To Drink or Not To Drink

The party dynamic. It’s an elusive concept that differs slightly from city to city, hugely from continent to continent, taking months if not years of immersion to fully comprehend. I’ve been in Mozambique less than 2 months. I’ve been in my site a total of 8 days.

October 1st marks, along with my little (a term that refers solely to age these days) brother’s birthday, the beginning of the fiscal year for World Vision Mozambique. Accordingly, a huge party was planned. Accordingly, many cases of beer were bought.

The formal celebration was a daytime affair, involving lots of singing and dancing, a swarm of children who all felt the need to touch me and were eventually shooed away by a shyly smiling adult, prayer and goat stew which tasted to me like moldy cheese at best, but which I guiltily choked down as everyone around me ate with great gusto (walking through the market the next day, I passed a herd of live goats and got a nose-full that smelled exactly like the stew had tasted…)

And then the party. Scheduled to start at 4pm, it finally began at 10:30pm after all the food had been prepared (by none other than the cook with whom I struggle daily through language, etiquette, and ingredients to strengthen a tenuous kitchen-based bond) and laid out in an impressive display, the crowning feature of which was a cake with GLITTER (which unfortunately looked much better than it tasted). After the blessing, and a cryptic warning that everyone, in serving their plates, should try to remember that others would like to eat as well, the locusts descended. I stood a little bit back, in awe of the food fervor, and allowed my plate to be occasionally graced with the passing samosa or scoop of potato salad. I didn’t even look in the direction of the grilled chicken, as there was a dangerous swarm around it from the moment of its uncovering until the last thigh was nibbled down to the bone. I couldn’t help but feel, whether condescending or sensible, that they had more of a right to it than me. Me, who has eaten well her entire life, who can afford to buy chicken whenever she wants. Me, who has never had to fight for food, nor stuff herself to popping as a strategic plan for the next few mealtimes.

Once everyone was finger-lickin’ full, the beer, which had played merely the supporting role to food’s lead, suddenly appeared center-stage. I turned down several offers for a drink, feeling awkward being one of 4 women present and, as always and forever, the only white person, until it became apparent that 95% of the group was drinking, and at 100 yd. dash rather than marathon speed. It’s always tough to decide what’s best in these situations, where you hardly know a face and certainly don’t know the culture – Do they want me to have a drink? Is it weird if I don’t/do? Do women even drink here? – but everyone seemed to smile in relief when I finally accepted a beer. Or they were making fun of me. Who can tell? As I looked around, none of the other women were drinking. But I’ve long since given up trying to fit-in with any demographic here. I’m going to be watched no matter what, so I might as well make them smile. I’m not a tee-totaler, so why pretend to be if not to some social or professional end? After one drink, I shook hands all around and headed back to the compound, luckily not a 3 minute walk away. It was, after all, several hours past my bedtime.

As with every party where you don’t really know anyone, it was a relief to escape to the safety of my own space. As I write, I can still hear the celebration, and the music seems to be getting louder by the minute…