Over the holiday break, Diana and I spent a relaxing couple of weeks in Vilanculos, a beach in Central Mozambique. More or less, a lot of time spent in hammocks. I tried to motivate for greater activity, but a long walk to “New York Pizza” was the most I could muster outta my lady friend. We visited a couple islands and went snorkeling. The pictures tell it all. The water was every shade of beautiful and I reached spiritual climax on the top of the dune.
Our third morning, we headed into town where Jimmy, a kid with an impressively weather-beaten leather hat, encouraged us to try some thick, sweetened maize drink. He showed us around the market, through stalls of sarongs, knockoff footwear, mangos, coconuts, cashews and dried fish and acquainted us with local moonshines made from coconut milk and corn. When I explained to Jimmy that my mango allergy prevents me from handling their skins directly, he exclaimed: “but what happens when you are alone and you have to eat a mango?” Indeed.
The bank had run out of Mozambiquen Metcais. Down to our last $5 of local currency, we resigned ourselves to this good fortune with two $2 plates of greasy eggs, banking on the versatility of our remaining greenbacks. While waiting for our order, Diana made eyes at a Mozambiquen dude at the table over and he came and sat with us. ::Insert flirtatious banter in Portunglish here.:: The restaurant was out of food. We saw waiters give kids urgent instructions to buy eggs and potatoes. We spent several hours waiting for the restaurant to purchase and prepare the ingredients for our orders. Diana picked from the Mozambiquen’s order and the abandoned orders of his friends and then I spilled our last bottle of water on her lap. Indigence can be so unsexy, but she made it work, as only she can.
Jimmy found us in the restaurant. It appeared as though he had continued sampling traditional Mozambiquen brews in the few hours since we saw him last. His blood alcohol level did nothing for his demeanor so we told him we’d catch up with him the next day. A few short hours and cold ones later, Jimmy accompanied Koji – who would become our favorite
Single-Serving Friend (turned Several Serving Friend) – to the beach where we were staying. Jimmy’s final appearance that day involved waving an odd-looking and stinky fish that got him ejected from the backpacker’s bar.
Christmas morning, we attended a Catholic Church service presided over by a Portuguese priest wearing sneakers beneath his robes and a white plastic baby Jesus, arms-outstretched, reclining in a bread basket. It was one hour, about a quarter the length of church services I’ve gone to in South Africa and with significantly less dancing. It concluded when the congregation rose to sample the wine cooler of Christ and kiss the plastic baby Jesus. Back at the beach, we appropriated the bar sound system to play the Christmas albums my mom sent me and celebrated our piety with a pineapple.
Our backpacker threw a braai (that’s BBQ, for you Americans out there) for Christmas dinner with entertainment provided by the diva of Central Mozambique, Ms. I-Forgot-Her-Name. She performed her catchy hit single, “I Love Vilanculos”, at least five times for us, prefacing each performance with “I wrote this song so you’ll all come back to Vilanculos.” After Diana and Koji had been served their barbequed animal carcasses, an apologetic waiter informed me that they don’t have vegetables and brought over a plate of rice and potatoes. Hardly discouraged, I broke out the smidgens my mom had sent along with Diana and the champagne Martha has sent me for my birthday. We ended Christmas evening with some dancing at a local bar, Dread Bar. We were in disagreement whether the bar name came from the hair style or the sense of foreboding – a brief visit confirmed it’s a little of both.
I adhered to my half-marathon jogging schedule while on vacation, a true testament to my WASPy will. It involved waking up at 4 am (tipsy, hungover or none of the above), before the humidity makes it impossible to run, and schlepping through the sand. At that hour, local people are the only ones on the beach, pulling in nets filled with fish, crabs and prawns. I’d juke around piles of stinking guts that disappear by the time the tide comes in and the tourists hit the beach.
One morning, I heard a woman’s screams from a house above the beach. By the time I got there, the screaming had stopped and I could see a bunch of men and one woman standing inside the fence. We stared at each other for a while until one of the men told me to come inside. Content that I had lived a long and beautiful life, I entered with only the generous biceps my genes have bestowed on me. The owner of the home approached me and explained that he had been away for several months and a squatter – a man he pointed out to me who looked like he had the shit beaten out of him – came to his home, threw some parties, destroyed some property, stole several valuables and consumed a great deal of food. When the home owner returned, he was rightfully pissed but sussed out an agreement whereby the squatter would repay him in monthly instalments. The home owner then spent his first evening back partying at a bar only to find the squatter back in his home when he returned in the wee hours of the morning – and when a dumb rape survivor advocate happened to be jogging by. He proceeded to kick the squatter’s ass. The sound of the woman screaming was a neighbour – who appeared to be untouched if a little angry – trying to break up the fight. The woman confirmed she was fine and I continued my run, but I ended up bumping into the home owner several times at the beach where we stayed. It turns out he’s a nice guy – but for god’s sake, don’t test his patience by repeat squatting in his home.
