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.
Monday 28 January 2013
Thursday 24 January 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday 15 January 2013
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.
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.
Saturday 12 January 2013
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.
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.
Friday 11 January 2013
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.
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.
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