Eating as I Go: Scenes from America and Abroad

A VIEW FROM THE FORTRESS POLANA

136 Maputo,฀Mozambique,฀1993 The breakfast buffet at the Hotel Polana is thirty running feet of elegant imports: decadent patés and seductive herring, vegetable salads and classic French cheeses, fruit pastries and croissants, fried eggs, sausages, and, for the cholesterol conscious , granola and yogurt. Self-indulgent on my first working day in Maputo, the capital of Mozambique, I sample almost everything and reject the compunction to clean my plate. Still, my pleasures give me pause. Mozambique in 1993 is one of the most woebegone countries in Africa. On the UN’s quality-of-life chart, it ranks close to the bottom. How can I reconcile this five-star extravaganza with the poverty and fragile peace beyond the Polana’s protective walls? Muito obrigado, I say to the formally dressed waiter who serves me coffee from a pewter pot and steamed milk from a matching pewter server. His gaze is grave, almost paternal. Do I sense a concern, perhaps extended to all solitary diners , about how I am coping alone? Gratitude wells up in me, to the waiter, but also to the U.S. government for cushioning my visit with this lavish breakfast. In stressful situations, comfort counts, especially the comfort of favorite foods, beautifully presented. What comforts does the waiter enjoy, I wonder. How many mouths can he feed for the price of my breakfast? What kind of food does his meager salary (perhaps a dollar a day) provide? I imagine my Mozambican colleagues —university teachers of American studies with whom I’ll be consulting— finishing their morning porridge or toast and tea. What ever would they think of my gluttony and wastefulness? After breakfast I visit the American embassy for a routine briefing with the security officer. “When you leave the hotel,” he instructs me, “do not carry a pocketbook and do not wear jewelry; and be sure not to walk alone after dark. In the hotel, if anyone asks you too many questions or behaves suspiciously, notify me immediately.” I nod, more amused than disturbed by the possibility that the “fortress” Polana might actually be a den of post–Cold War conspirators. Back at the hotel, Dr. M, the chair of social sciences at the Instituto Superior Pedagogica (ISP), is waiting to drive me to campus. I will be working with members of his faculty for the next three and a half weeks, developing a college-level A฀VIEW฀FROM฀THE฀฀ FORTRESS฀POLANA฀ A VIEW FROM THE FORTRESS POLANA 137 curriculum in American studies for future secondary school teachers. We chat about my flight connections to Mozambique and the pleasant weather. It’s July, winter in Maputo, the best time of year for a visit, Dr. M assures me. Then he switches from English to Portuguese for more serious talk—about the American A GLOBAL APPETITE 138 embassy’s support for his program and my consultation. Language, it is clear, will complicate our relationship. While Dr. M speaks perfectly adequate English, he prefers Portuguese, the official language of Mozambique. I understand some Portuguese , thanks to the Fulbright that took me to Portugal, but my fluency is limited to ordering from a menu. Nevertheless, I embrace the linguistic disadvantage . It’s what academic specialists abroad should do, I tell myself: demonstrate flexibility and, above all, refuse the imperialism of English. Thus, the basic pattern is established: Dr. M usually speaks Portuguese to me, I speak English to him, and we hope for the best. The best, I suspect from the start, is not to be. The sunny office I have been given boasts a new Mac. But it is without a single book or magazine, without a university catalogue, telephone directory, sheet of paper, ballpoint pen, floppy disc, or printer. With the computer, even though getting online is a problem, a freshly painted Instituto gropes toward the future. After almost five hundred years as an ill-tended Portuguese colony (independence was declared in 1975) and sixteen horrendous years of civil war, illiteracy in Mozambique is a tragic 86 percent. The country’s history underscores the mission of a teacher-training institution like ISP. Its priorities—obtaining more resources, better information, and higher standards for staff and students—are all part of the rationale for my consultation. As we stroll through the jerry-built facility, deserted during the semester break, I am reminded of summer camps run by settlement houses where...