Beaches…public toilets…what’s the difference?
My next destination was Ilha de Mozambique, or Mozambique Island. It’s a small island off the coast, and has an amazing history. It’s probably the top tourist destination in Mozambique (that is, of course, if you’re interested in venturing a bit further north than the beaches in the south). It started out as an Arab trading port until the Portuguese settled in the early 16th century. For them, it was a convenient post in the Indian Ocean from which to venture further east to India and beyond. It remained the capital of Mozambique until its importance waned (due to the opening of the Suez canal), when Maputo (then called Lourenco Marques) became the capital. There. History.
Walking around Ilha is the main attraction. There’s two parts to the town – Stone Town and Macuti Town. Stone Town is the old colonial part of the island, complete with a fort, a palace, a hospital, a few churches and mostly huge crumbling buildings, covered in ivy that the children like to use as their own sort of jungle gym. There’s lots of children on the island. I mean, there’s lots of children in Africa, but there’s a higher proportion of children on the island. I read that one of the very few secondary schools (high school) is on the island, and children come here to study. They use rooms inside the fort as classrooms.
Macuti town comprises the other half of the island – a high density area with houses made out of natural materials, and it mostly lays low, making drainage a near impossibility and, thus, sanitation a major problem. There are “beaches” on the island, but locals resort to using them as public toilets. Fresh water is pumped in from mainland, and there are various “posts” around the island from where the locals collect their water. It’s piped to one part of town one day, another neighborhood another day, and so on. I read that the pump’s capacity is not sufficient to support the entire population of the island.
Given the rich history of the island, and its strategic location in the Indian Ocean, there is evidence of various cultures on the island. Christian churches, a Hindu temple, a few mosques, along with a little local flavor as well. These days, however, the main population is Muslim.
Mozambique is not a Muslim country, and the Muslims that reside in Mozambique generally follow with the relaxed vibe within the country. (For example, women are fairly liberated – relatively speaking of course; basically, they don’t have to cover their heads and/or shoulders, and I feel more than comfortable to walk around as such.) I’ve encountered a few mosques along the way and I occassionally have heard their prayers over the loudspeakers – this is standard, I’ve learned.
I never learned so well, though, as I did on Ilha. My accomodation was less than a block away from the big mosque on the island. The first night on the island, I enjoyed a full day and evening chatting with some other travellers on the virtues of having been eaten alive by bedbugs and other misadventures. We walked home on the dark island – electricity being very much a 50/50 scenario – and hit the sack. I had a rough nights sleep on account of a bright light being left on and my inability to find the switch until just before 4am after several accounts. Right as I laid back in my bed in the comfortable darkness did it begin.
“Ahbah deebah dah deebah dah deebah Koran! Ahbah deebah dah deebah dah deebah Koran! Ahbah deebah dah deebah dah deebah Koran!” It was coming over the loudspeaker, and the guy sounded well pissed off! He screamed into the microphone, each repitition at a higher pitch than the last one. “Ahbah deebah dah deebah dah deebah Koran! Ahbah deebah dah deebah dah deebah Koran!” Oh! Will he ever stop? Eventually he did. Then he started singing – that sort of singing that’s kind of on pitch and kind of not. He finished the song, and that was it.
This happens every morning at 4am. He’s calling people to prayer. And the song is sung five times a day. I got pretty used to it and actually found myself singing along with his little song, even when it woke me up every morning. I could maybe do without the screaming, but, after time, I felt as if I could decipher the mood of the Imam (the religious leader guy) by the tone of his call to prayer. I specifially remember thinking “He sounds a bit apathetic today” or “Man, he is really pissed off this morning!”
For a number of reasons (laziness, rain) I stayed on Ilha for longer than most people do, and, well, I was ready to leave. Ilha has a long history of attracting tourists, particularly tourists who like to hand out alms in the form of money and/or pens to the children. Because of this, the locals get very used to receiving things, so much that they ask for them. Or demand them, really. “Give me my pen!” No. It’s nor yours. “Give me my money.” No. “Give me that headscarf.” No – I bought it for myself because I like it. “Give me your watch.” Are you kidding? “Give me your sandals.” Then I will have no sandals. “You can go buy some at the shop.” No – I like these. “Give me my pen!” We already went over this…
It got old quickly. They wear you down – all the time, at any moment you’re in a public place someone is asking for something. If you’re in a cafe, they’re sitting right outside waiting to pounce on you when you leave. They wore me down and I gave one kid a pen, hoping to get rid of him. This had the opposite effect – he followed me more. Now we were friends. He found me the next day and followed me, even though I told him I could not give him any more. He waited for me outside establishments until I came out again. It was getting old.
I finally lost it while he was walking with me. He didn’t trigger it, though – he would just follow behind, never really saying anything…it was almost getting creepy. It was another kid who make me crack. He ran up to me: “GIVE ME MY PEN!”
Does nobody here know how to say please?! Give me this! Give me that! Give me money! Give me a pen! Give me your headscarf! Give me your food! Give me Give me Give me! No please – never! It’s rude and it’s really making me hate this place!
This kid looked scared. “Thank you…thank you” he said and scurried away with his tail between his legs, pretty much. I felt bad. The other kid kept following me, telling me about how he had no food to eat because ma was somewhere and dad was somewhere else and on and on… he walked with me to my guesthouse and I told him to wait outside. I got some bread I had left over and gave it to him, apologizing for blowing up, trying to explain to him, although I’m not sure he understood. I saw once more during my stay. He said hi and followed me again, though never asking for anything.
Tags: Mozambique, Mozambique, Tag Index
Tania
December 18th, 2006 at 9:43 pm
Poor child, but I swear I wouldve done the same thing, except much sooner. Maybe I wouldve been intimidated, I might though they might try to rob me!! You never know these days. Honestly, Mozambique sounds like a nightmare! But your blogs are very well. 🙂
December 23rd, 2006 at 1:40 am
Tania, I don’t know which I love more–your spirit or your writing. Maybe there’s no contest–your spirit and your writing are one, and it’s all joy and a celebration. Even when you’re pissed off, you’re all joy. My favorite entry (so far) is “My head under her leg….” I am so THERE with you. If you decide to go to Lesotho, let me know and I’ll hook you up with some wonderful people. The kids there will demand stuff, same as the ones in Mozambique, but you’re used to it now. Thanks for every word you write.