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'.