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...)