Mozambique Reflections

 Bouldering the old Portuguese lighthouse, Goa Island, Mozambique

 Burundian Barber

 Sitting in the dust on the side of the road

June 22, 2011: Leaving Mozambique....plane reflections.....

As the LAM flight parts through the low-lying clouds blanketing the east coast of Africa, I am given a quick period for reflections on the last 2.5 weeks of life here in Mozambique, a destination that has been intended for awhile, and finally encountered...the passport stamp said June 4^th, which would make this departure exactly 18 days after arriving, sleep deprived and weary at the great lines of the South Africa-Mozambique border, at 6am with the rest of the overnight bus passengers. What an 18 days is has been; travel, education, research, relaxation, photography, writing, reflection; Maputo, the vibrant capital city that quickly won my affections with its warmth, smiles, and general, flavorful ease; Nampula, the dump of the central, the one night at the pensao expensivo, the $30 hotel room, cheapest in town, with a bathroom that I could not enter for fear of biological contamination and a bed that, even lying on top of my old sleep sheet, still made my skin crawl with imagined bedbugs; Ihla de Mozambique, one of the finest places I have laid my head in my years of travel, a true wonderland; hard chapa travel, hitchhiking from the side of the dusty road junction of Namialo, breaking down after 4 hours of roadside dust and heat imbibing, and finally, Pemba, the provincial capital, the sleepy backwater that brought to mind many reflections of the Pacific, of the sleepy backwater capital cities of my island home.

Only 2 hours ago I was running around with Mr. Nando, my guardian, evangelical spiritual savior, host at INAS, and money changing fixer; frantically going from one bank to another (which are luckily located 5 minutes from each other as the town center is about that large in diameter), getting rejected in pleas to exchange the soon-to-be-worthless Mozambiquan Mecticals for US dollars or Tanzanian Shillings, anything that would be worth something after leaving this place; the amount, about $30 USD worth; the result; a shady drive-by fixer arranging the transaction with the Somali Lady in the market, the only place for such an exchange in this city; and $30 crisp US dollars in my pocket, enough local change to buy a fruit drink in the airport shop and a chocolate Bon Bon to spare, and a smile on my face after being driven to the airport by Nando's secretary at INAS, at 5mph, the trunk swinging open, no door handles on the inside or out of the beat up old sedan...TIA....

Research-wise, a bit of frustration, mainly stemming from the strong language barriers and the lack of anything resembling help from some of the “great NGO's of the area” such as the one that passed me in the dust yesterday while walking in a desert wasteland, emblazoned with the logo that made me laugh, “Helping Africa to Help Itself.” A bit pandering. I did get to spend some time with a local Peace Corps couple doing teacher training work, which was great to hear some stories and struggles, both for my research and for my own experiences, painting them against my own service, sharing the ups and downs, wishing them the best of luck as they wrap up a long, hard, and wonderful period in their lives here in Northern Mozambique. Hanging out at Russel's Place, a refuge for them, an interesting spot for me, the local expat hangout, the South African drinking hole of choice, happy to spend a few hours on their free wireless, but happy also to leave that place....and back to INAS....ah, INAS...where to begin...

Ill never quite figure out what the acronym actually stood for, the first time I heard it muttered from the mouth of Christina, a new friend who took me exploring the night markets in Ihla told me I had to at least try to get in there, gave me the number of Mr. Nando, and told me to make a good story and drop her name....and there I was, standing in the doorway, explaining myself to some FRELIMO (the powerful national political party of Moz) bigwig that I did, indeed, belong staying at their government guesthouse, complete with aircon, stately beds, mini-fridges, huge leather arms chairs, and random FRELIMO party officials staying the night after official jaunts from Maputo....certainly an interesting place to crash, and it made the whole Pemba scene much more bearable, especially when confronted with the other guesthouses in town, either comparable in quality to the digs in Nampula, or of slightly higher quality for $100/night....and sweet Mr. Nando, sending me biblical text messages, constantly trying to get me to come to meet his Brazilian pastor (I was VERY busy), and arranging my Somali black market money deals, in addition to fetching buckets of water, as even though this place had ice cold ac and mini fridges, the water had broken at some point, and being Mozambique, it was just a symptom of the terminal decline of things, and would not be fixed in the forseeable future...water came from a bucket and a well in the courtyard, a nice contrast to the high-life being lived inside...My last evening, sipping a nice, cold 2M local beer in my shorts, reclining on the plush leather chair in the living room, watching a badly pirated copy of The A Team on the national television channel (one of 3 available in the country)....ah, Mozambique....incredibly terrible local travel, expensive and shit hotels, wonderfully friendly locals, and a beautiful 18 days.....onto Tanzania and beyond!!

Mozambique Diary. Ihla to Pemba

 (Im the guy on the left)

Pemba, Mozambiaque...19.June.2011

“Its because this is Africa. We are poor.”

The government telecom manager's explanation for the fact that his office could not give me .60$ change for a dollar (on a .40$ transaction), despite the fact that we were sitting in an air conditioned computer lab inside of a million-dollar building. I was absolutely stunned by this lame-ass rationale employed to excuse bad business practices and a simple laziness (he had change in his pocket the entire time) and was very vocal in my response.

“Life has been very hard here.”

Burundian refugee who cut my hair in Ihla de Mozambique, explaining his plight over the last 14 years, which has led him from Burundi>Rwanda>Congo>Tanzania>Malawi>Mozambique, symbolic of the plight of the victims of Central Africa's multitudes of conflicts and governmental manipulations of refugees for financial and political gain.

The day begins with a restless sleep, usually the case when I am taxed with an early-morning wakeup; and today's, at 4:03am, certainly fit the bill. For some reason here in Mozambique, the public transportation options (chapas, already explained), tend to pick an ungodly hour to depart in the morning for their daily transit runs; usually done so they can get to the destination, shop, relax, and then turn around and come back for the late afternoon run....Accidentally slamming the door to Ruby's behind me, sealing the last 9 days in a cloak of positive memory, setting out, once again, for the utter unknown of Northern Mozambique travel. The dark early hours passed in a sleepy blur; sliding in the mud, covering one knee with muck, cursing the timing, why could this not have happened in the last 9 days instead of on a day where a shower was many many hours distant?? Walking the length of the island, streetlights illuminating the way, the early morning muzzein's call to prayer, witnessing the faithful stepping out for their early-morning ritual. The first attempted extortion, 4:30am, a new personal record: the driver of the truck over the causeway, seizing his monopoly on the route at the hour and the fact that my disheveled, bag loaded self obviously had no other choice other than to walk the 1.5 mile causeway, trying to charge me at the very least 3x the going rate (I settled at 2x and some harsh words); arriving at the ramshackle coastal village, back on the African continent, a renewed taste of the roughness from which Ihla was such a refuge. Children waking up behind a tattered white tarp, on the ground, crowded on the bare concrete slab, in the early morning chill, as I stand, always trying appear non-chalant, obviously a stranger in a strange land, a role played all too often in this life. Yet another attempted extortion, by the same driver, who almost drives off with me half hanging out of the back of the truck after some shady dealing and a wrong destination to which I would have backtracked considerably and paid considerably more; jumping off the back, in the still dark morning, somehow getting my bags to follow along with some choice words for this lovely early morning compadre, and into the passenger seat of another waiting chapa, estatic at my timing, not yet knowing that I would be sitting in this lucky position for 2 hours before finally departing for a 40 minute ride, to be dumped into a pickup for another 45 minute ride, to be left on the side of the road in Nimiala, the stereotypically terrible armpit of African travel, a filthy, dusty, hot road-junction-cum-town. Heat, dust, dirt, frantic coke and banana sellers chasing down trucks and anything else that moved, the vehicles passing all outrageously overpacked with bodies, in this I stood, trying to keep composure, trying not to lose heart and car and truck passed by, not one for hours heading even in the direction that I needed to go, after being promised busses and cars would be coming in “10, maybe 15 minutes, of course!” Trying to hitch, trying to score a badly needed ride, which simply did not happen as the hours rolled past, my legs grew numb, my mind weary from being gang-laughed-at (as one writer said, every country has its assholes). Finally succumbing, sitting down on my dusty pack in the dirt, defeated, deflated, and then the smiles of some strangers, empathy for the plight of a fellow traveler, those who would only know this place, a perspective wedged into my weary mind. A young boy, quite ragged, sat down on the dirt a few feet away just to look at me; at first I looked away, but then over to him, and he gave a simple smile, which opened my heart, made me forget for a minute the hours of hard travel yet to come, the lack of coffee that was making my mind hurt, the dust that had coated every crevice of my being. And finally, right then, an absolute strike of brilliance: not an overloaded, death-trap flatbed; not a packed, cracked-windshield, stereo blaring chapa; but a Mercedes Benz mini bus, 4 passengers total in a 15 seat van, Pemba Dive Lodge logo emblazoned on the side, a vehicle that would not be stopping ever 15 ft to Pemba to drop off and pick up, a complete floating oasis...What luck...4 brilliant, fast, music-filled hours later, and im back in the dust, on the side of the road once again, in the end-of-the-road town of Pemba, Northern Mozambique's answer to Hong Kong, a city in name only, a provincial backwater of the first degree. Trying to smooth-talk my way into the government guesthouse, the governor's friend's pad, reserved for the Frelimo (the ruling party) hotshots who fly in from Maputo for the night. And here I am, ensconced in the finest 4^th rate craftsmanship possible; air-con but no working water; leather armchairs and gaudy headboards but windows that dont shut; a bucket bath and a bathroom door that won't close; a manager trying to convert me to his Evangelical church, and a locked door, a bed, a book, and my pen....another day in Africa....

20.June.2011 Pemba, Mozambique's

A soft breeze breaks through the already searing, sweat inducing breeze; it is 730am, but the sun already feels like mid-day here in Northern Mozambique's provincial capital city, the sleepy backwater of Pemba, town on the sea. It took an hour to find a coffee this morning; walking the broken sidewalks, “Buen Dia” as frequently encountered as the holes in the pavement, the smiling, laid back locals exuding a great warmth, unexpected, but much welcomed. A benefit of being in such a backwater town where only one real intersection exists is that everything of note lies within a 50ft radius; the airline office (check), the pharmacy (next), the internet cafe (still closed), the Frelimo office for some free political posters (ditto, come on), and the Pao Shop (bread in Portuguese), where I just scored my first coffee in 2 days, a taste of heaven. Yesterday I was forced to resort to the only source of caffeine available universally in the world, Coke, for my caffeine kick, a barely suitable substitute that left me cranky until bedtime. The little thing, the details...like the guy who installed the window bar right in front of the window hinge, so the window will have no chance of ever closing, despite that tropical heat and the air conditioner. Two days, and then my time here in Mozambique will be up, onto Dar....

Mozambique Diaries

Nampula Chapa Stand, Nampula, Northern Mozambique...June 9^th, 2011

(Editors note: a “Chapa” is a minivan; more specifically, an old Chinese white minivan, usually filled with about 34 people and an equal number of children in 14 seats, produce of all makes which is continually purchased and piled upon during very frequent stops, perhaps live animals, a broken windshield, suicidal driver, bald tires, and blaringly loud stereo system...an amazing microcosm of African life on wheels).

How far away this place is from anything in my recent recollection, from home, from the “ordinary”that has, over these years, become quite extraordinary in a strange turning of the tides of life.

The sun slowly rising over the chapa stand, from the east, come come market women,

brightly clad in blazing sarongs, oranges, yellows, reds, the sun projecting its warmth onto the

dirt tracks through delicate footfalls;

plastic green tubs overfilled with bread, produce, water, balanced gracefully on cloth-covered heads;

the lone policeman, an old AK-47 strapped to his young back as he meanders like a lion, a predator in this place looking for vulnerable pray; his predatory eyes lock onto me, asking me after a quick hello to buy him a cold drink, a soda, some breakfast; I hide my eyes and look away, mutter something incomprehensible in response; barefoot children, white eyes, no shoes, roaming around, looking lost, amused at the passing show as myself; what they are doing here I could not guess; the dusty brown soil underfoot, the only solidity in this sea of movement, this show of humanity;

smiles and the faint approaches of strangers; always men, of course, who run this island of mobility, this small dusty chapa stand, in a sea of stagnation; my own cloudy head, screaming for food, for coffee, knowing that neither will come soon....

Ihla de Mocambique, 11 de Junio, 2011

“Wisdom is the clear seeing of the impermanent, conditioned nature of all phenomena, knowing that whatever arises has the nature to cease. When we see this impermanence deeply, we no longer cling; when we no longer cling, we come to the end of suffering. “

-Joseph Goldstein

The rain clouds, the first i've seen since leaving the distant confines of Cape Town, which seems like a lifetime ago, yet only a matter of a week, fill the horizon, the background steel to the forefront of faded whites, sun bleached yellows, and the orange spectrum emblazoned upon the old Portuguese roof tiles which frame the skyline of this peculiar, fascinating place in which I have landed.

Knowing that this, too, will end, only serves to increase my appreciation for this place, this confluence of time, culture, setting, seamlessly blended into a wickedly perfect present moment in time.

A great Buddhist Master, Ajahn Chah, once stated, as he held a beautiful porcelin cup, that the ability to see the cup as already broken only made him love it more, yet without the attachment that clouds the mind, that clouds the experience.

The children's screams come to me from a hundred ruined buildings, the maze of the old city, shells of faded glory and grandeur; the painful task of restoration a mere dream for most, contented to live in the  subsistence of the broken present. A Portuguese capital, a massive walled fort which changed the shape of history for the entire continent, and thus, the entire world, at one end, a pointed spear of defense; a maze of historic, mostly dilapidated buildings, their sun bleached facades masking centuries of lives untold, stories echoing; a thatch roofed village, Makute Town, pulsing with the rhythms of tropical African life; and a simple causeway, like a tail, an appendage, a tenuous lifeline to a barren coastline, a harsh, unforgiving interior. At certain moments in history, events collide to produce the enduring stories and edifices that shape the world; and at certain moments in time, life leads you to places which call out, which grab your mind and heart, you eyes, your senses, and all you can do is stay awhile, soak it all in, knowing that this, too, will end.

Maputo, One...

Cinco de Junio, 2011, Maputo, Mozambique

Sitting in a small Pakistani/Indian restaurant(I love the harmony that results from foreign restaurant-based cultural fusion), green tables covered in plastic, large South Asian families gathered for a Sunday meal, speaking a universal European tongue in this far away land, the feel of cultural blending pervasive. What a wonderful town this is; take your average African city, water it down with wide avenues, few cars, an oceanfront setting, a laid back populace that blends every shade of the cultural paradigm, and take with this the unique feature that this is a walking town, that I can walk unencumbered by safety fears as in South Africa and in so many other large cities, that the local all stop and smile, say hello, an easy grace in this ramshackle African city-town-capital. Embracing my new found Portuguese skills (still milking my high school Spanish classes this late in life....) I awoke from a wonderful siesta an hour ago, and with no power and no water to be had (no worries, a happy tradeoff to the quality of life here), I set out wandering, photographing, observing the tiny streetside fruit stalls, the men in yellow mCell aprons proudly parading past selling cheap mobile air time, and about 95% of the shops shuttered for the Sunday day long siesta. A refreshing fact, this closure; a reflection on quality of life, a focus on spending Sunday with the family, gatherings of friends on corners, sipping rum, laughing, conversing; as I walked past a large family gathered on a covered patio, the children kicking soccer balls down the dirty lanes, and the small group of skateboarders using the steps of the main church, as they do in every town in America, to show off their new moves, I warmed to the rhythm of this place. This place, this last day, has reminded me of why I came to Africa; it has utterly refreshed me with its laid back charms, its rundown, ramshackle, dirty facades, it is everything that was so sorely missing from South Africa's modernity and development. The smiles, food, languidity all embrace me now. I feel safe, welcome, warm, and ready for the next month on the road. I am so glad to have finally made it to this country, only a year later than originally expected, but it feels, just in time.

Maputo, Mozambique

June 4, 2011, Maputo, Mozambique

It hit has soon as we crossed the border, after the quick and efficient South African immigration (yes, you may leave, we will make this quite easy) and their bizarro-negatives, the Mozambique National Immigration Department (I made that up but it sounds kinda official). I was fortunate enough to skip the line to get into Moz, as I was one of 10, 328 people there in line who had to pay for his visa, courtesy of coming from that great pariah America which just loves to screw all other countries on visa fees, which, in turn, love to turn around and screw ME, but what a line it was....a true Africa border crossing. Pushing, shoving, armed guards barking, ladies with babies strapped to their backs, the whole nine yards. It felt great to be back in the developing world. South Africa, for all its dirt, was way too clean, neat and orderly for me. I breathed in a deep lungfull of the Mozambique air and smiles over the sea of humanity, as the hapless immigration official tried to figure out how to work his fingerprint machine by asking me over and over to rub my thumbs on my forehead. I was fortunate enough to not have exact change, and be faced with a country demanding exact change in their visa payments; all this at 6:30 in the morning, after a night filled in a cramped bus seat with perhaps 2 hours of sleep. Amazingly I survived, was not abandoned at the border post by the bus with all my things packed away into its storage, and was peering out the windows at the marvelously different scope of humanity that soon greeted.

It feels great to be back in Africa. The roughness. The crudeness. The smiles. The Warmth. The cheap street food. The pulsing sidewalks. The arbitrary police. The amazing central market. TIA. This is Africa. This is everything that I so missed in South Africa, a more “developed” nation, but a place without a tenth of the soul of one city block of Maputo, its crumbling buildings, statues, and communist revolution named streets (how about a Lenin Ave and a Mao Street for you right wingers??? Love it.

The slow, tropical, languid pace, the brilliant colors of the setting sun over the harbor, the Portuguese bakeries and their amazing bread loaves. I've found what I came for. And so happy I finally made it to Mozambique.