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July 2001
Estupido in Maputo
Diario de Diana:
We spent three weeks happily living in "Ma-poo-toe,"
the capital of Mozambique, before we learned it actually was "Ma-poo-too."
Another giddy six weeks elapsed before we discovered that the
proper grammatical form of "obrigado/obrigada," ("thank
you" in Portuguese), was determined by the gender of the
thanker, not the thankee. "Tem que tipos de sujo?" I
ask the waiter, assuming I am asking what kinds of juice are available.
In reality, I am asking if he has anything dirty.
Our first year on the mission field, devoted to language study,
is nearing its end. I still find myself getting angry at the people
for speaking Portuguese. They speak so rapidly, so thoughtlessly.
What is wrong with them? Why can’t they just speak English?
But there they are, loping along the side of the road, balancing
20-kilo bags of maize on their heads, rapidly, thoughtlessly,
speaking Portuguese.
I memorized the letters and numbers of our license plate in
Portuguese, because at every border crossing of Mozambique and
South Africa or Zimbabwe, we are asked the same question by a
droll immigration officer, "Numero matriculo?" I have
repeated it dozens of times, but still I see the knowing smirks
on the faces lined up at the counter, "Otro estupido estrangeiro,"
(Another stupid foreigner!) True, I am the only blonde in the
building. I hope for anonymity—maybe next time they won’t
recognize me. I am heartened by the memory of my first visit to
the Chicumbane parish. After the service an elderly lady grasped
my hand and exclaimed, "I remember when you came to our church
in B_____!" I was perplexed, because I had never been there.
The pastor took me aside and gravely whispered, "You must
forgive her. You all look alike to us."
My first opportunity to lead morning devotions in Portuguese
at the Presbyterian Center in Maputo (pronounced: Ma-poo-too)
finally came. I had been at the clinic two nights before with
chills and fever, but was determined to honor my commitment. Who
should be there but two representatives of the Evangelical Presbyterian
Church of Southern Africa (EPC),one of whom was the general secretary!
Now, I have notoriously inscrutable handwriting, but I can usually
decipher it. (Once my son cried after I signed a school paper
for him, "They always hold up your paper and ask, ‘Whose
parent signed this?’") During the devotions I discovered
that with a fever and unfocused eyes I couldn’t make out
a lot of my Portuguese and didn’t have the fluency to fake
it. I had often sought refuge from the intensities of foreign
language study by reading English- language Perry Mason mysteries
I had found at a second hand bookstore. At the conclusion of the
devotions a line from these classics kept repeating in my mind:
"Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial…."
The following month I was able to tour Soweto Township in Johannesburg,
South Africa, with a group from the States. When I learned we
were going to be joined by the general secretary of the EPC, the
painful memory of my disastrous devotions floated back. My prayer
that a new secretary had been elected in the three week interim
was not answered. Even worse, he recognized me, and with a broad
smile said, "We met in Maputo!" Trying to be humble
and save face at the same time, I acknowledged our meeting
and added, "I know my Portuguese was terrible, but I was
really ill." I waited for the "You did fine," "You’ll
learn," or "You’ve got to start somewhere."
But he gave no such comfort. Estupido in Maputo! Grating over
my humiliation, we drove on. In the course of conversation we
learned this gracious man was fluent in five or six languages,
but he did not know Portuguese.
I have traveled thousands of miles from South Dakota, U.S.A.,
to Mozambique, Africa, a missionary shot from the quiver of God.
Still I am tripping on the shackles of works-righteousness, trying
to merit my worth and avoid appearing stupid.
Now we live in a lovely home in Chimoio, a thousand kilometers
away from the mistakes of Maputo. One morning I stepped outside
and discovered someone had erected an outhouse on the corner of
the dirt road just 50 meters away. Built of boards painted a washed-out
blue, it bore two inscriptions in red letters outlined in black.
The first, in Portuguese, I loosely translated, "a place
to go." The English was more graphic: "Sit hole."
There was even a black silhouette of a sitting person. I was determined
not to be horrified and to maintain cultural sensitivity. After
all, what was a city without public restrooms to do? I never mentioned
it to a soul. A few months later I was walking with Isaiah and
he looked up and read the words, "Sithole!" (Si-toe-lee)
"There’s a teacher named Sithole at the school,"
he remarked. I realized the Portuguese could be translated, "a
point of contact." And I saw that the black silhouette was
of an old fashioned phone handle. It was a phone booth. Estupido
in Chimoio!
Diane Wonnenberg
The 2001 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 44
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