Tag Archives: photography

Xenophobia & A Tale of Two Countries

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The neighborhood of Bo-Kaap in Cape Town, South Africa (Photo: Alek Shybut)

An hour before my bus departs, I’m sitting in a small restaurant in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique, with a Coke and my phone open to sites about Cape Town. The television on the wall turns to the evening news, and the opening story is about the ongoing violence due to xenophobia near the area of Durban in South Africa.

I switch sites and do a quick Google search of xenophobia in South Africa. The definition is the first thing to pop up: “…the unreasoned fear of that which is perceived to be foreign or strange. Xenophobia can manifest in many ways involving the relations and perceptions of an ingroup towards an outgroup, including a fear of losing identity, suspicion of its activities, aggression, and desire to eliminate its presence to secure a presumed purity” (Wikipedia).

Under the news tab, articles are listed describing the political response to the xenophobic violence occurring throughout the country. Some deny its existence while others swear to battle to end the ongoing turbulence. Mozambicans are listed among the groups being attacked and sent back to their host country. Immediately I feel slighted. Members of the Frelimo party, the national party of Mozambique, are on the television decrying the violence.

Being a foreigner in a still new land, I find myself wondering in which group I am living: the ingroup or the outgroup. While I am not Mozambican, I often tell members of my community that I am in order to earn their trust. Often they laugh, but I know they understand my intentions. I am most certainly not South African, so that leaves American. However, with all the horrific events occurring within our country since leaving for Africa, it’s hard to relate to the political climate. I sit in silence in the restaurant, tangled in thought.

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The bus is larger than I had thought with seats that completely recline in order to sleep during the first leg of my overnight trip from Maputo to Johannesburg. I find myself sitting on the second level of the bus in the very front with a large windshield in front of me, displaying the city lights of Maputo. My own personal observation deck.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice comes from behind, “but is anyone sitting next to you?”

A Mozambican man stands near to me, and I gesture toward the seat, welcoming him. We introduce ourselves, and I learn he is originally from Mozambican but has been living in Johannesburg for the majority of the past 10 years. He talks fondly about Mozambique and how it has changed over the course of its young 40-year history as an independent country.

We exchange notes on the different parts of the country, our favorite areas to visit, and the areas that still need the most help. We agree that Maputo has become somewhat of an urban sprawl, complete with western chains and South African product. He mentions the tea fields of Gurue. I mention the Portuguese architecture and untouched nature of Ilha de Moçambique. We laugh in our shared knowledge of quirks, mainly in the form of the national transportation. We stretch our legs toward the viewing window, laughing as we describe how it’s the complete opposite of traveling by chapa (small mini-buses).

Deep into the overnight trip following a few failed attempts at sleeping, he asks me if I’m Christian. I explain to him my experiences with faith, and he opens up to me about his own personal walk with his faith. He opens his phone and shares a book written by his favorite pastor. He promises to send me an e-mail with more information on the man, who he says is one of the wisest men he’s ever known. I’m grateful for his kindness.

The bus stops at a series of bright lights and small buildings blocking the highway. “Come on,” my friend says to me. “Let’s go.” The bus starts to empty, and I realize we’ve made it to the border of South Africa, and we are required to exit the bus, walk through the immigration process, and proceed to the other side by foot. It’s 3:00 a.m. and pitch black.

Passport in hand, I follow side by side with my friend and the other passengers of the sleeper bus. Immigration involves queuing for a while, speaking with a border patrol agent about our visit to the country, and a quick stamping of the passport, but the complex is extensive, confusing. I quickly become separated from my friend and am swallowed into the group.

When I come out on the other side, I’m unsure of where to go. I scan the room and find a familiar face, my friend, waving me toward an exit near the back of the first building. He had waited for me to finish to continue to the next building. We pass armed guards without any hassle, and we eventually find our way back to the bus to finish our journey.

Upon arriving at the bus station in Johannesburg, I explain to my friend that I’ll be staying at the bus station until my next bus leaves 8 hours later. He offers his house as a place to sleep for a while before heading back to the station to catch my bus. I thank him for his kindness but decide to stay at the station until my next bus leaves. We shake hands, and he walks toward his car to return home to his family.

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With my backpack and small bag thrown over my shoulder, I walk around Cape Town taking in the scenery: Table Mountain is seen in the distance with its flat top and a small cable car station dotted at the far end. Small restaurants and shop fill the streets, and families walk in groups with ice cream or bags of food in their hands. A small art market is tucked in a small central square area with vendors of locally crafted goods.

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The neighborhood of Bo-Kaap in Cape Town, South Africa (Photo: Alek Shybut)

A couple days before when I first arrived in Cape Town after my second bus trip, I explored the city with a friend from the states. We visited the colorful district of Bo-Kaap before sitting on a small step of a park and people watching our way through the rest of the day. That night we met locals at a busy bar on Long Street, even taking a photo with a man who resembles almost exactly my former roommate in Atlanta. When the photo was posted on Facebook, both of my former roommates were shocked at the likeness.

Today, I am alone in my exploration of the city. The tour bus I take drops me at the base of Table Mountain. I ride the cable car to the top with camera-ready tourists, and together we take in breathtaking glimpses of the city below and ocean beyond. At the top of the mountain, my phone dies. My sorrow is soon replaced with access to a free recharging station available for all visitors to the mountain. I smile at the coincidence.

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View from the top of Table Mountain in Cape Town, South Africa (Photo: Alek Shybut)

Later we visit a few local vineyards, and while the winter season has turned most of the plants brown, the wine is still in abundance, and I find myself sitting with the vineyards in the distance enjoying a white wine. A little buzzy from the three glasses of chardonnay, I find my way back to the bus and we continue to explore, visiting the beaches of Camps Bay, the ferris wheel at V&A Waterfront, and finally ending up back in the city by evening.

The art market all shut down, the square is now quiet with streetlights guiding the way to my hotel. I walk along the brick street breathing in the day’s air and thinking back to my site in Mozambique. I wonder how my colleagues are doing. I think ahead to helping with the new health volunteers’ training. I try to live in the moment, but the moment is instead living in me, re-motivating me, re-energizing me to return home.

I enter the small, street-side door of the Tudor Hotel on Longmarket street. Described as the oldest hotel in Cape Town, visitors are greeted by a tall staircase, a bar area to the left, and a vintage restaurant with wooden tables. Just beyond the restaurant is reception, and a robust woman greets me as I enter. She finds my reservation, explains the details of the stay, and gives me the key to my room. She helps me to find the room.

As she drops me off at the room, she asks me what I think of Cape Town. I tell her it’s gorgeous and that I’ve already decided I want to spend the rest of my life within its borders. We both laugh. She finishes by asking where I’m coming from.

As I open the door, drop my bags inside, I look back and tell her, “I’m from Mozambique.”

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Peace & Inspiration from Unconditional Kindness



With Peace Corps Week in full steam and Michelle Obama’s declaration for more opportunities for girls around the world, I’m thinking back to my first two months with my homestay family, who provided me so much without them ever really knowing or understanding why. It’s simple for me to say, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” but it’s harder to show them how deeply their love for a stranger, a foreigner would shape the rest of my service, or how I view Mozambicans and my purpose of being here.

When you are only able to communicate through non-verbal gestures, especially in the first two months with a new language, it’s difficult to explain the impact of a positive homestay experience.

So, instead, we danced and played.

Usually my days were filled with training and language, but during the evenings and weekends, my sisters and brother would pass the time with listening to music and dancing in the kitchen or on the veranda, much to my host mother’s amusement.

Together we developed a beat-box rhythm that all the neighborhood children would sing as I walked through to my house. Without audio, it sounded a lot like boom-chicka-chicka-boom-boom, but with more bass and the backdrop of the rolling hills of Namaacha in southern Mozambique.

Wilson, my brother, was best at laying down the beat, and my sisters, Ester, Diana, and baby Ayume, filled the air with high laughter and enormous energy. Ayume slapped her hands together or against the table to try and keep the rhythm.

Little do they know – I speak to them when I can, which is far in between – that the time with them has shaped my perception of the people here, the country, and my role. They are forever in my heart and mind as I journey into the unknown of service. The beat is always in my heart, and I look forward to new rhythms, new moves.



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Photo: Learning with a View

A classroom at the Secondary School in Namapa, Nampula in Mozambique.



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Ten Things You’ll See In Mozambique that You Won’t See in America (But Maybe We Should)

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Same-Sex Friends Holding Hands

A recent study (LiveScience) in the United States found that the majority of the population still feels uncomfortable when they see two people of the same sex holding hands. While our country has, thankfully, made much progress in terms of accepting and understanding the diverse communities that share our home, we are still far behind in creating a safe climate, especially when as individuals we are not questioning our own thoughts and beliefs.

A couple months into my site, and I found myself holding hands with a male friend of mine as we joked, laughed, and walked back to a mutual friend’s house. Walk around Mozambique and you’ll quickly notice that the gesture of holding a friend’s hand (regardless of sex) is common and just as beautiful as it sounds (header photo).

Teenage students walking out of a school, an older adult leading his friend through a busy market, two doctors having a conversation in the middle of the hospital, two friends walking and joking down a street. How simple life is if we can simply let go of our uncomfortable thoughts and hang on tight to the one thing that bonds us: humanity.

Respect for Different Religions

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While this may be slightly unfair to say about our current American climate, nowhere else have I seen people with drastically different religious beliefs living in such unified harmony than in Mozambique. On any given day, one can see the congregation of the Catholic church gathering in the main lawn while the daily prayers from the mosque’s loud speaker fill the air above.

In the United States, a person is often not only judged by what they do but also what they believe. In our current climate, an individual’s beliefs are firmly tied to the actions and beliefs of others who identify themselves under the same religious umbrella, and we are quick to label the individual as a bigot, an extremist, a terrorist.

However, what an individual believes in Mozambique is the sole property of the individual. Their beliefs are not questioned, denounced, analyzed. One face is equal to another, and in a country that thrives on development and moving forward, it’s refreshing to see that the people of Mozambique have already learned something that American’s haven’t: tolerance.

Fun FYI: While writing this portion of the post, I was introduced to a Pastor who works at the local Catholic church. He is from Mexico and wants to learn English. Serendipity or divine acknowledgement?

Watching (As In Watching) the News

In a packed bar in my town, people crash glasses together, laugh loudly at inside jokes, and join together in singing and dancing. The television is showing a movie with the audio projected from speakers. Nobody is paying any attention until the movie ends and the program switches to Jornal da Noite (Nightly News). Silence blankets the bar, and all eyes turn to watch the television or screen and listen in as the anchor delivers the news.

The country is large, but when it comes to the news, everyone in Mozambique wants to be informed of the happenings across their homeland. Whether they’re getting updates about the floods in Zambezia or watching as two burglary suspects are placed in front of the camera in a display of public shaming, Mozambicans love their news. While one could argue that it’s simply an issue of variety (Mozambicans usually watch either the news or telenovellas), the amount of interest in the news is hard to ignore.

Election Season Enthusiasm

Coupled with Mozambicans’ love for the news is their commitment to national elections and choosing the best leaders for their communities. During the 2014 Presidential Elections (which usually only occur after two, 5-year terms of the sitting president), the energy in the air around the election was thick and loud. From the rallies that filled the streets in a color-coordinated act of support or the political posters that blanketed the town, Mozambicans made it clear that they are pushing for progress.

One of the better sights of the election season last year was seeing a truck full of older women (mid-50’s) with large signs, megaphones, and matching shirts yelling as they drove through the community to promote their political party. Regardless of sex or age, Mozambicans will put work on hold for the possibility of improving their daily lives. Crazy, right?

Rainwater as a Resource

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When I first got to the country, other volunteers as well as Mozambicans described the impending rainy season. “It’s horrible,” my German neighbor told me. “The roads become rivers, and the rivers become seas.” It was hard to believe him at the time, but upon returning to my site following a trip south for the holidays, the rain was heavy, the power quickly went out, but one thing surprised me most: the use of rainwater.

Children were using falling water from the roofs to wash their bodies (photo above). Teenagers with large buckets were collecting the water and carrying it out into the neighborhoods. Women were using small, plastic bottles to refill their beverage with fresh rainwater from the hospital roof (photo above). At first, it was hard to join on the rain-wagon. “I’ll just carry my water from the mosque,” I said. “I don’t need to use the rainwater.”

When the power finally went out for the month, it was clear that rainwater was the best option. I bathed in the water with the kids from my neighborhood, it became routine to set out my buckets during a heavy rainstorm and even wash my dishes and clothes with the falling resource. While we don’t necessarily need to establish a similar routine in the states with our abundance of water (in most states), the notion of this reusable resource is intriguing.

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With the increase of products being imported into the country (looking at you Coke), the amount of litter that is filling beaches and roadsides is staggering. However, people of Mozambique have learned to reuse these some of the resources found throughout the community in the house, in the market, and in their gardens.

Acting as water bottles, small Coke bottles are used to refill water (photo above). Vendors in the market use the same bottles to fill with oil to sell on the side of the road. Plastic coverings from mattresses and plastic bags are used to cover bananas as they hang on the tree, preventing insects from destroying the plant. While the country is still in dire need of a recycling plan, the community is attempting to reduce the abundance of trash by recycling it themselves.

Gardens & Fresh Produce

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The rainy season not only brings the floods and abundance of drinkable, usable water, but it is prime time for Mozambicans to build their gardens (photo above). The community is transformed from dry and dirty to fertile and lush lands, producing not only fresh produce for consumption and sale, but also providing local community members more work in the building and maintaining of the large gardens.

Children, teenagers, adults, and older adults will all be in the garden throughout the rainy season, tending to the crops, harvesting, and selling them in the local market. For this reason, there is a constant supply of fresh produce for the community. However, the issue still remains the cost for those who can’t afford the produce and the need for education of the community to learn how to build and maintain their own gardens.

Bicycles, and Motorcycles, and Walking, Oh My!

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While this just may be a circumstance of both income and increasing development, there are far more bicycles and motorcycles on the roads of Mozambique than large cars. The main highway that runs north and south through the country is packed with larger vehicles used by those who can afford them, but as you travel inward and away from the main highway, the local villages and towns are thriving on smaller, more cost-effective and environmentally friendly (whether they know this or not) means of transportation.

If walking through a small town in Mozambique, you’ll notice people yelling “taxi mota” in your direction. You’ll recognize the word taxi right away and realize that they are providing a service for those who don’t want to walk and need a ride. Usually this is cheap, helps the driver pay for gas, and builds a sense of a growing and thriving community.

Fun FYI: Peace Corps does not allow volunteers to own or use a motorcycle due to the dangers. If a volunteer is caught owning or using a motorcycle, it’s terms for immediate removal from the country. Bicycles, however, are warmly welcomed and recommended.

Hitchhiking (Boleias)

In the United States, hitchhiking brings to mind plenty of movies and stories about the dangerous men and women who walk the interstates and highways in search of trusting drivers. For this reason, hitchhiking is both illegal in the states and generally looked down upon as a collective culture. We’d rather drive to our destination with the doors locked and eyes forward.

In Mozambique, it’s not uncommon to see people receiving boleias (Portuguese for lifts) from friends and strangers both inside the community (on the back of motorcycles) and along the national highway. This is an ongoing topic being discussed by both Peace Corps staff and volunteers, because it could potentially be dangerous; however, the consensus is that it’s a safer option to the country’s national transportation, which is dangerous and often leads to more accidents than hitchhiking.

Business Owners, Community Members, Thriving

With the discovery of gas in the northern province of Cabo Delgado and other natural resources that are underneath the country, more and more international companies and organizations are moving in to harvest and export the resources. While this is creating additional jobs and increased money into the country (although many doubt that the money will be put back into the communities because of unchecked corruption), it’s also creating a dependency on international companies instead of looking inward.

Walk around a smaller community, and you’ll see small businesses and shops owned by members (even families) of the community. With enough motivation and resources, a person in Mozambique can build and maintain a rather successful small operation in a small town. The country has yet to build large factories or companies, so in the meantime, the age of the local business owner is still strong and vibrant, including agriculture.

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Questions? Comments? Contact me!

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“Mota Pequena”

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Symmetry. Light. Love.

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