

On the beach in Lobito there is bar that has been there forever. It’s called “Zulu”. I remember it from the first time I came to Angola, in 2002, just after the end of the civil war. The only “place” left on a once famous and beautiful beach, the Zulu is somewhat of an institution. Surprisingly fancy, with wooden chairs and tables, when all you can find everywhere else is plastic, waiters in uniforms, all but cheap (but then again, what’s cheap in Angola?). It used to be the gathering spot for aid workers craving a burger or a ceasar salad, a game of beach volley and a chat, after weeks or months in “the bush”. Right now the public is a bit more mixed: from the group of young “daddy’s sons” with their gold chains and baseball caps, to “new rich” families, Portuguese entrepreneurs, Chinese engineers, sometimes a local Angolan celebrity. People sit and work on their laptops, sip fresh drinks, make sure they see and get seen and I can’t help but notice how universal certain human behavioral patterns are.

Money

In Angola’s capital city Luanda the average rent for a (not particularly great) apartment costs somewhere around 5,000 USD per month. Yes, five thousand North-American dollars. For a place that doesn’t necessarily have running water, and where you still need to buy the gasoline for you private generator. Kids begging on the streets ask you for (at least) 200 kwanza, the equivalent of 3 USD. Which stops to be surprising, once you realize that the price for the smallest piece of bread you can buy, has risen from the equivalent of 35 cent last week to 20 cent this week. A bottle of mineral water is more expensive than on Heathrow airport. I once allowed myself the “luxury” of a chocolate bar and paid 5 dollars for it. But maybe one has to consider that imported goods just have to be incredibly dear. However, bananas (a local produce) are often more expensive than at my local corner shop back home. The smallest recharge for a mobile phone costs the equivalent of 11 USD and can last up to 10 days if you don’t make “conversation calls”. I don’t think I have heard people talk about money as much and as often as in this country and I find it quite surprising that a secondary teacher earns more than his colleague in Italy after a couple of years of experience. But if they can fill a concert hall with thousands of people who paid at least 100 USD to listen to some international celebrity singer, than one has to start asking how much money there is in this country and if it will be able to manage it in order to also reach the poorest, the malnourished children, the sick and weak which live in the most remote corners of the country as well as in Luanda’s city outskirts.

Breakfast

Don’t you love the smell of coffee in the morning? Maybe a little melted butter on hot toast, strawberry jam and fresh bread? I certainly do and think it’s one of the best things in life! So imagine my shock getting up one morning and walking towards the breakfast table at a friends house, wondering who had forgotten to take the trash outside after dinner the day before. The strong, unpleasant smell however had nothing to do with dinner, but was the result of a “lush” breakfast my friend had prepared for the whole family. She proudly smiled coming out of the kitchen carrying a huge plate of… well, really, what was it? I had to ask trying not to look too disappointed by the lack of fruit and sugar on the table: “ginguinha”, she replied happily. A very special dish that needs a very long and complicated preparation by expert hands and is made of… goats interiors… My friend put the plate down between another huge dish full of fried fish and another one with the traditional maze flour side dish. All very nice stuff which I eat with pleasure after 1 pm, but which makes me miss almond croissants an plum cakes at early morning hours!

Faith

A few days ago I went to visit Lungu, a village on a mountain, close to the town of Cubal. It’s basically in the middle of nowhere, can only be reached on foot, after a steep 3 hours walk. But why would one want to climb a mountain in the South of Angola, at night, carrying water bottles and food and blankets? In my case it was curiosity, in the case of the people around me a matter of faith. In fact, in Lungu the Holy Mother is said to appear. The water of a little pond near the village is said to cure people, to make the blind see, the deaf hear, the crippled walk again.

I didn’t see the Madonna, whether it was due to me just being curious instead of faithful, or to my red painted fingernails or to the fact that I didn’t take my shoes off just before getting to the “holy spot”, I don’t know… As a matter of fact that day no one saw Holy Mary. We just listened to Cecilia, a young woman born in the village, who first had an apparition a few years ago and now regularly “meets” the Holy Mother, speak about her visions, and watched the mountain top to see if we could spot something, a sign, a star, a light.

These sort of places usually make me smile a little cynically and give me a certain feeling of unease. It is however undeniable that there was “something” in this beautiful tiny village behind the mountain top: a feeling of peace, of being a little closer to heaven, shared with everyone around.

I still don’t believe in miracles (at least not this kind of miracles), but somehow think it was worth every step to get to that far little place behind the mountain top.

Fat

“Hey, you look fat!” The first time an Angolan told me so with the biggest smile on his face, I politely smiled back, but secretly swore I would never speak to that person again. I wouldn’t have been happy about a comment like that from a friend, but from a person I barely knew I just found it completely outrageous. As nobody around me seemed to have noticed the terrible offence, I turned to one of my friends and asked “do you also think I look fatter than before my holiday?” The smiling answer: “oh, yes, of course; the holiday back home has done you good, you look great”. Was she pulling my leg? Another one of the “confuse-the-white-girl” games? I quietly looked down at my thighs thinking that, well, maybe I should have had less ice cream back home…
When the scene repeated itself several times over the following days, I decided not to touch any ice cream ever again in my life, nor any kind of food for that matter. Ever!
At some point one of my friends must have noticed the confused look on my face an that my smile had become completely fake and forced. “Something wrong?” “Do you really think I’ve gained so much weight?” Seeing the concerned expression on my face, she burst into laughing: “it’s a compliment; it’s to acknowledge that you look good and healthy and that the holiday has done you good!”
I should be used to it by now, but still my Western beauty stereotypes shiver and scream when someone makes me this simple, well meant “compliment”!

Make up

Have you ever thought about how good it is to put on some make up? I mean, a little highlight, a little colour, just to look a little different, for a special evening, for a night out, or just to go shopping?

I haven’t put on make up in months, as it would be thoroughly inappropriate in a place where dust is the only “powder” that gets to touch your face. At least it would feel weird.

No high heals and in general no excuse to wear something “dressy” lead to the fact that I feel like a boy most of the times.

Of course there are many other ways of being and feeling “feminine”: it’s enough to look at the women in their beautiful African dresses here. I just wish they would look that good on my white skin!

Kizungu (Rwandese intermezzo)

Today’s story comes from Rwanda; however I believe it fits into this blog as unfortunately it reflects the situation of many children in the whole of Africa and the whole world.

Today, while visiting the village of Muhororo in the South of the country, we also came across a small “orphanage”, in which about 15 children live crammed into only one room and in conditions of extreme poverty. As soon as they see me, the little ones run towards me, take my hands, get their little arms around my legs. It’s incredibly moving.

Maybe, by seeing me, the “muzungu” (or white person) they are reminded of the French nun that used to loive and work here until not so long ago. Or maybe they are so desparately in need of someone to look at them, smile at them, play with them, so that everyone who gets near them is a friend…

Among them there is a tiny kid whom everyone around immediately starts laughingly calling “kizungu”(or little “mzungu”), because he got hold of my hand as soon as he saw me and didn’t let go for one minute.

They tell me he’s six, while because of his body and height I would have given him maybe 2 and a half years. He only wears a very old and dirty t-shirt and his tiny legs seem almost unable to sustain the weight of his body. He has enormous eyes that speak of unbelievable suffering, but also of a hope that is hard to kill.

I can only think that there is absolutely no reason why someone like “kizungu” should live in these conditions nowadays and shouldn’t have the opportunities and chances other kids have. No reason. And we all have part in the responsibility to do something in order to have “kizungu” and everyone like him really believe in a better future.

Beauty

I envy the perfectly smooth deeply black skin of some of the girls here, while they get worried whenever I spend too much time in the sun, as they think “the whiter the better”. I would love to have a huge “afro”, loads of tiny black curls to occasionally plait elaborately. But little girls ask me to touch my hair, as it’s the same as that of dolls and they look at me in astonishment when I suggest that I’m thinking of cutting it very short (how can you!!!). While I’m worried about gaining weight, around here telling you “oh, you are getting “bigger”!” is considered a compliment and big “bottoms” are much appreciated by most men. Being tall might be the only thing we all consider a feature of beauty.

In men, beards and moustaches are highly appreciated: I’ve seen the ugliest men become “interesting” just because of the right amount of facial hair!

Also, while a man is expected to keep in shape to some extent, a belly is considered a trait of prosperity and probably richness and thus far from being considered a big no-no.

I guess it all has something to do with the fact that we usually consider beautiful what we don’t have (or have in limited quantity). And I also think it’s a matter of moving to the right place in order to be the next beauty queen! ;-)

Patience

Every African needs the patience of a saint to survive, or even just to get through a normal day without going insane.
What do you do when the bus you were riding on suddenly breaks down in the middle of nowhere? You wait. Eventually help will come. It may take minutes, hours, days, but help will come.
And what do you do when friends told you they were coming for a visit on Saturday and meanwhile it has become Sunday and then Monday? You wait. At some point they will appear at your front door waving, smiling, bringing gifts.
Or when the guy who owns the shop went for lunch and now it’s 5pm? Or when the gasoline truck hasn’t been showing up for weeks to fill up the gas station? Or when the cleaning lady tells you she went to attend a funeral and then disappears for a whole week? Or when, generally, someone tells you they’re “just on their way”? You wait, and wait, and wait… The incredible this is I’ve never seen anyone getting impatient or even stop smiling. I’ve never seen anyone get angry because of a delay. It’s as if time was a non-existing variable, something that is not worth being taken into consideration, much less stress about.

Water

Angola is rich in water. There are plenty of rivers across the country and mountains high enough to bear clean pure freshwater. There are actually a couple of companies that bottle local mineral water.

Nevertheless every family needs to go fetch water for the house, for bathing, cooking, washing clothes, drinking. Water canalization is almost non existent and if there is something that reminds canalization it’s severely damaged and old.

In Ganda the big novelty is a water truck that goes to get water from the river nearby and makes its round of all the streets once a week (or whenever the driver feels like working). When you hear the truck arriving you better run to grab everything that can contain water you have at home, and hit the street. The truck stops wherever people shout the loudest on each street and then the driver opens reluctantly a tap on the side of the truck. Everyone gathers around and tries to get as many containers filled with the precious liquid. Everything happens in between shouting and pushing and surprisingly loads of laughter. Today the laughter was even louder when I made my appearance at the truck, equipped with an orange bucket. While I was carrying it back to the house huffing and puffing, I felt quite bad, comparing myself to the women and children around me (no man does the job of carrying water, ever) carrying much much bigger containers on their heads with smiling ease…

Perfect

There are moments everything is absolutely perfect. The air is exactly the right temperature, just before sunset, and everything is drenched in a red-golden light. You sit on red earth, waiting for the darkness to fall and a million stars to appear.

The view is breathtaking: black, shiny monoliths in the distance, a low intensely green forest lies before them, and in the middle a red road runs right through the green and looks as if it would lead straight into the sky, beyond the horizon. And while you sit in silence, contemplating, it’s difficult to hold back the tears for this beautiful, cursed country that hides its scars underneath scenes of divine splendour.

Independant ? woman

I think in Africa you really learn what it means to be dependant. Take today: after an (extended) Saturday lunch I was lazily reading a book until it got dark (it does get dark pretty soon, just before 6pm). Time to switch on the electricity generator. Our house does have a small gasoline generator in the backyard. Antonio, the night-guard, starts the engine (I still haven’t learned how the thing needs to be switched on, but from Antonio’s manoeuvres, I can tell it’s difficult and needs a lot of brute force… plus I’m scared the thing will explode or something if I touch it). Today, all goes well for maybe half an hour and then the annoying (blessed) sound of the motor goes off… and seconds later all the lights out. Little explosion of swearwords in my mouth (so glad to be able to swear in languages people don’t understand around here!). What now? I can’t really go to bed at 7 pm and I’ve spent most of the day at my neighbours already… While I sit in the dark and wonder what to do next, Antonio tries to start the motor again, without luck. I’m almost accustomed to the idea that it will be a (really) early night for me, when Antonio decides to go and get Lino, who’s the night-guard at our little pharmacy. Lino is the “expert” on generators around here and the one who owns a couple of very useful DIY tools. Half an hour later Antonio reappears with Lino and they start to work on the engine.
Thinking of it, “reappearing” is not exactly the right verb, s the only reason I know the two are approaching are their voices which suddenly emerge from the complete darkness.
Another hour later light is back! Although I try my best to understand what was wrong with the generator, I really don’t understand what the two men are extendedly talking about… I’m just glad to be able to read a little before going to bed and not to have another candle-light dinner (seriously, I’ve stopped seeing the romantic side of candle-light dinners).
If it wasn’t for Antonio and Lino and a whole bunch of people that work with me here, I would probably be sitting in the dark, eating cold food from a can and be terribly miserable!

Help PISI!

For more information on P.I.S.I. please write to sandra.d07@gmail.com

If you’d like to help the project, we are very grateful for donations to the following bank accounts:

Account number: 1196699031001

Account name: Projecto de Insercao Socio-Infantil

Bank: BFA

IBAN: AO06000600001196699031125

SWIFT: BFMXAOLU

or

Account number: 1000/00000100

Account name: Sandra D’Onofrio

Bank: Banca di Trento e Bolzano

IBAN: IT66B0324011610100000000100

Mothers

Here in Ganda, people find it absolutely inconceivable that I don’t have any kids. Especially after finding out I’m 31!

So the question that mostly follows is: so, are you a nun? There’s plenty of Brazilian and European nuns who walk around wearing jeans and no veil in Angola. And as the answer to that is "no", people start eyeing me a bit funny and plainly don’t have the courage to say “there’s something wrong with her” or “white women are weird”.

A few years ago I was chit-chatting with a girl on a Sunday afternoon, who happened to be the same age as me: 27, at the time. She was carrying a one-year old on her back, wrapped in traditional cloth. She told me it was her youngest. And that there were another 6…

I couldn’t help asking myself what I had been doing while she was spending her youth being pregnant: studying, travelling, going to the movies, reading books and working or just being silly, mostly. And despite my huge admiration for someone who would bring up 7 little ones through war and hunger and once that was over, through diseases and poverty, there was some kind of (feminist?) voice in me that started sobbing and grinding its teeth. Is it really a value if a woman is mother first and foremost? Is it really acceptable that before being proposed to, a young girl needs to get “tested” for fertility? Is it truly mother instinct when a woman despairs about being unable to get pregnant? Have we truly “lost” something when renouncing a huge family in favour of a couple of kids we worry if we can get through school and uni? Is this place really some kind of lost paradise we should fight to get back to or should we be happy to have freed ourselves from it?

Angola

There are moments one inevitably asks oneself about “the whole point”. So what’s the point of trying to build a small health centre in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in the forest of South-Eastern Angola? What’s the point, if this tiny drop in the ocean won’t certainly solve the dearth of Angola’s health situation? What’s the point of trying, when difficulties are endless and for one solved problem there are another 15 to appear?

There is an incredibly complex answer and one that’s extremely easy: both lie in the eyes of a 17 years old mother who holds her tiny premature child and doesn’t know what to do about the child’s diarrhoea. Not only does she have no idea about what might have caused it and how she could have avoided it, but there is also no place to turn to for advice and help. The nearest medical centre is a 14 km walk away and is tended by only one nurse who often doesn’t even get any medical supplies from the city.

So the easy answer is: one must help, simply because of being human and having a heart; one must help, because there is this girl who needs help and who has incredibly sad eyes. And then there’s a whole load of more complex reasons which stem from the idea that there is a fundamental injustice in all of this. It can’t be right, nor economical as a matter of fact, for babies to be born and die after only a few months life. So even if it won’t be possible to help all 17 year-old mothers, it is necessary to start somewhere, to make one step even if it’s tiny, to sow seeds of hope.