Maputo Unplugged

Let me take a moment away from peeling and boiling roots (not joking at all right now, its called mandioca and it sort of tastes like potatoes) to tell you about my little viagem.

So I made another trek down to Maputo, this time hoping to see the softer side. But I remain unconvinced there is anything soft about it.

Just dirty.

And it didn't help the whole situation that I had just run out of conditioner, bought some Mozamican replacement that looked promising and smelled nice, but unfortunately turned out to be some super oil moisturizing hair relaxer that literally to about 16 washings to get out. So I was the greasy, pungently coconut scented girl traipsing around the city.

Iraque and I made our way to his friends, brother’s, boss who is doing something in Brazil which might or might not have to do with a drug cartel’s house (I am still confused about the actual lineage, but it was something along these lines. Also, I made the drug cartel bit up, but all in all it was just such a strange situation, even for Mozambicans. Iraque thought we would be staying with his friend, so anyway, drug ringing could possibly be the man’s profession. Especially considering how nice the house was. Running (cold) water, multiple bedroom, big tv, non-plastic furniture, etc. Whatever, I wasn't the victim of violent robbery and I didn't have to sleep on the floor. )

Anyway, I was hoping to get in with the people, and see the real Maputo outside of the whole dirty, lots of people trying to hussle me out of my money or just plain steal my stuff.

No luck.

But these are the things I discovered about Maputo:
1. There are actual farms in the city. Marshy, mud plots, where people grow leafy vegetables.
2. This ‘farm’ neighborhood is the poorest in the city, and apparently is mostly full of like Nigerian or some other form of African people… that is according to the Mozambicans.
3. This uber undeveloped urban village is located right next door to the wealthy diplomat neighborhood. Interesting juxtaposition.
4. Although Maptuo arguably has the largest concentration of white people in the entire country, apparently there are either very sheltered, very ignorant, or just sort of unthinking people in the neighborhoods who act like they have never seen a white person before. The children are harmless, they just point and shout ‘branco’ or ‘mulungo’ (white person in the local dialect) and hope you will wave at them. If they had cameras they would want to take a picture, but there just isn’t that technology in these areas. It is the teenage men that are just plain irritating. Usually they pass and make some sexual comment in Portuguese that they (incorrectly) assume I can’t understand and then shout the only words in English they know. ‘Hey baby’ ‘hello my sister’ or, my favorite, they just kiss at me. At one point I vowed to Iraque that the next man that made even the slightest kissy face (as my mother would call it) at me would get a swift kick in the face.

But overall, though tiring the trip was a success. I had my doubts, as we wandered from store to store, and my boyfriend let me look but not buy. It was far too practical of him (although for the better considering my meager salary). I almost revolted when we entered the Mecca that is Shoprite – an actual western style grocery store – and he wouldn't even let me buy granola and pears (granted it was 9am and we had a whole day of walking ahead of us. But for some good crunchy cereal and a pear I would carry 70 kilos on my head all day like a good African woman.)

But finally, exhausted and sort of homesick after seeing that glorious grocery store, I stretched into my American bank account, and made the ultimate purchase.

I bought a refrigerator.

And although it teasingly sat in my kitchen for two days with nothing to refrigerate because I am just not used to buying things that should be kept cold, it is now chalk-full of lettuce, oranges, tangerines, and one little juice box. I don't really drink juice, but I bought it to put in the fridge. It looks so pretty. Oh the wonders of refrigeration.

Well, I better wrap up because my roommate is trying to convince me that Elton John died in 2006. "No, you are talking about the older Elton John, the younger Elton John already died."Really, she wont take no for an answer or trust that I am more of an authority on American pop culture that she is. And you thought I was stubborn.