southern hospitality.

I imagine when people talk about “southern hospitality” it means you show up to someone's house, where they have a lovely sun-porch and they offer you sweet tea or lemonade and maybe some home-made cookies. It means gentlemen open doors for ladies. It means there are always clean towels in the bathroom that has little soaps shaped like sea shells.

But I honestly do not know. I come from the Midwest. People there smile at each other and bring cookies to the new neighbors. It is hard to walk into a home that is not warm and welcoming and covered with pictures of smiling children, whose giggling you can always hear playing outside on the calm streets. Its hard to imagine being more hospitable than my neighbors on 58th Street, but somehow, the term was coined, “southern hospitality” and they left Dundee totally out of it.

Maybe southern hospitality refers to southern Mozambique. Doubtful, I know, but on a recent trip out to a rural community in Inhambane, I learned a new degree of hospitality.

I was traveling to Mademo. The small farming community lies about 25 kilometers from a district capital, Panda. Though on a map it is not too far from Manjacaze, the roads are fairly deserted. I left my house at 5 am to catch the first chapa out to Mawaela, a town that was once a bustling train stop, but is now pretty run-down village with a few good shops and a lot of men drinking palm wine. Around 7, the driver decided his truck was full enough and we finally left. At 9, we arrived in Mawaela only to find that the only chapa to Panda left at 8. I sat down on the steps of a closed shop convinced another car would come by soon. The men drinking palm wine just laughed and talked about how disillusioned this mulungo was. Anyway, I after waiting a few hours, the shop opened and the owner insisted I go sit at her house. I declined, explaining if a car came by I really needed to be able to see it. She brought me a chair to sit on and a glass of water. A few hours later she came to tell me lunch was ready. Though I told her I was okay, she insisted and provided me with lunch and the entertainment of her adorable three year old daughter who, though she tried, could not eat pasta in any way but spilling it all down the front of her.

At this point the shop owner told me I should really just stay the night with her and her family, there was no way I was going to get a ride that afternoon. I smiled and told her I was sure some car would have to pass through the town that afternoon (why I was so sure, after 6 hours of not seeing a single car, I am not sure). At exactly that moment, one of the men drinking palm wine, who at this point was not even pretending to walk straight (2 PM) informed me that the Administradora do Distrito, kind of like a County Mayor, was going to be driving through to Panda, but that she never stops for anyone. If I wanted a ride, I needed to go to the administrative building on the other side of the town (two minutes walk). I gathered up my things and plopped myself in front of the door of the white plastered building. Twenty minutes later, the Administradora's car pulled up. She got out, paid me not a minutes worth of attention, got a drink of water, and got back in the car. At that moment, one of the guards I had spoken with asked if I could sit in the back with them. She looked me up and down and agreed, although I cannot say she was thrilled.

I hopped in and traveled the rest of the way to Mawaela. Just before the town, I told the guard to ask the driver to stop. As I got out of the car, the Administradora explained there is an actual town 500 meters up the hill and asked why did I want to get out here in the middle of nowhere. I explained I planned to camp near the river. She laughed and drove away.

As the car pulled off, two women who had been cleaning at the river ran toward me and grabbed my bags. They helped me carry them to the campsite (which for the record, while in the middle of no where was an established campsite) and then told me they would come to check on me soon.

I spent a few hours relaxing at the campsite and then decided to head into town. I arrived at the house of one of my few contacts in the town and Suzana, the mother of the house, greeted me with a warm hug. Apparently the ladies who had helped me with my bags had let her know I was coming and she had just toasted cashews for me. The warm cashews were a huge treat, but they were followed by a great fresh salad, made completely from vegetables from her garden, and coconut rice, a tasty Inhambane treat. After chatting for a while, she, her husband, and their two children all walked me the kilometer back to my campsite. We stopped in a shop first, where I was lucky to buy the one and only roll of toilet paper in the town.

The entire week went somewhat the same. Throughout the week, people I worked with would show off their gardens and not let me leave without a head of cabbage, a bag filled with tomatoes, or lots of fresh green onions. Suzana and her family took me in as a third child and cared for me extremely well.

I think what is important to remember is that in Mademo, people do not have a lot to spare. Right now is a good time of year, there is a lot of food to harvest from the machambas, and few people are going hungry. On the other hand, when Suzana ran out of sugar, she told her son to ask the shop keeper if he wanted a chicken. In return for her chicken, she got three kilograms of sugar. Though she had nothing to spare, she insisted on being my very hospitable host. She was never satisfied to set the table if the tablecloth had not not been washed that morning or if the tea had been made in a blackened kettle.

Its a different degree of hospitality. Cookies and lemonade are one thing, but every meal, especially if putting food on the table is both a challenge and source of pride, is true hospitality. People in Mademo would give you the shirt off their back. And its not that people in Omaha wouldn't, but they might think twice. In Mademo, they would give it to you, and then offer to wash the one you were wearing for you.