11 Jan 2009
So, an ordinary little two hour ride home from a friends house in Chibuto turned into a screaming match on a chapa. Ok, so not really a screaming match so much as me yelling at men in Portuguese, and at points also in English because I do huffy so much better in my native tongue. I knew it was bad news the minute I approached the minibus.
“You go to Chidenguele”
The cobrador (man you tell where you want to go, and pay) just smiled, “Yeah, lets go”
That smile was the sign. It wasn't friendly, it wasn't welcoming, it was like he just wanted to let me know “I am going to harass the hell out of you for the next hour and a half and you can’t do anything about it because you need me if you ever want to get home.”
I usually can hold my tongue. I just say:
“My phone was stolen, I don't have a contact number.”
“I have three husbands already, I don't have time for another.”
“No thank you, I am fine by myself”
“You are a little short for me don't you think?”
But in those situations I can walk away, I can go inside and leave them stranded on my porch, I can duck into a store and they generally are too lazy or busy or who knows what to try much harder. Nope. I was stuck in a little minivan with this man.
It always begins playfully. “Are you married?” I always, always, always answer yes. But today for some reason, I was tired I suppose and just generally not on my toes, I said no. First mistake. Well then he wanted to be my husband. He told me I should have kids by now, I should marry a Mozambican, I should have a Mozambican baby.
“Every woman needs a man!”
I just had to get up on my high horse here. I just cannot stop myself from getting into the whole gender roles discussion. Maybe it is a good thing, one of the reasons I am here, lets call it a cross-cultural exchange. But it sure does get me in trouble a lot.
“That isn’t true, I don't need a man”
“Yes you do, all women do.”
“No I don't, I have a job, I have money, I have a house, I can take care of myself.”
And then it goes awry…
“You need a man to do one thing.”
“Oh really, what is that?” – me playing dumb FYI, he just laughs and begins to mock me. I wanted to spit a list of his probable shortcomings right between his eyes, assure him he could never please me, and just plain embarrass the hell out of him… but I figured that insulting the man’s sexual ability would just escalate the whole situation to a level I didn't care to visit.
But even as we breached the realm of sexuality, I wasn't too fazed by the conversation… and then the man in the front seat begins speaking in English. At first I thought he was an ally, and was thankful that the English momentarily silenced the cobrador who couldn't understand a word of what we were saying. Then he began (this actually happened in English mind you). “Well you are a little young for me, but I am interested in marrying you.”
“Thank you, but like I just told this man I don't want to get married.”
“Maybe I could just visit you.”
“No”
“Don't you want friends in Mozambique? Two years is a long time to not have friends.” (friends in Portuguese can be a euphemism for someone you sleep with. I try to always say colleagues instead of friends in daily conversation)
“I have friends already”
And then we stop to let someone out. The driver turns around and starts in on me in Portuguese.
“Hey white girl, you don't have to marry me, I just want a girlfriend.”
“NADA. I don't want a boyfriend I don't want to get married. I don't want anything from any of you. I don't need anything from any of you. I can do everything for myself.”
“You cant do everything, two years is a long time to not have a man”
“Nada! Nao, nao, nao! Leave me alone.”
Well now the cobrador and the driver are tag teaming me. And they can’t stop laughing because my anger obviously just makes them giddy with excitement.
“You don't want roots in Mozambique? You don't want to leave here with a Mozambican baby?”
I try the cold shoulder. Just ignore this man sitting next to me and the driver in front. They will tire of this. And then we stop again. The driver turns around again.
“Really, I just want a girlfriend, you don't have to marry me.”
And then the cobrador puts his hand on my leg. Mistake. I snap.
“DO NOT TOUCH ME” I yell in English, my eyes constricting in anger.
I am pretty sure the man that speaks English in the front doesn't know what to think of me at this point.
“I don't understand English,” sneers the cobrador, “what did you just say to me?”
“Do not touch me,” I translate, and angrily angrily glare.
He quickly checked his hands, and I think even scooted a little away from me.
I thought I had done it. I thought I had scared the man, convinced him and his partner in crime that I was just some crazy white girl they should leave well enough alone. Nope.
“You need a man. You should have a Mozambican baby.”
“NADA! Lack of respect! Leave me in peace! I don't want anything from you! I don't want to get married! I don't want a boyfriend! We are not friends! I don't want to be friends with you! Leave me alone!”
“He has a lack of respect,” the cobrador grins and points to the driver, “I just want to be your friend.”
“I don't want you. I don't want to be friends with you.”
“Liar.”
I almost got off the chapa. I almost thought standing on the side of the road in rural Mozambique was better than spending one more minute with this threesome of hormonally charged Mozambican misogynists. But I didn't. My house was only like 20 minutes away. I just put on an angry face, silently scowled out the window for like 15 minutes amidst the taunting, and then finally threw my money at the cobrador as we neared my house.
“See you tomorrow!” they jeer in unison as I get off the chapa. “We will visit you later.”
“I don't want to see you ever! Do not come visit me!” And I may or may not angrily mutter a row of expletives under my breath.
It was their smug demeanor that made me angrier than anything. These men just really truly believed they had a right to me. A right to incessantly laugh in my face. A right to lay a hand on my leg. A right to pull the chapa over to tell me that I need to have a Mozambican baby. That I need them. That I cannot possibly live two years without having sex with a Mozambican man. They believed this. All of this. In a van full of people, no one tried to help me. No one told the men they were out of line. It began with one, and the others just joined in against me.
Now, I am one tough cookie. I can sass my way out of most any situation here. I can fight, I can slap a hand off my leg, I can deal out multilingual scoldings. But my efforts are just futile scratches. None of it turns the heads of other riders, none of it smacks the smug smile off the cobrador’s face, none of it stops the threesome from yelling or leering at teenage girls as they get in and out of the chapa, and certainly none of it opens any doors to real change. I should clarify that by no means are all Mozambican men like this. But it kills me that these three men will probably treat their future wives like this – if they aren’t in fact already married. They will mock them, and demonstrate their power over them day in and day out. Because they can. And their wives will be strong beyond measure, strong enough to take it as it comes. And no one will stand up for them. No one will help them to realize their own strength.
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