Bernard, part 6
Alpha and Omega
“Ahh, Manina!,” the junior customs inspector greeted me. The entire customs staff, about 8 men in gaudy uniforms, thought it was nothing short of hilarious that I performed this pantomime every 10–15 days. ‘Manina’ was Miss in some combination of local Portuguese and Shangan (a local tribal language). I hated it. It was pejorative to begin with; what you called a woman who was unmarried. Every imitation feminist bone is my body vibrated with indignation every time they used it, but then everyone, not just the customs agents called me that.
“¿Que brindes você trouxe para compartilhar comigo hoje?” (What goodies have you brought for me today?) oiled the junior inspector.
My Portuguese was really bad, so bad my Mozambican friends praised my Spanish when I was done trying to put a sentence together. I didn’t speak Spanish either. But as a musician, I had a good ear. I could mimic words and usually was praised for my dead-on pronunciation. While my brain couldn’t seem to pull the words together fast enough to form a coherent sentence, it could decode quickly. Over time, I usually got the gist of the conversation. Not to mention none of these customs guys were very subtle.
…to be fair, I did borrow (the) Cortina with Diplomatic plates every time a truck was due. But I still like to think it was my cleverness that did it.
This was the part of the job I hated the most (besides the 43 minutes of hell) and the part I was the best at. I used all those years in Southern California to my advantage. I played dumb. I talked endlessly in English, in a slightly singsong voice. I just described everything I saw, every item coming through, whether farm implements or bags of corn. I pretended I had absolutely no idea what the agents were talking about, that they were looking for bribes to process the paperwork. If the cargo was hoes and rakes, they pointed and made raking motions. I just nodded, agreeing that’s exactly what you do with a rake. They spoke to me in Portuguese indicating all of the things that would make the paperwork move more quickly. I talked twice as much in English and still somehow couldn’t understand a thing they were trying to say. Amazingly, it worked every time. It might take hours for the agents to place all the stamps on the multiple pieces of paper required to bring the truck through, but I always managed to out talk them and out last them. I never paid a bribe and none of them ever laid a hand on me. Ok, to be fair, I did borrow Howie’s Cortina with Diplomatic plates every time a truck was due. But I still like to think it was my cleverness that did it.
By this time, Africa had taken hold of me.
On Bernard’s first full day back, the truck that had made it again over the road from Swaziland, was filled with bags of sorghum bound for the government warehouse. Clearing customs was worst part of the job, mainly because I was afraid I’d slip up. Delivering to the warehouse was a highlight. By this time, Africa had taken hold of me. I told myself it was because we are all children of Africa, that every human on earth could trace their roots back to this place. There was a vibration, in the very soil, in the few remaining trees, even in the air, that resonated with an energy I’d never felt anywhere else. It wasn’t like the frantic, neurotic energy of New York. This felt universal and pure; it captured the heart. This energy was made all the more powerful by the people of this God-forsaken place. I had heard that term all my life, but it was made for Mozambique. Desperation and suffering don’t begin to describe the conditions, and yet I had never met such resilient, hopeful people.
Bernard and I rode in the cab of the truck; the Cortina stayed at the Customs House near the port. We bounced and jarred our way down wide colonial boulevards and into narrower streets to the government warehouse, newly built to receive the gifts of foreign aid. I don’t know dimensions well, but the warehouse was big enough Patrick could drive right in. It looked like a prefabricated thing, aluminum siding and scaffolding in geometric patterns holding it all up. The roof was pitched and had to be 30 or more feet tall. Donated bags of grain were stacked in groups, designated according to donor. It reminded me of what Fort Knox must look like with the stacks of bullion organized by country. As soon as we drove in, there was commotion at the far entrance. A few soldiers with long guns stood up from their positions on the stacks. Government officials in military-style uniforms gathered around the truck. Someone started yelling. Patrick motioned to Bernard they would go into the office, built out in one corner of the warehouse. I grabbed my clipboard and pen and hoisted myself out of the cab and onto the back of the truck, where I stood on top of the sacks.
From the far side of the warehouse in single file, a line of men walked toward the truck. They were every height, but all were thin. Some older, some young. Many were missing patches of hair, a sign of malnutrition. No one in this place looked at me. I owned this load of raw food until all the papers were signed, but every man in the warehouse acted as though I didn’t exist. The back panel of the truck was opened by two government employees. A third brought over a wooden ladder and set it against the truck. The line of men moved toward the open end of the truck where the first in line climbed the ladder and picked up a bag, handing it to the man below. The second man heaved the 100 lb. bag onto his head and began walking toward an empty area bracketed by two of the soldiers with guns. This was repeated, until the man in the truck had moved 10 bags. Then he climbed down and received his bag from the next man who had taken his place. Once the bag was placed in its designated spot, the man rejoined the end of the line. Each would be allowed to carry 5 bags from the truck to the stack.
My job was inventory control, at least from the truck to the stacks. I counted the bags as they left the truck and made sure the inventory matched. Corruption is endemic and seemingly more so in the more desperate places on earth. My job was to vouch that what had been donated had been delivered and received. Beyond that, my powers ended.
I only saw the dancing dust because my heart was overwhelmed by the sound of the voices filling the cavernous room.
The heat inside the metal building was intense. The dust kicked up from the dirt floor as the men moved. More mixed with the dust exploding off the bags as they were lifted and dropped. It was hot and sticky, like only port cities can be. We were being baked in the metal warehouse oven by the afternoon sun and dust stuck to my skin. I only noticed the specks swirling in the angled sunlight as it cut across through the open warehouse doors. They moved and danced on currents created by the bags as they lifted and dropped.
I only saw the dancing dust because my heart was overwhelmed by the sound of the voices filling the cavernous room. The rhythm of the work settled by the third or fourth bag. And as each bag dropped onto the head of the man below, the leader called his song and the line of men answered him. Never in my life, before or since, have I heard harmonies like I heard in Mozambique. I had sung in chorus and studied music theory, but I couldn’t make out all the different voice parts. It seemed like 30. I didn’t know my ears could behold such wondrous sounds and I at times I thought my heart would burst. The sound was in the style of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Multiply it by 150–200 men, with the sound reverberating off the roof and walls. Each man, working only for a small share, singing like heaven was already here. It was joyous and they were energized by it. They moved in the rhythm of the music and it seemed like it carried them and the bags. It was enrapturing, thrilling and I looked like an idiot with a clipboard in my hands and huge smile on my face. It didn’t matter though, because no one was looking at me. The trouble is, if I closed my eyes to embrace the experience I’d lose count of the bags, which was the only reason I was there. The intensity of the singing rose as the work progressed. One song would finish and the caller would begin something new.
The only disruption in the music was if someone tried to carry more than 5 bags in a row. There wasn’t enough work for everyone. Five bags meant one bowl of mealie meal, a staple of cooked corn mush. If everyone carried 5 bags, everyone got to eat. The music lasted as long as the work. As each man finished is allotted bags he exited back out the door he came in, beyond which was where the food was being served.
Then the truck was empty and the room was still. The foreman helped me down and tried to convince me I had counted wrong. I used my single technique and he eventually agreed with me, in Portuguese, of course.
The foreman, having lost his extra payment to the dumb, white American who didn’t speak the language, looked at me and said, “They sing for you Manina,” with not a hint of humor. “The mens,” he gestured to the doorway, “they are singing for you.”
