Mormon Mozambique? Let’s hope not…
I woke up at 3:30 in the morning to get the 4:30 chapa to Beira. There was a group of us leaving, so we all made the dark walk through town together. I loaded my things on the little back trailer (normally not there), got on the chapa, and fell asleep while we waited to leave. These chapas are packed full – 4 people sit across, with a seat that folds up and down to allow passengers to pass through. In order to get out of the back, people in front need to get out, fold the chair up, and then allow you to pass. I had one of the folding chairs this time, which are definitely the least comfortable, due to their small folding back. No worries, though, I still slept, despite all of that. We finally left close to 5:30am, which made me really happy I had woken up 2 hours earlier to get there on time.
The ride was slow-going, to say the least. Sometimes these chapas just scream down the roads; sometimes the roads are bad and they couldn’t possibly go any faster than 20mph; sometimes they stop a lot, picking up various things sold on the side of the road along the way. I don’t know what combination of the above was the case this time, but I know we stopped to pick up some chickens this time. The driver stopped to check them out, bought them, then passed them right over my head to the helper guy in back. I guess they just sat there, along for the ride. These are live chickens, by the way, and it’s amazing to watch people everywhere carrying these things around, swinging them as if they just have a plastic bag in their hand or something.
We finally arrived in Beira, definitely later than expected. There were two other tourists on the chapa, so we all looked for a place to stay. The first place only had one room, so I gave it to the guys (no way to fit 3 people in there, according to the guy running the place). I was directed to another place, and asked for directions along the way; one man I asked just walked me there instead of doing the usual point in the general direction, saying “It’s just over there…” This place was full as well, so he walked me to yet another place, making small talk along the way. He made sure I had a room and then left. This sort of occurance happens all the time – the Mozambicans are very willing to help.
I had a few boring days there, where I spent most of the time staring at the ceiling in my hotel room…I arrived late Friday afternoon, so didn’t walk around the city that night (not knowing the city at all and not wanting to walk around at night alone). Saturday the city was pretty dead, as all the shops close at midday. Sunday, everything is closed, and this holds true for all of Mozambique. On Sunday morning, though, from my hotel, I could hear some people singing from my hotel room. I went to the back of the hotel to see where it was coming from. Behind the hotel there was a very bare, unfinished brick building with no doors or windows, but a few benches where people were sitting. The singing was mostly led by one or two women, with the rest of the congregation (men and women) singing along and clapping. I stood there for a good while listening, enjoying their music.
While I was standing there, I looked out into the big empty lot next to the hotel. It was full of garbage, which mostly looked like clothes. I watched two guys standing in the middle of it all. One guy was stripping down his clothes; he wrapped a piece of cloth around his waist and took his shorts off. “What the…?” I thought perhaps he was going to participate somehow in the ceremony they were having in the empty building (dare I say, church?), but I just watched. He walked into a little area surrounded on three sides by high grass and poured a bucket of water over his head.
“He’s taking a bath” I realized. He started to soap himself up and take water from the well in front of him to rinse off. His friend was now stripping down and joining him, with only a cloth around his waist. I saw another guy approaching with a bucket in his hand, undoubtedly coming to bathe as well. The singing continued the whole while, and while I was enjoying listening to them, I figured I could just listen from my room, giving these men their privacy to bathe. It was actually very sad. Beira is the second largest city in Mozambique, and there is a major problem with the water supply. I had heard this, but I never thought it would translate to people having to bathe in a public space.
On Monday, I got in touch with a friend of Raul (who helped me during my rash in Maputo), and we met up for a drink that afternoon along with her boyfriend. She was building a house just outside of town and informed me that there was a major influx of Mormons in town. I had noticed a whole bunch of teenage Americans in short-sleeve white button down shirts and ties earlier that day, and was a little curious about them, but brushed it off. Apparently the Mormons are moving in to the area, buying up a lot of property for farms and things like that. Property is cheap these days, but prices are going up, and I guess they’re capitalizing on that. I find the mix of Mormons in Mozambique all pretty hilarious, but think the last thing the world needs is a Mormon Mozambique.
I was a little lazy and hung around the town for a few days; my hotel decided to raise its prices while I was there, so I left to go out to the beach to camp for a day or so. As I was leaving, asking for directions on how to get out to the camp, I met a local guy named Diniz, who told me he would walk me to the transport after he finished his beer, so I joined him for one. He gave me a little lesson in Portuguese and told me a bit about Mozambican history and culture. One beer turned into two, and then we were off. We took the chapa a little ways, until he directed me to get out. I knew we weren’t yet there, but followed. He took me to a little cafe/bar with outdoor seating; this was his local hangout, and he wanted to show me.
Just into our beer, a white guy walked in and said hello to Diniz. “Come join us,” Diniz said. “You can talk English to her,” he said, pointing to me. “Hi” I said in English. This was Mike, formerly from Zimbabwe, now living in Beira doing extermination, mostly for tobacco coming in and out of the port. We talked for a bit, and he invited me to stay at his house for a few days. He would be going out to Chimoio (which is where I was headed next) on Monday, and could give me a ride then, if I didn’t mind waiting. “Sounds good to me”.
I said my goodbyes to Diniz and headed off with Mike. He’s got an interesting background. He had been involved with the Zimbabwe opposition government is now is no longer allowed back in Zim (as it’s called by nearly everyone). He used to do deep-sea diving to lay oil pipe (if I remember correctly), used to be a bodyguard for some Lebanese roayl woman, and also had a flower farm in Zimbabwe before getting kicked out. What a background.
He took me to a place on the beach called Fatima’s, which I learned was owned by a couple of “poofters” (uh, that means gay guys…these guys through the entire concept of political correctness out the window). He was meeting up with a whole bunch of people there, so I sat down to a full table, right next to Ron Walaron. “Who are you?” Tania “Where are you from?” Chicago. “Woah! What are you doing in Beira? You must have taken a wrong turn somewhere!”
Ron was a good jolly guy – he likes to give people shit, but does it with a definite jest. I talked to him nearly the whole night, where he enlightened me with all sorts of colorful language, none of which needs to be repeated here. “Oh, we’re educating this young lady here tonight, we are.” As I talked with him, I mentioned that I was heading to Zimbabwe next to meet an old friend of mine.
{A little aside here. I originally had no plans to go to Zimbabwe (well, neither did I have plans to go to Mozambique either, and you see how that’s ended up). But, honestly, the last I heard of Zim, Mugabe was just destroying houses, seemingly randomly, for no reason whatsoever. So, I thought, ok, they’ve got their problems – no reason for me to go there. Once you’re in the area, though, you talk to people and learn that there’s really no threat to visitors. The biggest problems they have these days are shortages of everything, from gasoline to bread, and a major issue with inflation, which is currently over 1000%. When I was in London, one of the bartenders at my local pub was from Zimbabwe, and I still had his email, so decided to give it a shot, not knowing if he was still in Zimbabwe or if the email still existed. Within two days, he wrote back telling me he was in Harare and that I should come visit.}
“What’s your friend’s name?” Ron asked. Will Simons. ”Will Simons! I know Will Simons. I was just out on a piss-up with him last weekend.” “Well, this must be a coincidence that you know someone with the same name. You can’t tell me that you actually know this random person from Zimbabwe?” After some discussion and a phone call to Will (”Yeah, Will. Hi. Ron Walaron here. I’m sitting with a girl from Chicago who took a wrong turn in Sao Paulo and ended up in Beira. She says she knows you.”), it became clear that he did know Will Simons, the same Will Simons that used to have my beer waiting for me on the counter when I walked into the Salisbury pub in London over six years ago.
Tags: Beira, Mozambique, Mozambique, Tag Index
Tania