Kaninmambo, Mozambique!

One girl's misadventures studying abroad in Maputo, Mozambique.

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A Weekend in Paradise

It was with not undue excitement that I pulled myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 3am on Thursday. The promise of five days in paradise was a pretty tantalizing one and even the pointless two hours spent in the bus station sitting on the chapa until it had filled up, failed to dampen my spirits. It was a pleasant enough wait watching hawkers selling everything from loo-roll to boiled eggs file on and off the bus, as chickens wove in and out between the legs of women who wandered about with their heads piled high with bundles and baskets. 

Finally, at 7 am, once the bus could not take another passenger (some were sitting on laps!), and the mountain of belongings and presents being taken back to the village were securely lashed to the trailer we towed behind us, we set off, leaving Maputo behind in a hot chaos of traffic and rubbish.

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Até já Maputo!

The journey was long and uncomfortable (I had a rather large lady sitting next to me who I  watched systematically ring every contact in her phone book until she finally fell asleep at around 11 am), but it was also completely  enchanting.

The bush stretched out of either side of us for as far as the eye could see, a tangle of green vegetation punctuated by Indian almond, acacia and coconut palms and the occasional flash of electric blue and pink as Bee Eaters flew from their perch on the telegraph wire.

This huge expanse of country was uncultivated apart from the odd, road-side machamba which blended so well into the surroundings, it  would have been easy to miss had not been for the women stooped over in their capulanas, weeding and picking out what was ready to be eaten.

Orange dirt tracks snaked away from the motorway towards clusters of houses which were just distinguishable through the trees. Some were round with daub walls and neatly thatched cane roofs, others were square and made entirely from woven palm fronds. I was reminded of the rush baskets my mum made when I was a child, and wondered if these beautiful houses smelled as good as they had.

The motorway was positively thronging with the people the whole way to Tofo: teenagers walking to and from school, men on bicycles, ladies with containers full of water on their heads, children playing with improvised toys. Every now and then we’d come to larger village and the road would be lined on both sides by stalls selling food, drink and just about anything else you could imagine. Hawkers would tap on the windows – “Mae! Mae!” (‘Mummy’ is the respectfully affectionate form of address reserved for females in Mozambique) and offer up tubs of cold drinks which were gratefully received by all on-board. We stopped frequently at the end of the aforementioned dirt tracks to let passengers carrying sacks of potatoes and rice off and watched as they were greeted by various family members.

As we trundled along all 500 km of the highway, I couldn’t help but feel like another faceless participant in that timeless African tradition of road-side, trading communities. I wondered if the landscape was all that different from the landscape the Europeans had encountered when they first arrived here. I imagined the advance of the Portuguese into the Zambezi heartlands, how they too had followed paths worn deep by thousands of years of traffic along the East African coast to the interior, how they must have felt bewildered as they were confronted by the weight of history and how clumsily they tried to subjugate it.

We arrived in Inhambane, a sleepy, clean suburban town perched on an estuary, close to Praia Tofo at about 3.30 pm and by 4.00 pm we had made it to Tofo.

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First sight of Paradise, marred by the thumb placed over the camera….

Tofo is a bit of an unreal place. The Bradt guide describes it as probably the most developed tourist spot in all of Mozambique which says a lot about how untouched Mozambique still is: Tofo is nothing more than a huge beach lined with unobtrusive thatched lodges with a small conglomeration of houses, restaurants, bars and cafes at one end which is known as the village. I described it as ‘Polana-on-Sea’ which is an opinion permanent residents of Tofo (waifs and strays from from all over the world) would be keen to shoot down, but one which I stand by, as there is something undeniably chi-chi about Tofo and the masses of well-heeled weekenders from Maputo who come seeking parties and down-time.

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View from the hostel. Look at that sea!

In fact, now I think of it, Bob Dylan almost certainly DID come here.

And when it’s time for leaving Mozambique (ahem – Tofo)
To say goodbye to sand and sea
You turn around to take a final peek
And you see why it’s so unique to be
Among the lovely people living free
Upon the beach of sunny Mozambique (Tofo….)

However, right behind all of these lodges and the semi-urban development of the village are REAL villages. Groupings of beautiful wickerwork houses in the coconut grove, perhaps surrounded by a fence made of branches and bits of rubbish gleaned from the beach, marking the boundaries of the family compound. Groups of children stand around playing and chewing at lengths of sugar cane, whilst mothers tend the machamba or plait their daughters’ hair or stir a pot sitting on an open fire. Chickens meander about as tethered goats chew on whatever weeds they can find.

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Coconut grove at sunset.

It was extraordinarily tranquil.

The following three days were spent in a haze of sunshine. Reading, sleeping, eating, lying on the beach and of course, there were a few parties too.

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Riding on the beach with Rui, my guide.

The most exciting moment came when I was stung by a bee and when a lizard fell out of the thatched roof of my cabin in the hostel onto my head. I also went for a spectacular and rather fast ride along the beach and through the coconut groves.

There was a bit of ‘culture’ too, of the most macabre kind: a dog walk with friends along Tofinho lead us to the Barraco do Assassinatos, a cave in the black, coral cliff where before drowning them, the Portuguese secret police gave suspected members of FRELIMO and dissidents slow and agonizing deaths by tying them to the walls of the cave, lacerating their bodies on the sharp rocks and allowing the fish to eat them alive. The monument commemorating the spot is a stout granite obelisk, unadorned but for a single arm raised in a fist protruding from the top. It gave me goose bumps.

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Suitably gloomy looking Barraco dos Assassinatos.

I also met some interesting people including an American girl who had just finished her peacecorps contract in Malawi. She was from a farming family in Montana and had been living in a village, 8 hours drive from the capital for two years. She had had no electricity or running water, and had got up with the sun and had gone to bed at night fall. She had had internet access only 3 times a week and was allowed a short holiday once a quarter. She spoke the language of the village people fluently, she participated in religious and other ceremonies, she had learned how to make their tools and how to use them, whilst also suggesting her own improvements. It sounded like the most extraordinary experience: to get anything done – projects educating the villagers about HIV, safe sex, and agricultural and water projects, she had to go and bribe the chief with the chickens she had carefully reared herself. She was even invited once to the villager’s version of a Hen party at which, she said bluntly, the women teach the bride to have sex!

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Did Turner ever come to Tofo? He should have!

I also met a German doctor who had been working for MSF in the Central African Republic and who had been living in the bush in very similar conditions to the American, apart from the fact she was also in the middle of a conflict zone.

She said that on her very first evening, mere hours after she had landed, there had been an outbreak of fighting and she had been forced to evacuate. The first week of her new job in the hospital was spent treating gun shot wounds and other severe trauma cases as gun fire and mortars exploded around the hospital. She said she spent most of her time running between the operating table and the corridor (the safe zone) when the sound of shooting came too close.

I asked her how she coped. She said calmly that she tried to sleep as much as possible. Although she did admit it was tricky at times to get things done as her French wasn’t very good!

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Since coming to Mozambique, I have met several aid workers (including my flatmate, Carmen who was also with MSF) and I never cease to be astonished by their stories of the things they have experienced and achieved.

The German doctor said she had chosen to quit medicine in Germany and go to the C.A.R because of a profound disillusionment with Europe and the pampered, stagnant first world lives we lead. Europe may be rich, but it is poor in spirit. That was something that really with resonated me. And I couldn’t help but agree with the American girl when she said she thought Peace Corps should be compulsory for everyone living in the States. “Our lives are too comfortable. We take everything for granted.”

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Tachau, Tofo! It’s been real!

Anyway, all in all it was a really pleasant weekend of living vicariously through the stories of extraordinary people in a beautiful place. I was pleased to have made the journey on my own too. It’s not treating gun shot wounds in the Central African Republic, but I guess it was a step for me, even if it was still firmly on the beaten track.

 

“In Maputo You Enjoy The View”

Lost, not yet found: Three Weeks of a hazy nature. Notable characteristics: drenched in sunshine, possibly drunk. They meander about beatifically but are also capable of vanishing in a blink of an eye if not watched closely. If anyone out there knows of or has seen Three Weeks matching this description, I would be delighted if you could return them to me, intact.

Gosh. How quickly the time seems to fly. I hardly believe I’ve been in Maputo for nearly a month. It feels like I arrived yesterday…. or months ago, at the same time.

So I thought it was about time for some reflections. I had dinner with some Mozambican friends of my Portuguese flatmate, Carmen, last night. And they asked me what my expectations had been of the place before I arrived.

I was really honest with them. If there is one thing in particular that has surprised me about Maputo, it is how sleepy a city it is. And I’m not just talking relatively to other capitals in this part of the world. It just oozes leisure….

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…almost as much as this professional Leisure Hound.

People stroll in Maputo. There is no sense of hurry or tension or fear which keeps people off the streets in other capital cities in this part of the world. It is, despite or perhaps because of its abundant nightlife, decidedly tranquil.

It sounds absurd but sometimes, occasionally, whilst strolling round my neighbourhood in the late afternoon sunshine, I sometimes feel like I might be in a Disney Movie.

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Me in Maputo. (Artists Impression)

Allow me to explain:

Sunshine – CHECK!

Birdsong – CHECK!

Massive flappy butterflies – CHECK!

Bougainvillea flowers drifting artfully to the ground – CHECK!

I jest, of course. I don’t know how many Disney movies were also scattered with rubbish, intense poverty, flagrant corruption, and a profound sense of injustice. Because they are also all things which characterize this city.

However, to get back to my original point…

Maputo is, despite the aforementioned problems (and more), a highly agreeable city, not to mention being surprisingly attractive with a noticeably laid-back vibe.

The Mozambicans agreed wholeheartedly with this observation.

“In Maputo, you enjoy the view. Fique a vontade. (Feel free/ Make yourself at home).”

Indeed, I’ve certainly never been to any other capital city where you can actually see THE STARS at night (this is thanks to the lack of street lighting). That was one revelation.

Another revelation was waking up at five in the morning to hear a cockerel crowing. I live downtown for God’s sake. I bloody LOVE this place. (For those of you who don’t know I have a thing about chickens… please, don’t ask.)

So to conclude this rambling, highly questionable and completely romanticized post, I should like to encourage ANYONE, and absolutely, EVERYONE who is considering visiting Maputo be it for holidays or to study abroad, to just do it. It’s a pretty cool town.

Mozambican Women: Know Your Place (Hint: It’s not in the hardware shop)

Up until last week, I had been having some difficulty hanging up a mosquito net in my room. I had resorted to using duct tape to hold it to the wall behind my bed.

(Wasn’t that just the most exciting start to a post, like, EVER?! Hold on to your hats, it’s only going to get crazier…)

But the duct tape just didn’t work. I was waking up every night at four in the morning looking like this….

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FML.

So whilst on a walking tour of a Baixa I took the opportunity to ask the guide where I would find a ferragem (hardware shop) in that part of town.

He gave me a quizzical look but dutifully showed me to the right shop where I proceeded to ask the broadly grinning attendant for a hammer and nails.

Hmmmmm…. Was it just me or was everyone (every MAN) in the shop smiling at me?

Oh yeah…I have ovaries and you don’t. Well spotted!

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As I paid for my purchase, my very polite tour guide quietly inquired as to what I actually planned to do with the hammer and nails. I explained they weren’t just for looking at, nor was I going to artfully arrange them in my room, channeling that highly sort-after, utility-chic style. No, I was actually going to HANG SOMETHING FROM THE WALL with them.

He looked aghast. I had obviously confirmed his worst fears.

“In Mozambique women don’t use hammers.” He said, shaking his head and looking immensely worried.

“Do you know how to use a hammer? They can be dangerous, you know. You can hit your fingers if you’re not careful… Why don’t you get a man to do it?”

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Is this really my life now?

I reassured him that I would be fine and explained that I had done it before and hadn’t hurt myself.

As sexism goes, it was a pretty mild encounter, and the look of utter confusion on the poor guy’s face was amusing to say the least. But it was also a reminder of how far attitudes towards women still need to change here.

I think it’s fair to say that, rightly or wrongly, most people in the West would not generally associate the word ‘feminism’ with ‘Africa’…

So it may be surprising for some to learn that when Mozambique finally achieved independence from the “over-sexed”, women-hating, Catholic Portuguese on 25th June 1975, it had what can only be described as a ‘Feminist Moment’.

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Oh yes, Mozambique’s Marxist-Leninist leadership wasted no time in declaring gender equality in their newly independent nation. After all, FRELIMO had come to power famously assisted by platoons of female soldiers and activists such as Josina Machel.

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Radical activist, feminist, soldier and all round heroine.

As Samora Machel declaimed (I’m told he did a lot of that) in his speech opening the first Conference of Mozambican Women in 1973:

“The liberation of women is not an act of charity. It is not the result of a humanitarian or compassionate position. It is a fundamental necessity for the Revolution, a guarantee of its continuity, and a condition for its success.”

Adeus Portugal, Adeus Misogyny! Thou shalt not be missed….

….But remember I called it a ‘Feminist Moment‘? Unfortunately, the party ended pretty swiftly.

In fact, following the tragic death of Machel in 1986 and as Mozambique sank into yet another bloody conflict, the nation’s feminist agenda which had inspired such hope in so many Mozambican women was gradually forgotten.

That being said, my experience so far of Maputo has been overwhelmingly positive and women seem much freer here than in many other capital cities in this part of the world, walking around alone, drinking and smoking in public, driving, going out with friends, playing cards in public….

However, I have to say that over the past three weeks I have experienced more casual sexism than I have at any other time in my life (which just goes to show how privileged women are in the West), and it is a culture shock though perhaps not that shocking a one. I hasten to add that none of it, bar the hammer incident, has been directed at me, perhaps because as a foreigner the same rules just don’t apply.

Classroom Sexism:

  • When a teacher elicited a sentence from the class in Portuguese in order to explain a grammar point, the boy sitting next to me called out “A Maria fica grávida” (Maria got pregnant). Clever.
  • When discussing in class the best age for a woman to get married:  “25 is the best age for a women to get married because she is still fertile and can have plenty of babies, whilst also being young enough to look after them and keep the house clean” was one young man’s response. Well, he’s not wrong.
  • The fact that boys out number girls 8 – 1 and this is in Arts and Humanities…( I mean WTF?!)

However, I have also encountered sexist attitudes outside the classroom…

  • Being forbidden from entering the library whilst wearing jeans and a pretty modest vest top. Apparently my shoulders really offend some of the books in there.
  • Being told, by a friend of Ika’s that if women listened to their gut instinct more, there would be less rape……………………………………………………………..

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There is also the ongoing debate about the length of school girls’ skirts: to summarize, several weeks ago a group of women who were going to put on a short play outside their local school in order to raise awareness of the rampant sexism and sexual abuse of girls in schools here were arrested for inappropriate behavior in public. They were protesting the fact that school girls’ skirts have been lengthened once again in order to discourage sexual abuse. The police took issue with this and shot at and then arrested them. (I guess if you’re already dead when they arrest you, they don’t need to waste time doing the whole hand-cuff/’You have the right to remain silent’ rigmarole….)

Anyway, this story has had the whole of Maputo up in arms, most of all because of the attitude of the police, one of whom was heard saying “Why don’t you just go back to the machamba” to some of the women.

Machamba is the vegetable patch traditional tended by women, so I guess it’s the Mozambican way of saying “Get back in the kitchen, you slag.”

But then again, the fact that people are talking discussing the issues is brilliant. Perhaps Mozambique is on the verge of another ‘Feminist Moment’… I just hope it lasts a little longer this time.

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Back to the machamba with you, you SHREW!

A Trip To Macaneta Beach

One of the first things someone said to me upon my arrival in Maputo was:

“Maputo’s nice but you absolutely HAVE to get out whenever you can.”

Perhaps not the most encouraging advice. But, it’s absolutely spot on when one considers how utterly estranged Maputo is to the rest of the country.

It would be fair to describe Mozambique as a funnel, and not just because of the shape of the country on the map. In Moz, money has always flowed South, to South Africa and to Maputo, which in many ways resembles an enclave of Mozambique’s prosperous, southern neighbour.

‘Getting out of Maputo’ is therefore absolutely obligatory if one wants to gain any insight or understanding of how the other 99.9% of the country lives.

Macaneta is perhaps the closest one can be to Maputo whilst still ‘getting out’. We drove for a mere 20 minutes out of Maputo as the sun set and passed groups of school children and women crossing the central reservation on their ways home to the small villages which lined the motorway.

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A sight for sore eyes.

Despite Macaneta’s proximity to Maputo, it still feels charmingly isolated from the capital thanks to the short river crossing you have to make in order to access the village. (A bridge is being built as I write which will no doubt completely change the character of the place.) There is a long way round but for convenience and safety’s sake we opted for the boat.

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The boat was really more of a glorified metal raft onto which 5 or 6 cars and 50 people squeezed themselves. We chugged across watching the bats swooping about in the half-light. The tide had risen by the time we reached the opposite bank and we had to take off our shoes and wade to dry land which caused much hilarity amongst the passengers.

As we waited for the cars to disembark, a woman dressed in a capulana with a baby on her back in a sling asked if I would sell her my hair. (This has become pretty commonplace for me: so far 4 women on separate occasions have asked to buy my hair, and even more have been known to absentmindedly grab it and play with it… All the manhandling makes me feel a bit like a new puppy at Christmas: “It’s so soooft!!”)

She then hit me with a stonker of a question:

“Do you want to be black?”

That question was so simple and yet so powerful and of course my natural reaction was to say, “Well, why not…?”. But then I was hit by a sense of my own hypocrisy. Institutional racism, lack of opportunities, prejudice: these are all issues which cause great suffering for people of colour in British society. I guess it’s easy for someone to say they would prefer to change the colour of their skin when they haven’t experienced any of these things.

Moreover, her question laid bare a tragic reality: by saying that she hated her hair and wanted to be white she demonstrated how even here, white ideals of beauty of imported from abroad and imposed upon black women. And I was suddenly hit by a sense of just how profoundly divided and unjust our world is.

And this whole encounter was made more surreal by the setting: standing in the shallows of a river, in the dark, watching 4x4s struggle down the very steep ferry ramp.

I’m very aware of what a sensitive issue this is so I hope you forgive the clumsiness of my responses to it. It had a pretty big impact on me at the time and I guess I’m still trying to work out what I think.

ON WITH THE JOURNEY…..

There followed a very bouncy  15 minutes on a dust road interrupted by  a herd of beautiful Mozambican cows chilling out on the road.

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Coos on the road!

We then had a very chilled out two days in deserted idyll, the most exciting moment being the discovery of a poisonous frog on the back of a garden chair and a sighting of a yellow sac spider in our kitchen….! If you don’t know what a Y.S.S. is, it actually features on GoAfrica’s list of Africa’s most dangerous and scary spiders……….

Yay.

http://goafrica.about.com/od/africanwildlife/tp/Africas-Scariest-Spiders.htm

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Sapo venenoso!

I had been unnecessarily nervous before departure.

The thought of leaving Maputo for the first time and being in a more remote area was exciting but also slightly intimidating, but Macaneta was as peaceful a place as one could imagine, comprising a sleepy village of small, single-storied houses made of breeze blocks with corrugated iron roofs where old men sat around in chairs watched the comings and goings of chickens, goats, and pigs, and children playing toys made from bits of rubbish and women carrying beautiful rush baskets on their heads.

And, as Ika explained, “No one would break into the house because everyone knows it is Miguel’s (the caretaker’s) house which he looks after.”

The village is positioned in a system of dunes next to a marsh through which the road from the ferry runs. We drove past bundles of rushes stacked up to dry and hundreds of black crabs sitting at the side of the road. We even saw a MONKEY in the dunes on the way back from the beach!

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Spot the tiny, leaping monkey!

On our way back to Maputo, waiting for the ferry, a guy came over to the car and began talking to us.

He then interrupted the conversation and said, referring to the rest of the Mozambicans waiting for the ferry, “They’re afraid to talk to you because you’re white.”

And so the race question loomed again and cast a sad shadow over the end of what was otherwise a blissful weekend.

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Fisherman pulling in the day’s catch. What looked like half the village came through the dunes to watch them. Taken at a distance because people here believe that cameras steal part of your soul.

5 First Impressions from my First Week

So I tried and failed to come up with a coherent strategy of describing my first week here – there was so much going on, so many different experiences and emotions flying around, that it seemed reductive to try and unify all of it into one descriptive post.

First impressions of a place are never particularly coherent. But hopefully, anyone who reads this blog (DOES anyone read this blog?!) will get some sense of what my first week here was like. Enjoy!

1. Maputo smells like Marzipan

This sounds cheesy. And it is. But it is also true thanks to the many frangipan trees planted all around the city. Mia Couto makes reference to this tree in his novel A Varanda do Frangipani  (Under the Frangipan: http://www.amazon.com/Under-Frangipani-Mia-Couto/dp/1846686768) which I HIGHLY recommend you  all read.

Frangipan trees look a bit like they might have come out of a 3D printer, thanks to their weird plasticky flowers.

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How are these not stuck on?!

One of the most pleasant things about being in this city is being able to sit on my balcony at dusk, feeling the warm breeze blowing off the Indian ocean and breathing in the smell of these DIVINE  flowers. And this isn’t even poetic exaggeration, this is genuinely how what my life is like now *smug smile*….

…unless of course it’s raining. Maputo smells like wet-dog in the rain.

 

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Hmmm… Perhaps not so pleasant after all.

2. Maputo is completely heterogeneous.

It is easy to get stuck in the white/black, Portuguese/Mozambican, Western/African mind-set. But that is a simplification. I don’t think I have ever been to a place that is as diverse as Maputo, and I’m not just talking ethnically, although there is ethnic diversity… Black Mozambicans, Mulatto Mozambicans, White Mozambicans, Mozambicans of South Asian origin, Portuguese, African, Chinese, Indian, European, Chope, Tsonga, Macua, Makonde….. etc etc etc. (You get the picture)

You also have people from all possible economic backgrounds, from the disgustingly wealthy to the utterly destitute. You have rural Mozambicans who have come to Maputo to make a living and who bring with them their traditional beliefs like witchcraft and ancestor worship, but you also have totally westernized, wealthy Mozambicans and expats from the USA and Europe driving around in huge Range Rovers. You have people who only buy food from the hugely over priced supermarkets and those who go to people selling just one thing i.e. crabs, mango, or mandioca, in the street.

It seems like a deeply polarized society and in many ways it is. But it is also a fluid and syncretistic society. People never seem comfortable to define themselves as one thing, despite the highly stratified, often segregated nature of the place.

3. Maputo is an architectural treasure trove!

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A treasure trove, godammit!

But seriously, Maputo is a very cool place architecturally speaking. Over the years a lot has been demolished, whilst even more has been left to crumble into a state of charming dilapidation with the result that the city today is a hotchpotch of buildings from different eras, and walking through it is like walking through all of the extraordinary political changes the country has undergone in the past century.

The above photo, taken from my balcony, is nothing particularly special, but it still gives a rough idea of what I’m talking about:

The oldest buildings are the tiny white houses with red roofs – they are super Portuguese in style and could have been airlifted from any street in Lisbon: this is basically Portugal saying, “This country is mine now. ALL MIIIIINE!”

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On the corner of the street on the left is a classic example of Maputo’s Art Deco architecture. Most of downtown, a Baixa, was built in this style. And most of these buildings are in desperate need of a lick of paint but for me, such decrepitude only adds character. N.B. Works by Gustav Eiffel can be found throughout Maputo, including the famous Casa de Ferro.

In the back ground you can see a modernist tower block: like Art Deco, Modernism was and is a big thing in Maputo and the city has some really interesting examples of work by Pancho Guedes and others. Check out the link for more pics: http://whatsonafrica.org/maputomodernism/

Finally, on the far left you can see a new building being thrown up. There are huge construction projects going on here at the moment thanks to a successful economic  climate. However, when you see how so much money being poured into such big projects (nearly always in the wealthiest areas of Maputo), you do wonder if it wouldn’t be better used else where…

4. Maputo is GREEN!

Hallelujah! After living in Santiago for 6 months which soul-crushingly urban, it is a relief to finally see some foliage…

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Look! Real trees!

Maputo is bursting at the seams not just with greenery but with wild-life too!

The old pavements are full of potholes and enormous lumps and bumps where the huge acacia trees’ roots are slowly pushing the paving stones out of the way. The air is filled with butterflies and moths and it is common to see gala-galas (lizards) basking in the sunshine. The streets are lined with the most beautiful trees – jacaranda, acacia and frangipan, often with trunks wide enough to fit a small car through. Trees are sacred here and have a special role in communicating with the ancestors and spirits. Perhaps this is why no matter how large a tree gets or how destructive an effect it has on the buildings around it, the council won’t chop it down…

Most exotic of all, however, are the fruit bats!

Greater short-nosed fruit bat (Cynopterus sphinx)

So creepy, so adorable.

You see them at dusk swooping around the tops of buildings and I occasionally hear them too, squeaking and snarling as they hunt for supper.

N.B. If you go down to the botanical garden you will find a tree where about 30 nest. You can work out where they are by the half eaten plums and excrement littering the floor. Nice.

5. Bob Dylan obviously never came here…

…because if he had he would have written a song about frango piripiri and terrible, heat-stroke hangovers. Forget all that tosh about dancing on a moonlit beach. It’s a serious party town which means serious hangovers.

“I like to spend some time in Mozambique
The sunny sky is aqua blue
And all the couples dancing cheek to cheek
It’s very nice to stay a week or two
And fall in love just me and you….” 

Er yeah… or not, Bob.

I marked the end of my first week in Maputo with an appalling hangover made so much worse by the unrelentingly hot weather. I had gone out the night before with all the right intentions of having only one or two cervejinhas at the Asociação de Musicos Moçambicanos *RECOMMENDED* before getting an early night. But things escalated pretty rapidly and before I knew it, the sun had been up for two hours and I was finally arriving home, limping from blisters sustained by hours of dancing marrabenta and clutching an avocado picked from one of trees under which all this debauchery had been taking place.

I know, I know… it’s a hard life.

 

 

 

 

Arrival: For Hope

This is the first, and perhaps the most difficult post I will make on this blog. Not just because ‘the first step is always the hardest’, and not just because it is nearly impossible to describe arrival in a new city without resorting to cliche (see above).

No, it is difficult because my arrival here in Maputo coincided with the departure of someone worth more to me than I think I will ever be able to comprehend. A mere blog post is not worthy of her. But it is difficult to talk about my arrival without thinking of her, as she has become irrevocably intertwined with the memories of my first few nights alone here.

She was a great and intrepid traveler in her time and even in her last year, despite the damage dementia had wreaked upon her brain, she was able to offer astute advice. I remember one afternoon before I reluctantly left for Chile, we were sitting on her old sofa,  holding hands which had become our habit ever since she had become unwell, knowing that every parting could be our last and letting that gesture say everything we weren’t able to put into words. And she said, “Just think who your new best friend will be.” Such optimism has been and will continue to be a great comfort to me as I navigate all the loneliness and uncertainty which comes with living abroad alone.

My arrival here was as intimidating, chaotic and rewarding as expected. But those first snapshots I have of the city, of women wrapped in colourful capulanas walking along the side of the rode from the airport, of bustling streets lined with acacia trees, of the warm smell of the sea breeze scented with frangipan, and my own anxiety as I listened to the noise of an unfamiliar city at night, unable to get to sleep for the heat – those first snapshots are also tainted by grief and profound regret. I miss her and think of her everyday. And will be so pleased if my experiences here in Mozambique bestow upon me even a fraction of the wisdom and intelligence she possessed.

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