God’s Window

 

 

 

1. The Journey

Not so far from where we live, there is a very special place. We have been planning for years to spend the hot month of January there but somehow we never executed it. The place is known as Graskop (Grassy Hill) and it is a tourist attraction mixing mountain, art, crafts and a lot more.

 

We left a little late and unaware of the situation at the border. It was crowded and unpleasant but I intend to write about that particular experience later. After the border test and the lowveld sun, we finally “attacked” the road to the mountains.

 

I have done this same journey at least in six different occasions, nonetheless I had never felt what I felt this time. Imagine what would be a travel from Switzerland to the north of Italy without people or buildings, and under a tropical sunset. I could witness the reds and oranges on the horizon, the metallic blue of the moon reflecting on the surface of lakes, dams and rivers and, above all, I could watch the end of the day written in white, black and red, on the sky, between the mountains, just like in a fairy tale that I know.

 

Although all the incredible photos that I could have taken, I had no arguments to stop because the night was approaching fast and driving on mountain roads it is not easy.

 

2. The Hotel

We stayed for the third time at the Graskop Hotel, a historic building once used to accommodate gold diggers and European adventurers of all kinds, now transformed in a “hotel-exhibition gallery”. It is simple, very central and, as far as I know, the best place to stay.

 

I really like the idea behind the hotel-art gallery. For once it is a good way to support artists and for us, clients, it is really appealing and informative. In the case of Graskop Hotel, that usually opens as B&B expect for excursions interested in dinning or lunching at the hotel, they employ one or two art dealers covering around ten African countries where they select the best produced by local artists. The result of that selection is displayed a little everywhere, inside the hotel or gardens, as well as at the shop.

 

3. New Restaurants

In Graskop it is possible to find fast food and gourmet restaurants usually managed by German couples. We know two of exceptional quality but one of them is 17kg of risky road far from where we stayed.

 

We didn’t had other option except for trout in the second German place that we know, when someone from the hotel pointed to us a new Portuguese-Mozambican restaurant opened less than 6 months ago. We went there and enjoyed a nice meal. It wasn’t a memorable meal but we find a couple of things worth to mention, such as the cut and quality of the meat and a pesto to die for.

 

Before I forget, in Graskop there are also attractive cafés where it is traditional to order pancakes with sugar and cinnamon, a temptation that I missed because I have this idea of organizing soon a pancake party at home.

Good Old Times

 

 

I was away for a little more than a day and returned to find the feeling of good old times at home. JP was in his best mood because he had the kind of day that he likes spearfishing just with a couple of best buddies.

 

I was quite surprised when I saw Vic diving, and also relieved when JP explained that Vic can dive in apnea but not as a professional. While diving in Beira, Vic was victim of a strange illness that attacked the protection of his central nervous system. During the same job, a Zimbabwean diver had his central nervous system completely affected and a South African diver was only affected in his wrist.

 

Besides Vic, JP had the company of pro SV. I am sure they had the best time possible, and that was palpable the moment we stepped inside. To be frank, JP’s good mood just added to my own happiness.

Maca… net

 

This Friday happened a revolution at Seabell’s home. At the end of a battle conducted by a technician, we went wireless. It is not a perfect system (JP spends time comparing speed performance in USA with our limitations), but so far better than before!

 

After a whole day in the net, we decided that the best we could do was spending the next day in Macanet(a), perhaps at Jays. It was all set, but suddenly Paul remembered that our lunch was red grouper and that was enough to change everything. Due to my insistence, he promised to go after lunch “not only because of the grouper but also because it is too hot during most of the morning”.

 

Well, the result of this impasse was: Macaneta-0, Grouper-1. As consolation prize we went to Costa do Sol and spent a good afternoon, especially due to divers good sense of humor. Before sunset we decided to give an hour of attention to Thoth, our black dog, and we went running and walking with him. We are very proud because in a month he gained 3kg, most in muscles, and after walking with TD and JP he seems to be almost ready for long walks.

Sunsets 4

 

I’ve been walking lately because that is the best exercise that I can do when I feel like a robot. Besides walking, sometimes I seat on a bench at Miradouro and stay very still looking in front of me.

 

The bay lies down like a monochromatic dark blue oil painting surrounded by bits of grey shadows of land. To the left I can see Costa do Sol and Xefina, in front Ilha dos Portugueses and Inhaca, and to the right Santa Maria and Catembe. The sunset is right behind Catembe and everyday we can see a different, spectacular show.

 

This has been a particular difficult summer. A week ago I peremptory announced to Paul that I don’t want to repeat a single January in Maputo, because even living in air conditioner we feel like melting. Now that JP is with us, we have daily weather and fact reports, such as: “Did you know that this was the hottest January since 1976?” No, we didn’t but somehow we are not surprised. A walk on the Miradouro at the end of the day is one of the few forms of getting some natural fresh air.

 

It was wise building Miradouro where it is and the way it is. It could be houses… and only a few would enjoy the sigh. It could be a fortress… only for defense. Fortunately, it is a varanda over the bay, accessible to everyone. People go there to walk, to seat alone or with a friend.

 

Two days ago I stepped in an almost faded metal inscription with a date: 1928. Miradouro is much ancient than I thought, and I really admire the vision of the people who conceived it. Since then there were a few attempts of conservation but what we can see most of the time is destruction and lack of care. It is not a surprise but anyway it is sad each time that I have to witness the negligence in a public place that people seem to enjoy so much.

People From The Sea-Palmira

 

Her name could be so many other names, but no doubt that Palmira suits her best. She is an African queen. Her body evokes palm trees and her face has the sweetness of the sweetest fruits.

 

People from her village like to discuss about how many cattle her husband had to pay for her lobolo. Twenty, hundred or more than that? Any number advanced seems always small when compared with the vivid descriptions or her beauty and gentleness.

 

During the cold nights around the fire, they tell stories about Palmira but the words are always insufficient to talk of her beauty and her graceful manner. If isn’t for African oral tradition, half of the village wouldn’t believe that Palmira really exists.

 

Her husband, one of the village authorities, is an old man that keeps Palmira well secure inside the thick mud walls of the hut where they live. During the day she wears a long chain around her right ankle to allow her movements from the room to the kitchen where she does most of the housework. But in the middle of the afternoon the long chain is switched for a short one and she barely can move from her bed.

 

It is sad that her husband is decided to protect her youthfulness and her beauty at any cost. Palmira’s days are an infinite emptiness. She compares herself to a gazelle that she once saw agonizing inside a pit conceived by a heartless hunter. Sometimes she looks at shinning surfaces and recognizes the same big sad brown eyes.

 

But Palmira discovers a way out. On the walls of her prison, she perceives a spot less thick. Precisely there, she digs a hole using one of her ornaments. It is a minuscule hope of contact with the outside. At the end of the day, she has now a motive to live. She presses her ears against it to remember the familiar noises of the village, and she can even get a glimpse of people passing by.

 

She discovers the shadow of a man and starts to recognize him amongst so many villagers. From the tiny hole she can’t see his face but she knows by heart the color of his skin, the shape of his hands and the sound of his voice. Her life is not so plain any longer. She lives for the minute, for the second, for the fraction of second with him.

 

There are days when she almost can see his entire body and others when she only can feel his presence. She knows that she lives for that moment. She has no other reason to live, except for him. She knows how dangerous are such feelings but she is like the gazelle, living or dying because of a hole. She spends her days wondering about his face, his smell, his name… But there are many moments when she knows the answers to all that: “His face is impossible! His smell is impossible! His name is impossible!”

 

She is in love but she is not happy. Her pain grows in every corner of that hut like weed. Berore the hole she was unhappy but now she is agonizing. She is fated to end like the gazelle. Only the deep despair of the dying can explain her final attitude: she tells her husband about the hole and asks him to close it for good. Nobody can live on impossible. For her the impossible is coming from the hole. Reality is the heavy chain around her ankle.

Subversive Technology

 

Can you believe that in a country like Mozambique the percentage of people living without identity card is supposed to border 70% of the total population? It has been like this for years and years, despite the fact that authorities know that there is a Mozambican company in position of supplying 10.000 daily identity cards using the latest technologies and without further costs for the weak state budget.

 

“Why is such situation possible?” you ask and I will try to give you an answer. Take for instance my guarda George. He is born and raised Mozambican. He is from Chókwè region and lives in Maputo working for us. I am sure that he never knew and never will know other country except for this one. Nevertheless, he doesn’t have an identity card and he feels bad with that situation. When I ask him why he doesn’t have the BI (bilhete de identidade = identity card), he raises a lot of problems but they all resume to the money he has to pay for something that takes months or years to be ready, and most of the time it is only possible to get due to the “kind help” of some greedy officer.

 

The situation of millions like George is far more scandalous when you know that any Nigerian, Rwandese or South African can buy an identity card, live and prosper in Mozambique without any trouble. The simple true is that identity cards and similar issued documents are an huge source of income to dishonest government officers.

 

Having explained that, you can understand how Mozambicans don’t have identity cards and a company trying to solve a known problem, open and frequently discussed on the local media, is not finding the expected receptivity and even has to face menaces.

 

What is the company offering? 1) Quantity of cards at low costs = satisfaction for Mozambican people. 2) Secure systems for controlling fakes and dishonestry.

 

Perhaps, in certains circles, this kind of technology is worst than subversion. As you must have already guessed, there are troubled waters under Seabell’s blue sea.

Eternal Incidents

 

The occasional reader of this blog could easily fall under the wrong impression that African countries are only places of endless beaches, adventure and fun. Unfortunately, nothing is so far from the true! I’ve been giving one part of the story but that doesn’t mean that I am not aware of the pressing problems under the surface.

 

Months ago we read in Business Report, a South African financial newspaper, about one of these unexpected, silly incidents that seem to multiply in African countries.

 

Dakar airport, in Senegal, was told days earlier about the refueling of an aircraft, as it is the usual proceeding. But when the UK plane landed, the pilot was told that he had to pay in cash before they’d allow the jet to refuel and fly home.

 

The Boing 757, with 204 passengers, had to refuel in Dakar during the journey from Banjul, Gambia, to Bristol but airport officials demanded 2 million Senegalese francs or the plane would stay.

 

The pilot’s first option was to use a cash machine but as it wouldn’t accept the card he decided to raid the bar takings from the flight, adding to it the first officer and his own cash and traveller’s cheques.

 

The money had to be exchanged to Senegalese currency what took some time. As it was dark by then, the authorities wanted more money for switching on the runaway lights! No wonder the pilot was cheered by 204 relieved passengers when the aircraft was finally cleared to take-off.

 

                                                                                                To be continued…

People From The Sea-War Games

         

She looks incredulous to the gun she has just shot. Years ago her mother alerted her: “Be careful when you pick someone. There are men who know how to appreciate a woman and there are men that only know how to destroy her, humiliate her, annul her as a person.”

 

From the start she knew that Carlos wasn’t right for her but they were connected by nothing but rational. He was the one who forced a way into her world and conquered a space in it. She couldn’t say when she surrounded to him but she had a couple of reasonable whys: his persistence and the fact that he only had eyes for her. The day she admitted that he was the one, she didn’t lost time, she gave him her hand and they disappeared in the cold, grey November.

 

She looks at him now, so quiet, so silent! She can only remember his gestures of lover in that cold afternoon, before a war started between them. A war that was a chain of humiliation, suffering, anger and peace.

 

Their first battle was during a night out with friends. He decided to ridicule everything that she was doing and saying. A deep pain grew inside her all night long. At home she argued with him. Carlos justified his behavior with jealousy but the excuse sounded inconsistent to her. The peace happened later, and was signed with her tears and his kisses. She suspected that some couples were like this, but their case bordered on madness.

 

The situation didn’t improve with the marriage. On the contrary! One day the china was broken, the next day the silence of lost battles invaded the house. In these days of reflection, she could clearly see that he only wanted her in a permanent state of nerves.

 

Why was the communication between them so difficult? Why they only maintained a relationship based on the dichotomy love/hate? Could this be his temperament or a plan to destroy her? Could she have done something in order to stop the escalation of war? There were so many questions tormenting her during years and years!

 

She could have run away, look for protection somewhere else, but what about her two sons? When they were little she kept them away from the battlefield. Now, with 10 and 12, they were part of the war game played. Depending on their own interests, they betted in one of the sides – usually the stronger one. Respect and authority as parents were little or null.

 

Early that same day both boys went out without her permission, after a dispute and serious offenses. She had just lost another battle! She couldn’t accept loosing with her own children. She felt so tired!

 

She shot the precise moment that he opened the entrance door. He hadn’t time to open his mouth and say the usual words: “Where are the boys?”

 

First she saw the amazement written on his face. A deep puzzlement kept him in silence and paralyzed. Then she looked at the object that had just produced a penetrating ra-ta-ta-ta sound.

 

She recognizes her sons’ toy machine gun. She must have picked it mechanically. She lets it fall with a bang on the stone floor. Without giving him time to wake up from his numbness, she breathes deeply, walks to the entrance, slams the door and disappears. Outside it is November and she smiles again.

Family Lunch

 

As TD is returning to Joburg during this weekend and JP has just arrived, it seemed appropriate to organize a family lunch. Once again I have done the mistake of ignoring “Saturday blues”, that is: Friday is night out and the next day everybody sleeps until late or even all day long.

 

Anyway we had lunch without two of our “guests”: JP and Andy. Serious party people are like this, they go out for a night and stay out for two or even three days! Lunch was great.  Tieta (soon to be a grandmother and happy with her new boyfriend) and I divided the kitchen tasks like this:

 

Italian soup-Seabell

Mozambican style feijoada (it is a mix of vegetable and meat beans stew)-Tieta

White rice-Tieta

Esparragado (spinach cooked with vinegar, olive oil, garlic and a few more tricks)-Seabell

Mixed fruits like orange, apple, banana and pinapple lightly sauté in olive oil and seasoned with pepper and oreganos-Seabell

Desert of yoghurt sorbet with fresh strawberries and red wine Herdade do Esporão (Defesa 2004) completed the menu.

Salane!

 

When we plan a weekend, it is very difficult to fail because I never quit. Last Sunday we prepared everything to cross the ferryboat, have lunch at Jays and spend a lazy afternoon on the beach. Tempting, isn’t it? But wasn’t supposed to happen!

 

We arrive at the ferry an hour after laving our place. A long line of vehicles is in front of us. I have to go outside to count the cars and evaluate the situation: we have at least two hours of waiting before our turn.

 

Shall we stay? Shall we go? While we are deciding about, I take our dog Thoth to a (rare) shadow inside a barraca (street bar) with concrete floor. The lady owner is almost sleeping under 40ºC of intense heat. When I ask her permission to step inside, she just speaks moving her lips and opening one eye. She says yes without looking very happy with the dog inside her place. But I know that she will do nothing about it because it is too hot to bother.

 

A 16 years old boy offers his services and starts washing the car for a couple of coins under the torment of the sun. Tó is inside the car and looks undecided about our next move. Meanwhile the ferry is coming and going but the long line doesn’t change.

 

The boy finishes the cleaning, receives his well deserved coins and speaks in changana when he passes near the barraca where I stand and Thoth lies clued to the concrete floor.

 

“Salane! A sonto ley taka net a minhimela swa ku muta hi tlhelo la sinihá mita ne hakelela a refresco.”

 

I look at the barraca owner snoozing on a plastic white chair and venture to ask: “Could you tell me what he just said?” She opens her active eye and slowly moves her lips to explain: “He said goodbye (salane). He also said that he will be here next Sunday waiting for you to come back from the other side and buy him a cool drink.” She translates and then she adds her own opinion. “He is right. With the number of cars crossing all day long you will sleep on the other side for sure!”

 

I thank her and return to the car. “Let’s go back home!” I decide. Sometimes one must know when to quit.