Being female and foreign presents additional challenges here in Mozambique. Mild sexual harassment occurs whenever I leave my house, but it’s really more annoying than anything else. For example, during a brief trip to the gas station (about 10-15 mins each direction) I was offered a ride (which isn’t always creepy but the statement “you’re pretty, let me give you a ride” raises some red flags), was asked for my number twice, and called over (sometimes with a lewd noise that sounds like “psssst!”) by men numerous times. Generally, I just ignore, decline, or stretch the truth (“my phone is only for work” or “I already have a namorado”; the latter has a surprisingly high fail rate).
Unfortunately, in Mozambique it is extremely difficult to have cross-gender platonic relationships. This makes integration more difficult as men (especially young men) are much more likely to have free time. So far I’ve only meet a handful of women around my age, whereas I have met many young men. My best Portuguese conversation with a Mozambican since I’ve been in Macia was with the 22-year-old carpenter who changed my locks. At one point, we were discussing soccer. He asked me, “You know Ghana?” so I answered yes. He smiled and said, “They beat you.” The fact that he was mocking the US soccer team was hilarious. Of course, this was a very short-lived friendship since he shortly thereafter asked for my number. My refusal might sound cold; maybe he did actually want to be friends. However, that would be a rare exception and until my Portuguese improves and I become more familiar with gender relations, I’m sticking to that.
There’s another side to being female in Mozambique that’s bothersome in an entirely different way, especially when one is a proud feminist and regular Jezebel (a feminist blog) reader, and that’s the traditional gender roles. Since I’m foreign I’m already regarded as a bit of a freak and thus am much less expected to conform, thankfully. For a Christmas party for orphans and vulnerable children (OVCs), the women prepared a meal for several dozen kids. The meal was preceded by a few songs, and one of the older men turned to me and jokingly asked, “So are you just going to accompany the kids?” Confused, I looked around the room and realized all of the other women had left to start serving the food. I was very tempted to say, “Fuck you, dude, go serve me.” However, I decided it was much more important to me to show solidarity with the women than to win this battle with the man.
The issue of gender roles is very complex, of course, and is not just the result of obnoxious men. I spent a day helping to construct a home for an elderly woman, and both the men and women found my insistence to help with the build bizarre. Two women were present and prepared meals for the men working. I hung out with them at first, talking in the shade. When I joined the build (to his credit, my counterpart called me over to join), it was clear many of the men found it amusing that I insisted on working with them, but they let me. They repeatedly told me to go rest in the shade, but I’m sure my previously-mentioned tendency to turn bright red in heat played a role. When I eventually took a break, the women declared construction “men’s work.” They found it amusing as well that I “like to do work” (as if chasing down a chicken, plucking it, and cooking it wasn’t work). When it was time for meals, I was offered a chair at the table with the men as opposed to a spot on the straw mat with the women, more due to my status as a foreigner and something of a guest in the country than to my insistence on doing “men’s work.” Once again, though, I insisted on sitting with the women, not to fulfill gender roles but to show solidarity.
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