You are cordially invited...

I was invited to a big party by one of my colleagues the other day for her nine-year-old son. Immediately upon hearing this, the following internal monologue/stream of consciousness ran wild through my mind:

“A party! Whooooooooo! How fun. It’s probably a birthday party. I love birthday parties. Except when there are clowns. Ugh. Clowns are creepy. And those big shoes! Overcompensating much!? Do I bring a gift? What do nine-year-old Mozambican boys want? Do they have Spider Man in Mozambique? Damn mosquito. Cake!! Ooh cake. I wonder if there could be cake. I miss cake. Betty Crocker. Crocker brocker bo bocker banana fanana fo…oh. I really really really miss cake. Warm, chocolate, moist, melt-in-your-mouth…”

until finally my cake fantasy was interrupted when she told me the party was not to celebrate his birthday but rather to celebrate his return.

From where, I inquired. She said he was returning from his “Rite of Initiation” in which he had spent thirty days away from home out in the country. Here in northern Mozambique, many of the old traditions are still practiced including male and female rites of initiation. For the girls, the rite of initiation is basically a glorified sweet sixteen party with food and presents and traditional dancing. The age is completely arbitrary, though, since the female rite of initiation signifies to all party goers that the girl has just had her first menstruation.

Imagine Hallmark trying to market a “Congratulations On Your First Period” greeting card. It’d be a disaster because in The States, talking about that female transition is completely taboo.

To illustrate my case, picture yourself in two different movie theaters that are both equally packed--let’s say it’s opening night of the next Twilight movie. In the first theater, someone yells “Fire!” You might get banged up a little in the ensuing chaos of people bolting to the exits, but your chances of survival are good.

In the second theater, someone shouts “Tampon!” Now, I hate to be a fatalist but unless you brought Bear Grylls with you, you are going to die. The stampede of people trying to escape anything that deals with female menstruation will crush you easier than a kernel of delicious but grossly overpriced movie theater popcorn.

In Mozambique, however, this new stage in a young girl’s life is not embarrassing or something to be ashamed of. No Carrie shower moments here. Instead, it is a cause for celebration and announced to the whole world in the form of a rite of initiation party.

Party on, Wayne.

For boys, the rite of initiation is not so cut and dry. (That will be funnier in a few paragraphs. Just give it time.)

I asked my colleague more about what the boys’ rite entailed--what goes on in her son’s thirty days away from home. After some continued explanation and the realization that it still wasn’t all entirely sinking in with me, she used her hand to imitate scissors and proceeded to simulate a cutting action. I’m fairly certain she even said, “Snip snip.“ Being perennially slow on picking up subtle hints and innuendos, I promptly asked, “But what in the world could a nine-year-old boy possibly have that needs cutting?” The room burst into uproarious laughter until I finally figured it out. Ohhhh.

Yikes.

The boys say goodbye to their families and go out into the “matu,” (a Mozambican term for the boondocks) for thirty days with elder men in the community, other boys, and a nurse hired by the families. It is here where each one is circumcised, signifying that he is no longer a boy, but a man. And when they return, their families throw a party.

Party on, Garth.

Not every boy or girl has a rite of initiation, my colleague explained. Some families just don’t practice this particular custom. Other families can’t afford it. For girls, it depends on whether the family can afford to throw a party. For boys, it is if the family can afford to pay for the nurse.

She assured me that the whole procedure was very safe and that the actual operation was performed by experienced medical personnel. I was still not entirely convinced on the whole process or the health implications that could arise, and I had a hard time understanding how anyone could fathom a nine-year-old boy a man (anatomical adjustment or not).

But what I’ve learned in Mozambique is that in so many situations here, the best thing I can do is just to listen, not judge, and try to understand.

I immediately decided anything Spider Man might not be appropriate for a circumcision/snip-snip/passage into manhood party.

My colleague was so excited about her son’s return she was cataloguing for me everything she was doing/cooking. I meekly, all the while thinking my question foolish, asked if there would be cake. Of course there would be cake she said. She seemed to understand the absurdity of a party sans cake.

“RSVP, Margarita?”

Abso-frickin-lutely. I just hope there's no ceremonial cutting of the cake involved.