Living in a gold-fish bowl

There are some odd sides to being an expat. One of the trickiest aspects to navigate is what another expat termed `being thrown in a gold fish bowl with a bunch of people you'd never normally associate with.' And Boy! Was she right!
Don't get me wrong, I have met some wonderful people and made some friends who shall be friends forever, but I have also had to hang out with people I really, really don't like. And it's a tricky path to tread.
We are all sort-of thrown together by virtue of being foreign to the country and also because we don't speak Portuguese. The English speaking school communities are quite small and so, of necessity, tend to come into contact a lot. But worst of all on the scale of tricky social paths is living in a gated expat community.
We have 12 houses in our little complex. At the moment, two of the houses are empty and we wait in trepidation to see what comes along.In the mean time, we are forced to be nice to the other expats. The ones whose children ring the doorbell incessantly, the ones who park their car in our driveway, the ones who hog the pool all weekend.
We have been here for two years-ish. Our first neighbours, the closest ones, were neighbours from hell. During the day, he'd be off working and she'd be inside and quiet, but come 6 o'clock the loud conversations would start with the `sal jy a stukkie vleis eet?' (will you eat a piece of meat?) I kid you not, this would happen five out of seven nights. How they managed to not die of heart attacks after eating all that meat is beyond me! Any-way, the real test of neighbourliness was reserved for weekends when the boere musiek (a version of South African country and western) would be switched on at roughly 9p.m. and would belt out until at least 11. They got trashed with boring regularity and screamed loud Afrikaans hilarity virtually outside our window. They asked to borrow stuff and then returned said stuff weeks later after being harassed. The most annoying was when they borrowed the dog crate we imported our dog in. The crate was made for the dog and was fairly expensive. DB, in his neighbourly ignorance, allowed the neighbours from hell to borrow the crate `overnight'. Almost a month later, after persistent nagging, DB went and fetched the crate himself. AND, because we live in a teeny-weeny little community, we still smiled politely and made small-talk.
So what, you might ask, has prompted this outpouring of irritation over expat neighbours? Well, last night, after sitting round the pool with most of the people from the complex and making polite conversation, we had an almighty storm and a tree in our garden was split asunder. (I must add, at this point, that I have laboured in this garden, turning it from something extremely ugly into something that is sort-of inviting.) The tree mashed the garden, but miraculously missed a newly planted lavender bush (which is a whole other story about dogged labour...), although it managed to squish a poor toad hiding in the grass and shredded a yesterday-today-and-tomorrow. But the lavender was ok! DB spent the better part of the morning cutting up the tree so that we could move it. Then he went to sleep at which point our neighbours, different to the ones from hell, but literally from the same geographic origins, chucked over branches of the tree which had landed on their side of the wall. No attempt to break down the branches, no attempt to miss the flowerbeds, no attempt to tell us their intent. Just hoiked them over the wall, crushing my lavender bush.
This gold-fish bowl is feeling awfully small....

All a bit mundane

Today Maputo smells distinctly of sewerage. No particularly pleasant and I can't pinpoint the source - seems generalised. Maputo has no main-line sewerage works that I know of. Every house or building has a series of septic tanks and the fondly named `poo-trucks' come and clean them out when they get full. It was the same in Oman. In fact I remember Muscat smelling much like today, on some hot evenings.
The local elections have come and gone and all seems well. There was pre-election trouble, I suppose predictably, up in Beira and some fifty people were hurt in clashes, but that's about it. The MDM was very vocal and issued copious warning about election fraud, to the point of telling their potential voters to bring their own pens (presumably to avoid rigged pens). Of course, Renamo, to all intents and purposes, boycotted the elections...so well, um , not quite sure what the results reflect. Any-way, so Frelimo is mostly still secure, although not  reportedly in as large a majority as before. And, predictably, the MDM are grumbling that all was not free and fair. So yup - nothing much to report. The elections have come and gone and not lived up to the fear and trouble we thought they might bring.
The kidnappings also seem to have come to a sudden halt following the execution style killing of a crime boss up in Matola. Much speculation about that one...
Worrying news from up North is that young men are apparantly being forcibley recruited into the armed forces. Not the actions of a government secure in its standing. So more to watch.
On the bright side, the recent tensions might mean that we have fewer South Africans coming in for December. (And this is going to sound awful to my South African friends...)December has traditionally been a high crime month in Maputo as criminals follow in the tourists. Armed robberies in public places, scarcely heard of the rest of the year, crop up like a rash in December. There is much speculation that the criminals are from over the border.... Which is not to say that the criminals won't take a chance on rich locals blowing money over the festive season. ..
So yes, all seems quite normal in Mozambique.

Ho-hummmm

And so here we are. Still. The sky has not fallen, Chicken Licken (how's that for a literary reference?) but expats do seem to be bleeding out of Maputo. Good friends have gone - we hope temporarily. And we are all completely stressed out.
But the word on the ground is that things are looking up. I hear that some families will be back in the next two weeks and that the government is making some sort of move to reassure it's citizens. Ho hum.
Things are not normal. We are all advised to be careful and not make unnecessary journeys. Travelling North is advised against. However, the rapper 50 Cent was in town last night and DB attended the concert, crawling in at 5:30 with the rather lame excuse that `I couldn't get my car out so I went to a bar until I could...' Ho-hummmm.
Talking of a lack of normality: the Chinese are attacking the beach with gusto. There is a full-fledged assault going on, with Chinese road builders dumping ton after ton of rock, not only in the creation of breakwaters, but in an effort to build the Marginal up against the sea. And there is a curious building up of the beach in the dumping of lots and lots of grey material, which looks suspiciously like cement. I have no idea how this is all going to work, but the `beach' opposite our complex is now sizeably wider. Any engineering types out there like to hazard a guess about what is going on?
It really has been road-builder vs Mother Nature (and Mozambican Nature)for a bit. When the serious assault on the beach began, a large area was fenced off with a 8 foot high steel fence. All sorts of safety precaution signs were attached to said fence. I'm sure the idea was too keep the locals out of the work area. It was therefore particularly funny to watch the local beach-goers simply walk off the road, down the beach and along the inside of the fence (apparantly good protection against the nutters driving on the Marginal and one in the eye for the Chinese work gang...)
So shade cloth was attached to said fence (presumabley to stop the locals seeing what was going on and to instill a sense of caution). The very same night, Mother Nature sent a strong wind to blow the fence down....
The fence is now up again, minus shade cloth ,and certain barriers have been erected on the beach itself, but by the amount of litter on the new surface, I'm pretty sure the beach is as Mozambican owned as ever.
Aaah. Mozambique. Not much in the way of rules...

Rough Day

I wanted to write something upbeat about this mad country, but the mad and the bad are all muddled up. Its been a rough day.
The level of kidnappings and direct threats made to certain prominant families have now led to whole families leaving, with very little notice. Families I know. Not just expats. Patriotic Mozambicans who believe (believed?) in the future of their country. Some of the larger companies are pulling their staff out. People I know are going or planning on going by early December. The murder of the boy in Sofala has taken us into new and scary waters.
My empregada's sister lives up North in Inhambane. Apparantly the trouble up there is getting more frequent as we head towards general elections on November 20th. People are forced to travel in protected convoy between towns. A bus was attacked last week, with a dozen fatalities.
In a terribly written article, the South African `Lowvelder' claims that Mozambique is on the brink of civil war. The Club of Mozambique reports that analysts think that a return to war is `highly unlikely'
I don't know if I should be packaging up the things from my grandmother's house, and sending them home now so that I have them safe if we have to make a run for it.
I don't know if I should be sorting the dog's blood tests and sending him home, because imagining leaving him behind is unbearable.
I don't know if I am exaggerating the possible danger because today so many people left.
There's no way of knowing what will happen next.
Tomorrow people across the country will march, hopefully peacefully, to protest against the lack of action to stop the kidnappings.
We can only sit tight and see. All of us. Us expats wonder if we should go. Many locals wonder what we will do. If we go ,what happens to so many jobs?
It feels like we are all waiting to see what happens next.

and it gets nastier....

Kidnapping is high on the conversational rungs of everyone I have talked to this week. As a community, we are rattled. There were a total of five abductions in Maputo last week - three women, a businessman and a teenager. Not good.
One of the women taken last week managed to escape. What should be good news is in fact alarming since it is rumoured that she identified a policeman as one of her captors.
Then today the devastating news that a child kidnapped up North was killed. I can't find official notification, but the news on the ground is strong, although the motivation, through the accounts I have heard, is confused. Some say he was killed because his father couldn't pay up. Others say he was killed because they had actually grabbed the wrong child. Yet others say he was killed because he could identify his kidnappers.
Any-way you look at it, the situation has taken a grim turn for the worse. That the child is of a different demographic means nothing. He was killed. He was a child and was taken as a cash cow and disposed of. Awful for his family. Awful for this country.
And we all wonder where this goes next.
We all wonder if we should go.

Scary stuff

So, normal hilarity and incredulity aside - Maputo can be a scary place. Today, right now, its a scary place.
My school, the place where I work and that my youngest child attends, has just sent out an e-mail to make known that a parent has been kidnapped from a local school - a school which has its campus in the same street as ours. She was abducted as she walked back to her car after dropping off her daughter. We don't know who she is, but if past kidnappings are to go by, she belongs to a wealthy business family.
Kidnappings are becoming all too commonplace in Mozambique. They have been rife in Beira, in the North, for some time. Last year there were several high profile kidnappings in Maputo, most of them centred on the wealthy Asian families. Most of them businessmen. But victims included a grandmother snatched from outside a mosque and a 19 year-old girl.
And in the last few weeks, the kidnappings are back, with a vengeance that defies our cosy idea that they are aimed at a certain demographic. Two weeks ago, a nine year old Mozambiquan boy was snatched after his driver-driven car was rammed on the way to school. He was returned by the end of the week, but it is unclear if a ransom was paid.
In the week following, two other children were taken close to their schools. One apparantly taken off his school bus.
Its scary stuff.
My empregada assures me that the `dangerous' know exactly who they are taking. That they know the families and watch their movements. But that doesn't make me any less worried. At what point does a poor population start thinking that kidnappings are the way to go. When you have very little, the prospect of scoring £10000 can sound like a fortune. At what point do they decide that all expats would cough up more money than a poor Mozambican could dream of? At what point does it become indiscriminate, as it has done in other countries. When do we get really afraid?
And I know that bad things happen anywhere, and I know that my school is doing everything possible to keep us safe. But what would I do if my child is taken? All rationality says it won't happen, but there's a nagging `what if?'
Scary stuff and no idea of how to deal with it.

Summer

Summer has arrived like a succubus. By nine this morning, the plants in the garden hung limp, the water sucked from them by gusts of hot air pretending to be wind. Aaah - Summer. Not for Mozambique the summer of lazy days and languid evenings. Here summer comes in the form of a stew, hot and clinging. It tries to smother you.
Attempts to escape are futile. The summer invades the Mozambican conciousness and the roads are packed. An outing to try to get some photos printed turns into a two-hour-long marathon on roads jammed to standstill. People do stupid things. A little Toyota Vitz slams on breaks in front of our Surf, risking a bullbar through the rear window. The driver drops off her passenger and has a farewell conversation in the street, oblivious to DB's sweating and hooting.
The Marginal crawls, cars dying at random spots, unable to cope with the heat. Incredibly, a bride in her bright white is out at the end of the pier, her dress whipped by the hot wind. I note that her attendents haven't summoned up the energy to join her, but some are knee deep in the sea.
We give up and go home and I turn on the sprinkler for my shrivelled garden.
The heat seems to have driven the insects mad. A cluster of dragonflies hangs around the windows and two large hornets, like fighter pilots dodging the enemy, cling to the underside of the leaves of a shady shrub.
The spinkler brings out the birds, the squabbling house sparrows, some bulbuls and an unusual scarlet chested sunbird which sits on nearby bush and ruffles his feathers before swooping back and forth through the spray.
Bizarrely, a confused largish brown bat flies above my head, over the BBQ and through the verandah. it has to make a second sweep before I realise that it is a bat and not a figment of my imagination.
The small child uses the hosepipe to fill up a plastic bath on the lawn. She adds random plants and plastic fish before tipping herself in. DB brings me a gin and tonic.
Summer wraps around me like a scarf. I add ice to my drink and encourage DB to pick up a beer. The fan fights its pathetic fight and I wonder when the rain will come.
Oh yes. Summer is here. I don't know whether to weep or drink. Drinking seems like the less energetic option.

October Sunday in Maputo

We go for brunch at Cafe Acacia on the hill. Service is slow and the food is just ok, but the location is wonderful. The cafe sits on the hill above Maputo Bay. Tables are arranged on a terrace and we watch huge empty cargo ships navigate the channel into the harbour. The sea is calm and turquoise. Maputo looks idyllic - down to palm trees that line the road on the end of the bay. There is a rustic climbing frame type construction for children and safe paths for our youngest to cycle on. The morning is hot, but there's a breeze on top of the hill. Our waiter is friendly and speaks passable English - which is good since my Portuguese aquisition seems to have halted and DB's never really started.
We drive back home , down from the hilltop towards the sea. There is a sleepiness about Maputo on this last day of a long weekend. Cars meander languidly over junctions after the lights have changed against them. Everyone seems too sleepy to hoot. The weekend beggars are out at the main intersections; limbless men in wheelchairs, old women bent crooked with age and the blind, hands on the shoulders of small boys who spend their time between traffic light changes absently playing with odd bits of junk.
 The tide is impossibly low and it looks like we could walk out for miles. Fishing boats wallow in puddles and cockle pickers are tiny stick figures out on the sand. The sky is a flawless blue and the beginnings of a wind scarcely ruffle the bright white-clad bride and her party who are down the very end of the pier - and still far away from the water. Some of her bridesmaids, shiny in satin purple, stand on the edge of the walkway and wave.
The informal shebeens are out with their cooler boxes of beers and their coca-cola umbrellas. A solitary white tourist, complete with mirrored sunglasses walks between the locals, attracting no attention whatsoever. The Marginal is picking up.
Our youngest talks endlessly, pausing to comment that she is sweating. DB puts the aircon on.
Its a nice time of year in Maputo.

Lessons

Not a single tampon in the whole store. Not one.
Saying that, I could have bought a newly arrived plastic playhouse for an exorbitant amount of money, but I didn't want one. No - gone to the store for tampons and none in sight. Hmmmm.
Of course, there are other shops in maputo and I am sure that somewhere out there, I would have found what I was looking for. But at 4:30 in the afternoon, with the traffic on the Marginal gearing up to its rush hour hysteria, I really couldn't be bothered.
I now apologise in advance to my solitary male reader : this, as you might have realised, is going to be a bit feminine in tone.
I bemoan the lack of tampons for a very good reason: the reason being that women in the developed world see sanitary products as a basic human right. Out here, factors of supply are actually superceded by factors of poverty. Sanitary products cost money.
Which leads me to my next point: while the politics and poverty of Africa can beat you down, there are people in Africa who simply amaze you.
I am speaking about a South African woman called Sue Barnes. I chanced on an article on her in the South African magazine, Fair Lady.  After her daughter brought home a note asking for donations of sanitary towels, Sue discovered that literally millions of poor schoolgirls aged between 10 and 19 were forced to miss school during their periods, because they are unable to afford sanitary products. Many of them try using all sorts of  home-made solutions, at the risk of infection and acute embarrassment. Many give up and take a week off school every month. It doesn't take a genius to realise that missing that amount of school prevents them from ever reaching their potential.
Sue decided to do something about it.  She decided to design a washable sanitary towel - and she did. Together with knickers that are designed to securely hold the pad.
She packages the knickers and pads in a pack which should last the girls several years (allowing for growth of course!)
And the reason why I tell you this?
Africa is tough. Its no place for people like me who expect to find tampons on the shelf. Its a place for people like Sue Barnes who looks a problem in the eye and gives it a good solid thwack.
I am awed by her gumption.
And Africa is full of such people. They aren't spoilt enough to expect to find it on the shelf, or indulged enough to find it on the internet. They make it up. Fix it. Design it. Make something new.
When I first arrived in Mozambique, my shoes took a hammering. Too much sand and traipsing about  in the dodgy sea water close to our house. Sandals fell apart with regular monotony. I threw them out. My Empregada rescued them, made a plan with a bit of wire or string. Wore them for another few months.
`They're broken!' I would cry.
`No,' she would say, characteristically flattening the `o'. `Shoes are expensive.'
While there's no doubt that living in Europe is far easier than living in Africa, we of the Old World need to rethink our approach. Africa can teach us a lot if we stop to look.

Progress

A long break after a long holiday in the UK and a lengthy adjustment to being back in Mozambique. Toto, we're not in Essex any more.
I arrived back to brown water, temperatures of 36 degrees and the shops in the same sorry state as when I left. In fact, last week our local Shoprite was closed for 2 days as inspectors combed the shelves after complaints that out-of-date food was being sold - or better yet - used in the shop's ready meals. Oh yes, to say coming back has been a bit rough, is a teeny-weeny bit of an understatement.
But of course there are positives: work continues across Maputo, with some significant developments on the roads into town, where large quantities of waste from informal settlements have been cleaned up and the steep verges covered in what appears to be shale - a vast aesthetic improvement to what was there before, although we have yet to see what the rainy season does to it. (Oh me of little faith...)
The work on the marginal continues unabated, with much rock-crushing in the early hours of the morning. We are very pleased to note that the `pier' outside our complex appears to be just one of several breakwaters. (A huge relief, given the amount of attention a pier gets out here from the wedding trade every Saturday).Following on the removal of the trees on the beach across the road, the weathered pines outside our complex have been torn down. All that remains of their existence are several small and jagged protrusions in the sand - like the browning teeth of a slain dragon. They were what marked the entrance to our complex for me and I have driven past on more than one occassion.
Our immediate beachfront seems bizarrely improved by all the work. The breakwaters are reshaping the way the sand lies and as the beach road is bolstered, the beach itself appears to look better. It may have something to do with the fact that the rancid stormwater drain is now in a pipe and the disgusting effluent runs further out to sea - but then maybe that's just me being pessimistic. On the surface it's looking good.
The road itself is, of course, absolute chaos, but the signs are good that in a year or two or three, it'll be very nice indeed. It will definitely change the face of the Marginal. Already the informal barracas that lined the street on the way to Costa do Sol have been bulldozed to make way for the road. It is a little sad to see them gone the way of the pine trees....local flavour lost to the promise of something glitzy and new. Which should make someone like me a happy bunny; but somehow doesn't....
All is not lost! Power outages are back with a vengeance. In such force, in fact, that they have succeeded in blowing up our telly (well, not our's - Mozal's). There was a pop and a great smell of burning. All of which made DB a very happy man, because he had an excuse to go out and buy a whopper of a flat screen. (Well equipped with a surge protector!)
Hmmmm - the mixed blessings of progress.

A Burden of Responsibility

Another beautiful day in Maputo. Its supposed to be mid-winter, but the sky was cloudless all day long and it was balmy T-shirt weather. It really should be paradise. But I don't know. It seems to me that there is more to paradise than a pretty view.
On our way to find a bank this morning (dodging the obligatory Saturday wedding traffic), a beggar , a young man with a wasted, crooked hand knocked on the window. He looked like a burn victim.
In the supermarket, a young boy asked for 5 mts - he was short for the cost of the bread he and his little brother were buying.
Of course, we made ourselves feel better by giving to both.
A friend of mine recently remarked that her lot is different from the lot of the overseas expat. She is South African and she said `the Europeans and Americans know they can go home and just leave this behind them - the Africans know it won't change.' I really didn't know how to deal with the comment - just as I don't know how to deal with the poverty which laps at the edges of our comfortable expat lives. I don't know where personal responsibility starts and ends. So we all drank more sangria and changed the subject.
But of course the subject doesn't go away. Here we are, living and working in a country not our own. DB works hard, but earns relatively well and we benefit from a lifestyle not available to the vast majority of Mozambicans. We have a lot, in a land where many have so little. And so we become responsible for people. The children without money for bread, the beggars on the corners and especially the people we employ.
We have three employees: a gardener, an empregada (maid and child carer) and a driver. Our gardener only works with us once a week, but as employers, we have become largely responsible for our empregada and our driver, and therefore for their families too. It is a weight of conscience.
There are supposed to be elections in November, but Renamo (the losers after the civil war) are sabre-rattling up in the North. It is difficult to access the news here because the main language is Portuguese, but, according to my empregada, Renamo have been frightening people up in Tete. She tells me that she doesn't think elections will go ahead and that she is worried about what Renamo will do.
She remembers the war when she was a child living across the bay in Catembe. She remembers the fear and running from her home in the night. She tells me she had an aunt who was captured by Renamo and forced to walk to Pont d'Oura to a work camp. The aunt managed to escape across the border to Swaziland, but was gone for a year, too frightened to cross back into Mozambique. My empregada tells me that Renamo would make parents shoot their small children so that they wouldn't slow down the march to the work camps. She asked me if I have ever had `to run' (for my life).
`What will happen?' my empregada asked. `What will happen if there is trouble? Will all the contractors from overseas go home? Will there be no more jobs?'
What would happen? I suppose we'd run home as fast as we could and the people who have been part of our lives would be left behind.
There is a weight to being an expat worker. You become responsible for people and a country other than your own. It is an uncomfortable weight.

The turning of the cogs

Change is afoot in Mozambique. There is building going on and a sense of new found money. Not everywhere, but it seems to be seeping down.
When we drove up to Macaneta last weekend, the rate of building was evident. Little houses and businesses have sprung up around Maracuene to such an extent that we almost couldn't see the bank that has always marked our turnoff. People are building. Not only that, but the road down to the ferry has been tarred and there is work happening on the main road of the Peninsula too. Change/progress is happening fast.
And nowhere more so than in Maputo where the enormous government buildings, complete with a rather hideous facade, a brilliant view over the bay and their own little red pagoda-roof entrance (more of that in a minute) are nearing completion. The new wing of the airport is done and dusted (was there a pagoda there too?) Apparantly the building material for the new bridge across the bay has arrived in town and the road system is experiencing an overhaul. (All rather excellent, considering the dodgy state of the roads.) And yup - you guessed it: all done with Chinese money and lots of Chinese labour at agreement rates with the Mozambican Government that no-one is very sure of. Oh well!
The Marginal is being overhauled too - and not a moment too soon. the potholes have made the road a crash course (pardon the pun) in evasive tactics and it clearly cannot cope with the volumes of traffic brought about by the growing expat population and the growing wealth of the Mozambican middle class. The little red markers have been up for about 10 months, but over the last 2 months or so we have seen real progress in land being bulldozed and tons of sand being dumped on the Marginal edge. How, exactly, the road is going to be uniformally widened remains a bit of a mystery as there are properties (including our own complex) which are rather closer to the existing Marginal than others. The obvious element of the sea precludes it being widened too much the other way. But, as my friend remarked `we have to trust the Chinese'.
And the Chinese seem to be building a pier roughly opposite the gate to our complex. (I thought it was a breakwater, but it looks flat on the top - does that make it a pier?). The idea of a pier is rather disconcerting as, if you have read earlier blogs you will know, the Maputonians are very keen on getting wedding photos taken on the existing pier. At between 5 to 8 weddings on a Saturday, that means A LOT of potential celebratory traffic outside our gate. Joy.
The immediate distraction is the actual building of the breakwater/pier. Presumably, the building can only go on when the tide is low, so in the middle of the night,rocks are loudly dumped and then thwacked into place with the bucket of a front end loader. All a bit disconcerting.
But, the pier/breakwater appears to be progressing well and erm, you gotta trust the Chinese....

There is a man with a spade who you will see on the Marginal as you head towards the Costa de Sol. He makes his beer money by dodging death to fill the huge crater potholes with sand. I suspect he doesn't trust the Chinese at all.

Driver's guide

Herewith my Guide to Driving in Maputo:

1. Adjust your speed to fit the amount of potholes in the road
2. If the potholes are severe on your side of the road - drive on the other side. Show your annoyance at any oncoming traffic that expresses surprise and/or anger at your decision.
3. If the potholes are severe on both sides of the road, drive on the edge of the road. Note, you may drive slowly on the edge of the road if there is a child there. Otherwise, regular hooting is required. (Pedestrians have legs, don't they?)
4. Drive as fast as possible between potholes. Swerve wildly as necessary.
5. Chapas (mini-bus taxis) have the right stop dead in front of you to off-load passengers. Any accidents will be your fault as you should have expected this behaviour.
6. A chapa has the right to overtake at speed and then pull in in front of you to load/offload passengers. (Well, they ARE in a hurry).
7. Do not, under any circumstances leave a gap between yourself and the car ahead - you wouldn't want another driver to take advantage
8. When approaching a drive-way or intersection where a car is waiting to turn, remember to speed up
9. If waiting in a drive-way or intersection in a queue, remember to hoot loudly regardless of whether the driver in the front has the opportunity to move or not.
10. Occasionally you might establish your superiority as a driver by speeding down the inside of the turning lane and turning on the  inside of the car at the front of the queue who is waiting to turn
11. When approaching a bend or a narrowing of the road, be sure to speed up - you don't want any oncoming traffic to get there first
12. If there is a large oncoming vehicle which clearly needs extra space to pass, be sure to wedge the nose of your vehicle into the centre of the road. The truck driver should have known better. You may lean out of the window and gesticulate wildly.
13. There is no apparant need to belt your children into the car. Six free range children on the backseat proves your competence as a driver. Even better, have one small child climb between the front and the back while you are driving.
14. Feel free to stop at any point to chastise said children.
15. Above all, drive assertively. Maputo roads have no space for wimps

Snippets

Mozambique is a quirky place, full of odd habits and seeming contradictions. Most of the time it doesn't make a lot of sense. One the one hand, it is a country barreling into the 21st century with one of the fastest growing economies in the world - on the other, it seems steeped in superstition and fear of change.
In a conversation with my empregada about why people on the street are unhappy with aspects of the current government, she said that the closing down of informal street-front shops is a real issue, even though people are offered stalls at formal markets. People are apparantly suspicious of formal markets, because neighbouring sellers might curse your stall, stealing all the business for themselves. Hmmm. Bet Woolworths (the UK one) didn't think of that!
When one of a neighbour's two maids was fired, my empregada explained that the first maid held magic in her mouth and had spoken badly of the second maid. Apparantly, her version of a silver tongue means that the senhora listens only to her.
And there is a bombed out house on the way to Matola which, and I quote verbatim, `a white man bought to restore, but can't, because it is haunted by a witch'.  This was the tale told me by a child, shortly followed up by adult elaboration that it is the house of the witches, where a coven still meets. Apparantly, if you get close enough, you can see the words `house of witches' spray painted onto the walls in Portuguese.

Maputo also has its own take on weddings. Although I'm sure that some church wedding do happen, modern Mozambique is traditionally Marxist, so most people wed at the Magistrates - seemingly on a Saturday. Despite the non-religiousness of the affair, everyone is bedecked in bridal attire with lots of bridesmaids in shiny dresses and lots of men sweltering in dark suits. It seems traditional that they all go down to beach (often loaded into the back of trucks) where the bridal party troop all the way down the decaying pier to get their pictures taken. It is ever so slightly bizarre to watch sometimes three or four separate wedding parties traipsing down the pier, photographer in tow, the bride in her big bright white shiny dress, the shiny bright bridesmaids watching from the road side. I can only conclude that the Maputo wedding album must be a standardised affair, with the pier photo somewhere in pride of place.
Other than these observations (and a surreal encounter with a bridal party shopping in Game, bride and groom in their full attire), I really don't know that much about Maputo nuptials. But DB has been invited to a wedding in a few weeks - so insider knowledge to follow shortly!

escape

I have been a bit silent for a while for some very good reasons:
The first being that the internet stopped working for a good 10 days. This is Maputo - it does that. Then you try to communicate with the internet provider man who speaks only Portuguese. Ho-humm. It all takes a while.
The second is that I escaped to South Africa to see my sister. (Yay!)
Together with my littlest, we travelled down to the Western Cape to spend a week in a small town called Prince Albert. (Yes, its named after Queen Vic's hubbie!)
George is an easy one and a half hour-ish flight from Johannesburg, and Prince Albert is a two hour drive from there.
At George airport, we were issued a Chevrolet Spark (very apt - since there really isn't enough car to cause a fire...) by the trusty car rental company, into which we squished my large bag, my sister's two medium bags, a booster seat (with child) and bags of provisions for our stay. Boot and all seats were very full. It is indeed a wee car, but there is some sort of small advantage in being able to lean over to open the back window on the opposite side of the vehicle (although one cannot easily reach into the boot from the front seat - you have to stretch.)
Aaah. The Western Cape. Up over the Outiniqua mountains, past the flurry of Oudsthoorn and into the remarkable Swartberg through Meiringspoort. I snapped picture after picture, but couldn't quite capture the sheer awesomeness of driving through those mountains, with the red folds of rock dwarfing the road like the battlements of some ancient castle. The road slips between the mountains and they rise up on all sides. closing ranks before and after you. Its a piece of magic.

The road crosses the river over and over, with every crossing place quaintly and aptly named:  Skelm's Drif (translates roughly as Yob's Drift) and Dubbel-draai Drif (Double-turn Drift) being just two. It is stunning and I was just as enchanted going back as I was on the trip through.

Prince Albert. Well, I wouldn't want everyone to flock there and spoil the quiet of it all...
A little town with lots of old karoo houses. The ones with the tin roofs, deep verandas and high ceilings. There's a dairy which makes excellent cheese and yoghurt and you can pick up fresh baked loaves from the hotel. They have a Saturday market and a vineyard just off the main street. You can walk everywhere and when you sit out at night, the milky way is in full display.

The self-catering cottage we were staying at had no telly - and my small child didn't notice. That really says it all. The drive through the Swartberg is like climbing into the wardrobe and emerging in Narnia; so separate does Prince Albert feel from the real world.
We spent much of our time drinking wine (there are several vineyards in the valley just outside town) , eating excellent olives (from the Karoo Virgin olive farm on the edge of the valley) and talking to the locals, many of whom have escaped the big cities to live in this little piece of serenity.
Yes, I wax lyrical.
And it had to end, as most things do.
Back out through the mountains to reality.
As we de-wedged our bags from the Chev Spark at George airport, a bunch of huge blokes in Sharks shirts strolled by - presumably the Sharks rugby team. A minor excitement in an otherwise nightmarish journey back through the looking glass.
Did you know that its okay in South Africa to get on an aeroplane with no shoes? Yup. I was somewhat gobsmacked (in my best colonial manner) to watch 2  boys gad about the airport with no shoes and then trip across the tarmac and into the plane. I didn't know you could do that....
A small cretin called Declan (by his endlessly whining mum) kicked my chair all the way back to Jo'burg, where the smog was waiting to greet us. Then it took the small child and I an hour to clear customs for our 45 minute flight back to Maputo, where the delightful representatives of belligerent officialdom stared us down for another hour (well, me - the small child got fed up with the situation and took herself off for a walk and then engaged in a fight with some child off the TAP flight. All very amusing at 10 at night.)
Yup, Toto, we aren't in Narnia any more. (Sigh...)

Hanging On

It doesn't seem too much to ask that an international supermarket would have both bread and dog food, does it?
Welcome to the frustrations of shopping in Maputo. My own little Pajero is literally rattling apart, so I'll only venture into town proper with DB. One morning on a weekend is designated grocery shopping. Requirements are carefully thought through before setting out so that we visit the shop where we are likely to get most of what we want. Which, in Maputo, is pot luck.
Needless to say: dog food and bread did not both feature on the shelves of our supermarket....(much use of expletives!!!)
And my frustration is only bolstered with a sense of guilt, because I know that this is the spoilt attitude of an expat.
Here in Africa, life is hanging on by its claws and teeth, and the inability to purchase dry dog food is the least of most people's worries.
Here, beyond the front of the comfortable, lurks a well of raw need.
Many Mozambicans are very poor and there's little room for niceties when you are poor. A lot of families eak out a living with whatever they can grow or sell.  Cages of chickens, ducks and guineafowl are a common sight along the roads, the birds shifting miserably in the heat of a tropical sun. In tourist season, you'll see puppies too - little bundles of fluff wilting at the entrances to supermarket car parks.
My Western sensibilities are appalled. But I am not living hand to mouth.
If you drive out of town, you will pass little roadside stalls where women sit next to small piles of tomatoes and cucumbers. Some days this is picturesque. On other days it is brutal. It seems impossible that they can make enough to survive on. Even further out, you might see little boys standing guard over bags of grass. It seems there is nothing else to sell.
Actually, emotionally, its been a rough couple of days.
On Thursday, I visited a small local school. It's within walking distance of our own international school and on the same road as a big private hospital and some new condominiums. The school consists of three classrooms, with a fourth being constructed.  Just beyond the classrooms is the `toilet block' - open pit latrines with a reed wall around them. The smell is appalling. The classrooms are not particularly big - maybe 3.5 metres by about 8 metres. Inside each classroom are 3 rows of desks. I didn't count, but probably 8 or 9 desks in a row. In the room with the smallest children, there were four to a desk. A rough calculation makes that approximately 100 little children in one room. There is no electricity. No fans.
Each little child is issued with a nub of a pencil and an exercise book, but the heat is unbearable and the sweat trickles down their little faces. Some were asleep when we visited at 11am.
On Friday, we drove out towards Goba, to visit a rural village.

I don't know the name. The village is very basic, with most people living in straw constructed houses. There is a brick school building, which proudly bears a plaque that it was opened in 1996. It is small and obviously outgrown, with the youngest children having class under a tree. (Much nicer than the classroom I saw on Thursday!) But it is relatively clean and the pupils seem happy. The school caters for children up to Grade 7. Thereafter, if they wish to continue their education, they must find a way of getting to the closest secondary school - 7km away.
The people are stomach-clenchingly poor. They live on what they can farm and this year the rains haven't been good.
They would like a better school. Yes, they would like a clinic (if someone gets ill, they have to be carried to the closest farm where a lift will be begged to the closest hospital, some 20 km away) But their biggest issue is , bizarrely, crime. They talk about children being kidnapped. It is hard to figure out how much of this is urban legend and how much is real. However, it would seem easy to snatch a child when so many have to walk long distances by themselves on lonely roads.
Its confusing. Constantly jangling your emotions, this Africa. The children we met were friendly and eager to show us around. They took us to the water pump and showed us their shop. In a way, their lives seem simplified and idyllic.
Old ladies with babies tied to their backs told us about their village in Shangaan, the children translating into Portuguese for us (translated into English for me!) They smiled and wished us well.
Then, as we were leaving, one of the wrinkly, shrunken women caught me by the hand and asked me for something. She was speaking in shangaan, but she was rubbing her stomach. I knew she was hungry and I had nothing to give.
Claws and teeth, this Africa. If it's not at your stomach, then its at your heart.
On the main drag into Maputo our bus passed a pig, tied and screaming on the edge of the road.
Living in Africa is complicated. Blue skies, open spaces, smiling faces, brutality. Quite probably I am over-thinking it all.
Sometimes I just want to go home.

Swaziland

We headed across the border this weekend - into Swaziland; a neighbouring little kingdom used by many Mozambiquan based expats as a through-route to South Africa. Not us. Our second daughter is currently based in Swaziland, and so we went to see her. She is now 17 and actually didn't want to see that much of her parents, so we decided to make a weekend of it.
Firstly, it must be mentioned that the border posts between Mozambique and Swaziland are about a bizillion times more pleasant that going through Komatiepoort into South Africa. On the way out, we went through Goba. Once you get beyond the outskirts of Matola, Mozambique becomes a different country: rural with rolling vistas; lush in places;empty. And clean, except for the bustle that is Boane. The journey out is filled with uniquely Mozambiquan images: women in headscarves standing on the backs of trucks, little children (we're talking tots aged four, five or six) manfully walking long distances behind their adults, little plastic bags of cashews tied to trees at junctions, piles of wood and bags of charcoal for sale at the edge of the road.
The Goba border post, apparantly bustling until a few years ago, was quiet even on a Friday afternoon and the Swazi side had clean toilets. (not to be scoffed at in this part of the world). The border post as a whole is clean and, other than the odd boredly belligerent soldier, fairly friendly.
We were headed to the Foresters Arms,outside the Swazi capital of Mbabane. The directions said to take Junction 13 and follow the road a `short distance.'
What I hadn't reckoned on was the suddeness of night. If you've not heard it before, this is a fact of African sunsets: once it is set, that's it. It is pitch dark. Not many streetlamps happening outside the cities in Swaziland. 
We drove through Manzini, got to Mbabane, took Junction 13, turned the wrong way, came to a dead end, turned back - all in the dark, with fewer and fewer vehicles around us.
To cut a long story short, DB was not impressed. He kept asking where the place was and I kept on saying it was off Junction 13 and so we drove and drove into the night, headed into the mountains. Eventually, just as we had resolved to turn back to Mbabane, a sign board appeared and after another 7kms, the Foresters Arms was reached. (Phew! DB was at the point of implosion and our littlest had been asking to go home for a fairly long while...)
But what a lovely place. Surrounded by pine forests (very environmentally unfriendly - but that's another story), the Forester's Arms is preserved in a genteel 1950's aspect, with lovely Swazi staff speaking English with English accents. DB was supplied with a chain of Castle lagers and he did chill slightly until they closed the bar at 10pm. Which, while a very 50's thing to do, didn't do much for the man who had just been on the road in the pitch dark...
Any-way, he did warm to the place before we left - nothing like watching the mist roll down the mountain, while sipping  a glass of red, to warm even the heart of the most weary traveller. And the staff were so lovely. Our beautiful waitress, Bongile, was the very essence of graciousness, sweetly putting up with our littlest as THE ONLY child in the establishment. (Not so well received by the dour busload of German tourists who pitched up on Saturday evening and concentrated hard on eating lots of dinner....followed by an equal frowning concentration on the serious matter of breakfast the next morning. They all observed our little child with great suspicion, as though she might be carrying some sort of rare mountain affliction. Of course, the fact that she mostly glared at, and sometimes growled at them, might have contributed...)

I love Swaziland.And while I know it may be a generalisation, the people we encountered were friendly and articulate. Lots of smiles. And English is everywhere! Which is like being able to drink when you've had to filter everything through the murk of a foreign language you can just barely understand. Yes, I'm boring. Yes, I am the essence of the colonist in Africa. I cannot help it - I like to communicate in my own language and it is so wonderful when everyone else seems to speak it.
Aside from that, Swaziland is clean and seems to work.
We decided to use the Namaacha border post to come back - less turns and traffic and you can cut out Siteki, which is a little town full of taxis and people who walk in the road.
On this route you pass through the Lebombo conservancy which, in part, is game reserve. You cross a little cattle grid, at which point a small sign cheerfully announces that pedestrians and cyclists should be aware that this is an unfenced game park and they should be aware of lions and elephants. And yes, we saw a pedestrian...
No lions and elephants, but a couple of impala grazing at the side of the road, completely unperturbed by the passing traffic. Also a vulture restuarant with vultures circling overhead.
The road snakes up into the mountains, with beautiful views out over the valley. An inordinate amount of people seemed to be slogging up those gradients, along with the odd cow and a delightful group of donkeys, including two fuzzy babies.
The border post was silent except for us. Small downer in that the toilet control guy on the Swazi side was seriously miserable, but hey-ho.
Namaacha is lovely. Cool, leafy, filled with crumbling houses, its like a film set. I'm sure not much goes on in Namaacha - but I do like it.
Then down the other side of the mountains, back into Mozambique. There's a portion of road which has been planted as an avenue with huge trees - a strange European bubble between the grassland and scrubby bushes. 
But we really knew we were back in Mozambique when a car with no windows (none: no windscreen, no rear windscreen, no side windows)  and a missing side panel, packed with grinning young men holding the doors closed, turned in front of us just outside Matola.
And if we weren't convinced, there was a wedding video in the making down the Marginal. The camera man was hanging out of the window of his vehicle, filming the happy couple, who, in turn, were hanging out of opposite windows of their wedding vehicle...
Some things only happen in Mozambique.

Maputo weekend

The Marginal is what it says on the label: the last margin between city and sea. And it pulses like an artery.
Turning out of our complex gate into the fast flow of the Marginal is a mission. Mozambiquan drivers are driven by the urge to get somewhere NOW and not by chivalry. Drivers will actually speed up if they think you might creep into a gap. Most exits out of our complex to the right on a weekend are accomplished by DB. I would rather turn left with the flow of traffic and brave the dirt road (which is currently something of a shifting desert with piles of loose sand) before I cross the manic stream of weekend drivers.
But DB is made of sterner stuff and works on the principle that the average Maputo driver doesn't really want to drive into you, even if his aggression would suggest otherwise. So off we go, down the Marginal on a weekend. As I said: it pulses. To the left are the clothing traders. Bright capulanas, improbable trousers, ruched sundresses blow from lines strung between two poles. Maid's uniforms, complete with frilly aprons hang from trees on home made hangers (a stick on a string). Fishermen, silver and red fish bunched on a line, scan the cars, looking for tourists who will buy at better prices than the market.
And the micro-shebeens (women with cooler boxes full of beer) line both sides of the street. On a Friday and Saturday night, the cars pull up on the pavement at the beach edge and a full-on street party ensues. Patrons of the local nightclub, Coconuts are often seen wandering down the Marginal in search of a road-side beer at 9 on a Sunday morning.
Oh yes, in Maputo, the people love to party!
Which is why going out on a weekend can be a rowdy affair. Yesterday we had a late lunch at Mira Mar, an establishment right on the beach. To say that it was heaving is a bit of an understatement, but we found ourselves a table on the sand. Only to discover that we were flanked by two birthday parties, each louder than the other. Singing `happy birthday' in Mozambique is a joyous and extended affair, followed by lots of whooping, clapping, drinking and laughter. It is loud.
Which is fine. Unless, of course you wish to have some sort of conversation. But all very atmospheric.
Not so atmospheric was the large-ish young man sitting dead centre of my line of vision. He had made every effort to dress the part: stylish rolled up jeans, vest top, shades. He launched into the `happy birthdays' (parabens!) with much gusto and much gesticulating and much jumping up and down and kissing of the birthday girl. Trouble was, his pants sank lower and lower and with each new outburst of joy, more butt-crack was revealed.
Gives a whole new meaning to `marginal'.

Eeesh!

`Eeesh!' is an expression of astonishment particular to South Africa, but widely understood in Mozambique.
This last week, I participated in a beach clean-up of the section of the beach closest to our house. Twenty of us, armed with gloves and rolls and rolls of black bins bags descended on the beach and began to clean. I expected muck, but the sheer scale of the job was gob-smacking. In one section of around 2 x 5 metres, almost 100 plastic bottles were collected! Many of those were water bottles, but many, many little plastic gin bottles too. Eeesh!
Don't get me wrong - leave the cities and Mozambiquan beaches are gorgeous, BUT the range of rubbish on a Maputo beach is just phenomenal. Lots of the above-mentioned plastic bottles, lots of the little black plastic bags that the little plastic bottles of gin come in, lots of styrofoam bits that apparantly come off the fishing boats (I believe that syrofoam is used to aid bouyancy) and then lots of the eeugh! items too. Into this last category fall nappies, sanitary products and condom wrappers. Yuck - eesh!
But we also picked up an astonishing range of clothes. The local beaches are used for Zionist gatherings, and people quite often strip off before a baptism or a cleansing. There is also a lot of recreational swimming that goes on - and it would seem that some people simply forget where they put their clothes. We found skirts, belts, underwear, a pair of jeans and numerous half-pairs of shoes. And no, they weren't left by people swimming at the time - all items were covered in sand and had to be partly excavated. Eeesh!
We did two hours of beach clean-up, which doesn't sound like much, but is intermindable in 37 degree heat. We swept approximately 177 metres of beach and collected 39 bags of waste.
We felt quite proud. Eeesh!
In leaving the beach, we had to cross the Marginal. We'd barely got to the other side when there was much hooting and a silver people carrier pulled up. We thought we'd attracted the attention of the local press and there was much excitement. Bizarrely, however, a bunch of people wearing Nivea T-shirts leapt out and began scrambling around in boxes. We were all presented with a free sample of Nivea Man deodorant - and then they went away. It was ever-so-slightly surreal.
Only in Mozambique.
Eeesh!

Hot, hot, hot

Heat is over-rated.
Really.
I know that the UK seems to be enduring an intermindable winter, but the summers here in Mozambique are truly awful. Hot, sweaty, cloying. And seemingly endless.
Its not the burning heat of the Middle East, which dries you to a husk the minute you step out, but a heavy, humid, suffocating heat. The air hangs close to you and breathing in is like sucking in steam. In short - horrid.
No clothes are cool enough and my sample of UK workwear has fared rather miserably. Nothing like 100% polyester to send rivers of sweat streaming from every frantic pore. Oh yes, nothing like Eu de Sweat on a hot day...(now, just for fun, add that image to any given amount of bodies in the room. Hmmm)
Of course we have aircon. And what a blessing it is! Especially when it works. The problem is this: Maputo and power-outages are rather good friends. Not quite as good friends as my sister tells me Johannesburg is, but fairly well aquainted. No power, no aircon.
In our lovely company owned complex, we have a very loud generator which has rescued us a multitude of times. However, it seems that a rather important transformer blew up some time late last week, plunging Maputo into a total power-free zone. Our poor old genny has been running 24 hours a day and has, I think literally, blown a gasket. We now sit on a knife's edge, hoping state power remains restored until our faithful back-up is fixed. So far, so good.
Think I'll go to bed while there is still some hope of staying cool....

Foreigner Frustrations

There are certain frustrations to living in Mozambique which go beyond the lack of icing sugar on the shelves. Small things that might seem very small to the outside eye, but which cause tremendous frustration. Take internet applications and purchases. VERY frustrating. And not just because absolutely no one delivers here. (Amazon is, literally, an exotic dream from where I am....sigh.)
There are small oddities in the Mozambiquan set-up which are, in the true sense of the phrase, at odds with many other places. Try purchasing tickets online. Airline websites require telephone numbers with country codes and area codes. We just have a code. Followed by a number. Try entering that in the little electronic boxes!
 Error: Please enter your area code.
`I don't have a blinkin' area code!' (bash, bash. Much use of expletives)
Computer remains unmoved: Error: Please enter your area code.
So I have played fast and loose with my contact details, shifting numbers around to provide the desired area code. I have to assume no one will try to contact me from inside the country....
Tonight, I have tried to join an airline loyalty programme (hey, if you're going to spend all that money on travelling anywhere -ANYWHERE. Mozambique seems to be on the super expensive scale of travel- you may as well try to score some air miles).
The registration site not only requires telephone codes (got that one sorted: check), but also postal codes. Ho humm. Need I say it?
Yup. I can provide an area, but Mozambique seems to be bereft of postal codes.
Not only that, but the site wants a home address.
Well, I can give a home address, but there really wouldn't be any point. Nothing gets delivered to a street address. Come to think of it, nothing much gets delivered. And I don't have a post code.
I can give you a company address. Something might be delivered there in a month or two. (Again, I am not kidding).
Come to think of it, this may well be some sort of cyber snobbery. The little boxes are designed to fit in with the Western World. If you don't have an area code, post code or erm, postal delivery, you cannot join.
Does seem just a tad ridiculous when I could send an e-mail from the middle of some desert. (I could do that, couldn't I?)
Uggh!
And talking of ridiculous: there was a crab walking up the walk-way at work today. To my credit, I didn't skip a beat. Although I did say something loud to the tune of `yikes!'

Trashed

Yesterday was Heroes Day here in Mozambique. A reminder that in the not too distant past, this land was torn by conflict. Having been reborn as an essentially Marxist country after independence in 1975, religious holidays here don't bear the same weight as in the UK (the only sign that Easter happens is the appearance of some token melting eggs in the supermarkets.) National holidays do - and Heroes Day is a biggie! The partying along the road between the city and the sea, the Marginal (emphasis on the `al' as in the Portuguese pronunciation) was intense, with very loud fireworks at around 10. Shortly followed by amazing lightning and an intense thunderstorm. During which, I should imagine, most of the partygoers headed for shelter. I was at the time, tucked up and trying to sleep after the dog's panic attack at the first firework boom.Must have been a good party 'though - because the Marginal is well and truly trashed.
I kid you not.
Beer bottles, plastic bottles, plastic bags and all sort of other debris are literally lining the street. The beach is covered in rubbish (and no small number of condoms, if DB's report from his dog-walking effort are to be believed!)
It's a curious thing, this endless stream of litter. There are a couple of token dustbins about, but they don't appear to be full. My conclusion is that this is an emerging country, caught between having very little and the grip of rapidly expanding consumerism. Suddenly a lot of stuff is disposable - so it is disposed of - wherever. There seems no awareness that it might affect the people or their country. To be fair to the average man in the street, the infrastructure that should provide clean-ups (and clean-up education) isn't solid either.

And there is such irony in it. Maputo is beautiful. But it is so often so covered in trash that it is hard to see the essence of the place. The sandy beaches, the beautiful old buildings, the colourful can-do of the Mozambiquans - all these things should be pulling tourists into Maputo. But nobody wants to holiday with piles of litter. (This picture was taken some weeks ago. The edges of the Marginal were quite clean at the time :))
Am I being a whingey expat? Probably.
....but I do think I have a point...

Images

While rain continues to bash other parts of the globe, Mozambique appears to be out of it for now. There has been a fair share of destruction, most of which passes us expats by, since the news is largely relayed in Portuguese. I have heard (via Al Jazeera) that 40 people died in these last rains and that hundreds have been displaced. My empregada has asked that I give her any old clothes and shoes as her church is collecting for those who have lost everything. Of course, the irony is that, for the majority of Mozambiquans who have `lost everything', their `everything' is far less that the `everything' that is lost to a family in the UK or Australia. Equal in devastation, but not equal in material possessions. There's a strange sort of equalising morality in it all.
Meantime, a neighbour has nasty food poisoning after eating prawns (shellfish not recommended after a flood) and road repairs are in full swing in Maputo. Graders have just about ironed out the bumps on the dirt road and cement has been chucked in the larger holes of the erm, `tarred' roads.
And the local population of colourful street people are out and about.
Any large city has its share of tramps and the dispossessed. I have no real idea how much social security exists for the Mozambiquan people. An extended civil war displaced people and resulted in a large number of amputees. There seems to be very little support for the physically handicapped and most street corners have their share of beggars, often children guiding a blind elder or pushing an amputee in a wheel chair. Begging is ostensibly illegal, but I cannot imagine how else many of these people would survive.
And then there are the out and out nutters: the results of too much cheap alcohol, mental disorders and blatant catastrophe. Every city has them. While there is a human tragedy in every one, they do add to the colour of this hot and raw land.
There is a man who walks down the main tourist street in an open shirt and the remnants of a capulana, , his willie blowing in the breeze. I have to assume he is an institution, since the locals don't seem to bat an eyelid.
There are other colourful characters who pop up in town, usually on the Sunday of a pay-day weekend. They have usually been drinking A LOT. A couple of weeks ago, as we drove back from Matola, a man strode into the middle of the four-lane traffic and proceeded to direct it with a swagger and dancing arms. When the traffic lights changed, he would tuck himself onto a corner and then saunter out again when the traffic began to flow. He carried with him a strange air of misguided authority.
But he had nothing on the two old men who strutted their stuff on the main drag into town on Sunday. We were driving back from South Africa and were stopped at the corner of Rua da Angola when a man of extraordinarily odd proportions leapt out amongst the cars. He was throroughly padded with plastic bags - even to the point of a cloth stuffed with plastic bags tied about his head. Combined with his dreadlocks, and a number of plastic bottles tied to his waist, he initially appeared to be some sort of strange tropical yeti, decked out for a private celebration. He marched through the cars, cut-off water bottle in hand, loudly demanding a re-fill. (I don't think it was water he had in mind...) while his equally inebriated side-kick danced with a large umbrella pole and harrassed young women in their cars.
As is often the way in Maputo, we and the other drivers watched the antics of the two, watched the pedestrians walk past them like any other obscure roadwork - and drove on.

and after...

The week after the flood has mainly been spent speculating on the weather - and to be fair, it has rained a fair amount. It is, after all, the rainy season. Because of the complex way weather works, with warm sea currents and all, Mozambique is quite liable to tropical storms. Mostly we are protected from the really vicious stuff by the land mass that is Madagascar. Last year, tropical cyclone Dando narrowly missed us, dumping huge quantities of water over the border in South Africa.
One would think that Maputo, as the capital, would have learned a lesson or two by now.
Not.
As the waters receded, it became clear how inadequate most of the drainage systems are. The large stormwater channel which runs beside the dirt road to school was completely clogged with rubbish and silt, which is why it overflowed with such spectacular success. Other run-off drains simply erm, ran off when the flow of water became too heavy.
Our company complex was spared any real flooding by a fairly effective drainage system. (Although the pool remains a swamp one week on.) As I said - one would think someone would be paying attention...
Our own small intrepid expat community has already made plans of how to drain water from the complex should it flood. Unfortunately for the street behind, part of the plan is to pump the water that way...But at least there's a plan!
As for the roads:
The tarred road past the fishmarket is now a dirt roadwith a fairly interesting collection of large holes, and the dirt road is now a collection of ruts. The immediate repair operation seems to consist of dumping large loads of building rubble into the larger holes. All very well if you are good at avoiding the large concrete blocks and pipes (run-off?) sticking up. Most people drive around the builder's rubble and so we now have a narrowed, very bumpy track which is sheer torture in a small car with no shocks. I have found that the best approach is to engage low gear and whizz (whump?) through as fast as the gear allows (a little bit of a screaming gear box is drowned out by the thud of the car as it contacts with the waves of the road). Unfortunately, the gung-ho save-the-kidneys approach can only be used when the road is quite empty. For some unfathomable reason, most of the traffic drives really slowly on that particular stretch.
As for my close encounter with the manhole: turns out I was really lucky. As the water receded, a large sheet of loose corrugated iron appeared at one end of the manhole. I might very easily have shredded myself. Wet and muddy seems a lucky escape.

Flood

You've heard the old saying `be careful what you wish for'? Well, in Mozambique, be REALLY careful what you wish for. Its been so hot that we have been collectively wishing for rain - and lots of it. Mother Nature clearly has an excellent sense of humour, because it rained on the weekend and today it rained some more. And rained. And rained. Over the course of an hour or two, rain crept up to the edge of the walkway and then the lawn outside became a pond. The rain leaked into the server room and the computers completed a collective suicide. And it rained.
DB, driving back from Swaziland , let me know briefly that Maputo was `under water', but (being DB and full of fortitude) he not only took the maid home, but was able to get to school (about an hour late) to collect our littlest and somehow managed to buy cheese on the way. He asked me if I was going home too, otherwise, he warned `you won't make it'.
But I'm quite used to ignoring DB.
So I stayed late to help with logistics and then considered my options. According to DB, the dirt road was out of the question for my little Pajero (bonnet-high water in his Toyota Surf means roof-high for my car) and later reports said the small bridge had washed away. I was told the alternate, past the fishmarket, was blocked. So I locked up the Pajero and walked. Very pragmatic and just a bit stupid. (I should mention at this juncture that strappy little sandals are not the best footwear should you feel the need to conquer a flood). Not wanting to swim the dirt road, I decided to try the fishmarket route.
What a thing! The road past the fishmarket was actually flowing with water. Power lines have keeled over and the cables were (maybe still are) dangling down into the flood. All my Western sensibilities were screaming `get back!' but the locals seemed unperturbed and there wasn't really an option.
The real problem with a Mozambiquan road in a flood is the same problem as a Mozambiquan road without a flood - holes. And in a flood you can't see them coming. I started by wading ankle deep, but before long I was in a rut thigh deep and then a bit of ankle deep again. The locals chatted to me in Portuguese as they waded beside me, the women with their capulanas bunched up high and buckets on their heads. Most tried to point me in the direction of what they thought was slightly higher ground. I made sympathetic responses in English and we actually all had a bit of a giggle as we staggered through the brown road-river (the contents of which don't bear thinking on...). There were several vehicles abandoned in the middle of the road and one brave (stupid?) band of men trying to push their truck out. One or two idiots in large vehicles drove down the road at high speed, churning up the water and then tried to reverse. Local residents stood on the side of the road and commented.
At the final corner before the fishmarket, I began to think of all the disgusting stuff that gets dumped outside the market and decided to take the back route. Not a good idea.
Initially I was getting along quite well, (even a bit impressed with my adventurous attitude - all a bit Lara Croft), but then I fell down a man hole.
Oh the humiliation! Two cars stopped, their drivers leaning out to check I was ok. (I had by then dragged my sodden self back into the thigh high water) and some man on the corner was gesticulating wildly.
Nothing for it. Liberally covered in orange mud, I waded home.
The gate guards were amused. DB was amused. A neighbour asked if I was going to go round and help with the plumbing.
I believe we can expect more rain tomorrow.

Potholes and pink vehicles

My Australian friend in the Middle East used to refer to the Omani drivers as `approximate drivers', as in driving approximately at the speed limit and sticking approximately to the rules of the road. Mozambiquan drivers are a sort of extreme approximate version. Which is to be expected since many of the cars on the road out here appear to be approximate cars, with lights missing, smashed windscreens and no mirrors of any sort. What is not rivetted on (I kid you not - even those itty-bitty side indicator lights are rivetted on with a strip of metal holding them down) is stolen on a regular basis, to be sold back to unsuspecting motorists at the next street corner.
The MEAD (Mozambiquan Extreme Approximate Drivers) drive on whatever side of the road has less potholes, completely disregard oncoming traffic and take any sign of weakness (known as courtesy in other parts of the world) as a chance to squeeze their car in front of yours - along with the five other cars squeezing into the same space, usually at the same time. Hooting is allowed, but it is considered rude to get annoyed.
Any-way, last night the family took a quick run into Maputo for pizza and gin and tonic at the bustling hub that is Mundo's. After being served by a surly waiter who slammed down the drinks and referred to our smallest offspring as `the kid', we made our way through some of the more picturesque streets, back towards home.
Driving in approximately the same direction was a metallic pink micra type bug vehicle, steered by a large Mozambiquan lady. The car must be a recent acquisition, because the driver was steering it most carefully to avoid the major potholes (that's another story). Her attention was so focussed on avoiding the potholes, that she steered carefully at an angle across the road and towards the side of our car. DB, being a sort of extreme driver himself, nipped out of the way, skillfully avoiding the approximate pedestrians who were sauntering across the road. The metallic pink bug then carefully zig-zagged the other way. The large lady driver didn't once look in our direction. All her attention was focussed on the holes in the road. We watched her progress in the rear view mirror as she zig-zagged slowly down the road, seemingly unaware of the traffic around her. (To be fair, there was a certain degree of zig-zagging going on there too). There were a couple of police officers on the corner ahead. They glanced down the road, obviously concluded that nothing unusual was happening, and went back to their discussion.
The MEAD rules! And, after a year in the country, I remain too chicken to drive into town.

starting point

Let's get this straight: I like living in England. I love my little semi-detached, I love the changing seasons, I love that I can walk a lot of places. I love that I can do online shopping and that I don't need to necessarily fly to go somewhere different. I love that I can take my dog on holiday. I love the personal freedom of living in the UK - a personal freedom not appreciated until you live somewhere else.
The problem is that I love a man with permanently itchy feet. And, like a bad case of athlete's foot, it cross-contaminates us all.
After a two year stint in the Middle East, I swore I wasn't ever leaving home again. In fact, I packed off Dearly Beloved (DB) to Mozambique all by himself with one towel (not the good ones!) and something vague in the form of `see you in 6 months-ish!' But the reality of living as a single parent took its toll and I decided to bite the bullet and join DB a year ago.
I left one daughter behind at university and took along a teenager and a toddler.
Now I live in a sub-tropical country, in a large company provided house, with a maid and a gardener and great schools for my children.
I buy mosquito repellent by the bucket-load, get excited if I find risotto rice in the supermarket and fail to make my employees listen to me (more about that some other time).
I am the reluctant expat.