Xima Belly

23 Jan 2009

Xima (pronounced shima) is made out of corn flour that is boiled and stirred until it congeals into this really thick semi-gelatinous mush. I literally eat two bites and my stomach feels like it is going to explode. I have dubbed the feeling “Xima Belly”.

I live at my school, in a little tin-roofed, cement duplex. I share my half of the house with Hortencia, a funny and feisty 25 year old Mozambican Portuguese teacher. The other half of the duplex is occupied by one of my pedagogical directors, Arlindo, and the PE teacher Dionisio. They both like to pump the tunes, especially Westlife, Justin Timberlake, One Republic, and James Blunt. Oh wow, gotta love bad American/British Music.

My duplex is one of five or six, so I am just completely surrounded by other teachers. After the initial shock of no longer having an entire hill to myself, and really losing almost all privacy, I have more or less become accustomed to my Mozambican way of life. What does any of this have to do with xima? Well, my neighbors (all but two are men, 22-25 years old) want me to grow big and strong.

“Professora Katarina, come eat with us”
“You cooked it yourself Felix?”
“Yes, come, you must come eat”
“Ok, I will try it.”

Well Felix’s dish was actually kind of disgusting, it involved fish and mayonnaise. But I ate a few bites so as not to be rude. Then Iraqi (“Like the country?” “Yes, but it is also my name”) wanted to make me an egg sandwich, but I declined saying that I wasn't hungry.

So instead, he insisted I eat a piece of cake.

“This is a traditional cake of Mozambique. This cake fights hunger.”
“You made this? Wait, it fights hunger?”
“Yes, if you have nothing, you can eat one of these, with a few cups of water, and you will be full all day. It will make you strong Professora”

Now that I think about, Iraqi’s treat was really just xima in cake form. Like xima, it was made from corn flour. Also, it was tasty, but since its main objective is to fill the stomach as much as possible, it was a sort of explosive rock in my belly. (ie xima belly)

Then the director of my school, who lives two houses down, meandered over with pineapple, cashews, and some African Moonshine in tow. Now, this moonshine was a bit different than the kind that Mama Magdalena forced upon me. Actually, I think it was made from the same plant, this was just of better quality. It tasted similar but less bitter and more like limeade then really cheap liquor. Perhaps Mama Magdalena didn't clean the gasoline jug before funneling in her concoction.

Anyway, my school director insisted I try his moonshine, then showed me how to properly peel a pineapple, how to eat cashews, and how to make mafurra milk. Had I shared with him that I did, in fact, already know how to do all of these things I would have had to demonstrate. Then he would have laughed at me for being a silly American that does everything wrong. I prefer to play dumb.

Mafurra is a red and white wedge shaped fruit that grows in a tree. Personally, I think it tastes like bitter dirt, but apparently it is a fan favorite here in the Moz. I’d had mafurra once before and it made me really sick, like painful dry-heave vomiting sick. So obviously I was hesitant to try it again. But my school director insisted, and I sort of have to do what he says.

To prepare mafurra, you soak the wedges in hot water until the fruit turns from a chalky/dirt texture to a really soft almost milky texture. Then you put the wedge in your mouth and suck the meat off the seed. I ate two wedges. It tasted like sour cream mixed with dirt, neither of which I care for, and awakened my temporarily dormant gag reflex.”

“Eat more Professora”
“Chega” (a wonderful multipurpose word that more or less means enough)
“But you need to grow”
“Really, I am fine, thank you.”

So basically, I spent four hours on my neighbor’s porch chatting in Portuguese, and growing big and strong at the urgings of my young, male, colleagues.