A Smile Says It All

 

Soon we were back from Europe, soon we resumed our daily walks. The first two times I went to Miradouro I was already missing lots of things, though I didn’t miss the dirt and the smell.

 

I astonished at the sight of two dedicated readers sitting on a bench precisely in front of one of the two smelly areas. What sort of book can make one forget unpleasant odors? 

 

In fact, nobody seems to care about the dirtiness in Miradouro, a public place where people walk, talk, play or just hang around, a public place without a single visible trash bin… That says it all.

 

I was missing the Caracol walk, but I couldn’t recognize old faces among the new appointed guards. I still miss Max, a black Labrador, and his lovely owner. And above all I was missing Katherine, the most rebellious little girl I have ever met.

 

Then, the third time I went to Miradouro there she was welcoming me with a radiant smile. And I have to confess that Katherine is very scarce in terms of smiling. Not in terms of kicks and tantrums though.

 

It is good when someone lets you know that you are missed. A smile, that’s all you need for that.

A Good Thief

 

JP was robbed for the second time in South Africa. This once he was at a restaurant dinning with colleagues. One moment he had his wallet over the table, waiting for the bill-paying negotiations. The next moment the wallet was gone.

 

Inside the wallet he had his documents (very important for someone living abroad), a few money and his bankcard. This card was his profound concern since last year he had his bank account stripped by Cape-Townian gangsters. So he called home in a hurry to cancel the card.

 

Two days later he phoned again with good news. As a matter of fact, I can deliver this news in the form of a short message signed by the victim himself:

 

“I’ve been mugged countless times. I still remember the first one, when I arrived home without my sneakers. I was eight then. I had to walk barefoot from Naval all the way up.

 

Two days ago someone took my wallet from a Richards Bay restaurant. I was already expecting that two or three notes inside it would disappear. I was expecting a lot worse. But, to my surprise, two days later my wallet was found on the same table from where it was taken. Money excluded. Documents and bank card included. Isn’t it amazing? A thief with a good memory. A thief with a good heart. JP“

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

On the 20th of February we drove 400km to Richards Bay and another 400km back to Maputo with JP. He is staying 2 weeks with us before flying to another job, hopefully a way to free him from the cycle he has been for the last six years. The first thing he informed us was that at dawn the place where the divers stay had been robbed. Wallets, computers and phones were taken. Either way, we found a very quiet JP without his computer.

 

“It is the eighth time this happens in just 3 weeks” he informed us.

 

We are talking of a (supposed) secure residential complex. Aren’t these great perspectives for World Cup 2010?!?!

 

Sacked Because of Two Lobsters

 

JP was raised to be a prince. However, one thing is what we plan and other is what actually happens. He is the most charming boy, devoted to the sea since his tens. I doubt there is a better and more responsible diver than he is.

 

We were not surprised that he was doing well, supervising a group of divers, with a substantial raise and other bonus like a luxury suite in a complex with a gigantic swimming pool.

 

The job is hard and JP doesn’t look like a prince any longer, more like the hardworking adult he has become. He leaves at the first lights on a barge and spends all day supervising the installation of a system of pipes to lessen the lethal impact of water contamination by the ultra-polluting factories operating in the Richards Bay area.

 

It is truth that the group of divers has a paid dinner table at a local fancy restaurant, still during the day they starve because the food cooked on the barge is terrible.

 

The divers are all very young, aged between 20 and 26 (JP’s own age). When the first surfaced with some crayfish, they all realized that the answer to the food crisis lay in the deep where they had been working. A supervisor aged 40-something (from now on here referred to as Old Barracuda) was particularly enthusiastic with the unexpected diet improvement.

 

Depending on the visibility, from that day on the divers started to catch a little bit of this and that. Despite three of them being the main providers, all ten aboard the barge ate the catch. Old Barracuda was the first to remember them “not to forget the fish for lunch”.

 

JP couldn’t go against it for two simple reasons: 1) He had been in other situations involving fishing and eating the catch. 2) If a senior supervisor was applauding the action, why should he go against it?

 

Eventually, JP couldn’t also resist a good visibility day when he discovered two lobsters hiding near one of the pipes they were working with. They only can guess who talked to the directors about the crayfish. Anyway, the Old Barracuda ate the lobsters, eventually watered by 5 or 6 beers, and right after barking with satisfaction he confirmed to the directors that a “huge” mistake had been committed. Two or three days later, four young divers and supervisor JP were sacked without further ado.

 

Despite recognizing that the five somehow disrespected the company policy of never spear fishing or recollecting during work, I dare anyone to question the following reasons: 1) Nobody respects that rule, including directors. I know for sure that at least half the company should be dismissed for the same reason. 2) I met the man who denounced the young divers and he looked to me like an old fascist. Now I know that he is one. As someone coming from the navy and security jobs, I wonder how he could survive doing what he has done to people working side by side with him. 3) Why Old Barracuda and others also banqueting of crayfish escaped? 4) The company in question was half paid by another American company. That company failed to pay part of the amount agreed, so the original South African owners are in charge again, doing big money on the run because they don’t have to give back the millions already pocketed, as the Americans are unable to fulfill the contract. When I heard that the company was South African again, I have reminded JP that the good wind could be changing direction.

 

In fact (and this must be the thought of Old Barracuda and some director-owners), why should they employ JP and others alike, especially as supervisors, when most white South Africans are jobless? Who cares if JP is good in what he does, when they can pay less to 2 or 3 of their own to do the same job?

 

Aren’t rules supposed to be broken for the sake of higher interests? Alas, JP is paying the price and learning about unfairness. Despite everything, somehow we have this feeling that some mistakes are a door to a better place.

 

This is all sad but true. JP wasn’t really fired from a regular steady job, but from a specific project. And despite promises from one of the directors in terms of future jobs, the simple reality is that we are over with “secret societies”. One of them obeys by the rule: preserve our already fragile environment, while destroying neighbours’ pristine nature. I am just back from Ponta do Ouro, so I know what I am talking about.

 

Any offshore company needing a first class prince-diver?

Back on My Feet

 

I don’t know how it was possible. It just happened. Moments after my first dive into the blue waters of Ponta do Ouro my heart was racing again. And what magnificent racer my heart is!

 

Not long ago I wrote about how uncomfortable I feel with religion. For lapse I forgot to tell that long before, through a young playing companion, I was adopted by a Wirimu and a Vatbi, Macua gods of the sky and the sea. I don’t have to worship them. They hide somewhere in the immense skies and the deep seas, teaching the only prayers that fill my ears: be happy and be free.

 

Paul had previously decided that I wasn’t fit enough for the usual diving trip. I had to set for the snorkeling again, with the promise of returning in April. As sometimes he is right, I couldn’t fight him. Besides, he usually keeps his promises.

 

Anyway, he was so glad to see me smiling, looking good and well, that he said: “Your best day ever!”

 

Since I was merely enjoying my new found wellness, I cannot give many details of “my best day ever”. Chronically, I can remember: 1) Starting my day with a bird furiously knocking its beck against one of the windows. 2) Strawberries and champagne for breakfast. 3) Morning snorkeling. 4) Simple lunch at beach restaurant. 5) Back to snorkeling. 6) Home for bath and tea. 7) Long beach walk. Dinner at a seafood restaurant, table 16. 9) Home for small cake, huge red candle, champagne, bit of talk and reading. 10) Acknowledging the opportunity of one of the gifts given to me. 11) Hoping bright sun for the next day.

 

Bet you never had a fist sized African spider walking over your birthday table!

From One Bay to the Other

 

Between the small busy town where JP has been working and Ponta do Ouro there are a generous number of seductive beaches and bays. Approaching Ponta do Ouro from South Africa is by fairly good roads and efficient border posts. Although we had to deal with millions of butterflies smashing against our car, I sincerely recommend it. Compared to the dirty road Maputo-Ponta do Ouro, Farazela is all about smoothness.

 

Our middle stop was in Sodwana Bay, an inviting green and blue destination. So, the second day of my recent travel was partially spent in Sodwana, and partially spent on the road to Ponta do Ouro – where we already slept.

 

Besides an average lunch and hanging around (friendly people!), what I shall remember of that bay is: 1) The signs “beware of hippos, crocs, lizards and snakes”. Call this a walkable region! 2) The pictures I was able to take with JP’s lately temperamental camera. 3) The enormous amount of boats, in a clear demonstration that the place is a first for sport fishing. 4) The remarkable effort of nature conservation.

 

Sodwana gives us an image of what Ponta do Ouro should have been in the old days, before the invasion of disperse population seeking refuge from war and the more recent invasion of South African tourists. Today Ponta do Ouro looks like a poor Zinkwazi, though nature is still giving what men so hardly try to destroy with dirty roads, cheap architecture, noise motors, drunken visitants and bad-expensive restaurants, just to name a few.

 

In my love affair with beaches, Ponta do Ouro still is at the top.

Wild Valentine’s

 

I know that this may sound like a postcard to you, still here it goes:

 

Whoever you are, wherever you live and whatever you do, Valentine’s Day is basically a terrible déjà vu: the special hotel picked with care, the handmade room, the rose petals over your bed, the heart shaped chocolates, the candlelight dinner reflected on a mirror bay… You and millions of other lucky Valentines have it all every year, and so do I.

 

Now, try this: you open the door of a bush cottage to find a couple of passionate zebras right in front of it. You approach, remembering to keep a cautious distance. Yet, not even your presence disturbs that hot romance. You go back forgetting about the Valentine’s addicted zebras. One hour later they are still engaged in deep affection demonstrations. Another lapse of time and you discover that the courting is still going on.

 

Well, this Valentine I had the zebras. Up to now I didn’t realize zebras are such immense flirts. Add to this the afternoon love-drunken elephant walking on five legs and I am forced to suspect that Valentine’s has moved into the bushes.

 

My own Valentine’s dinner wasn’t that romantic, although it had a slight wild touch. The evening started with a colorful cake and champagne shared with six of JP’s colleague divers. From the divers’ headquarters we went to a waterfront restaurant, four divers and I.

 

The beauty of the night was the dance of the lights reflecting on the surface of the calm bay and all the passing by couples, most of them carrying picnic baskets prepared for one of the various cruises on the bay.

 

At one point, the restaurant owners decide to simulate one of the now constant blackouts, five minutes of complete darkness cut by silly remarks of well-drunk clients.

 

Most of the dinners were celebrating Valentine’s, including man-man and woman-woman couples. One diver commenting a girl-girl passing by: “What a waste!” And then he told about clubs and bars where every single night deadly combats over girls are fought. The lack of women is palpable and South African men are behaving worse than in the bushes. That’s how wild my Valentine’s can get…

 

The camera I had with me decided to be emotional, thus I could only photograph: 1) Flirting zebras. 2) Heart chocolates. 3) Rose petals on a handmade bed (unfortunately, the tusks are real). 4) Bush stop and waterfront suite.

Unmasked Divers

 

I’ve just realized I haven’t talked about my brave divers for a very long time. My absence and subsequent sickness have plunged me into a Me Pool I must free myself from. As I don’t want to be long, I decided to tell you just the most important thing I know about each one of them.

 

Starting with NB, he is now the proud parent of Gabriel, a month old baby we just met at Naval.

 

Jo is in South Africa, ready for a six months job in Angola. I suspect he will be the second diver doing arrangements for his wedding, as soon as his girlfriend finishes her studies in Brazil.

 

TD is still betting on his South African based musical career. At present he is ready for another season in France, where one of his bands is doing fine.

 

We see Vic from time to time. He is the diver that never was. What I like in Vic is his capacity of turning adversity into positiveness.

 

Since he witnessed the results of the recent violence on the streets, Andy has been acting a little wild. I spare you of an account of the weekend following the unrest, but Sunday morning we found: 1) His muddy car with signs of a minor accident. 2) The silver motorbike missing (rumours of a second accident with KK driving it are flying). 3) Andy missing, though someone informed us that he was sleeping on the beach with the group of Mozambican friends who faithfully follow him.

 

Paul has been particularly helpful during my recent swooning threats. To be precise: 1) He is becoming an expert in terms of relaxing massages, letting me rest and do what I enjoy to do. 2) He has been a pest with food supplements and health related talk.

 

JP is still feasting on the recent success of his career. I truly enjoy that he is somehow contributing to keep the pollution in a South African bay at lower levels.

 

Regarding Seabell, she is fighting to have her magical heartbeat back. TD expressed two immediate concerns about her: 1) Is she pregnant? 2) Is she going to see a doctor? Well, she does have appointments, but before she has got a short diving program scheduled – a promise made some time ago. When her heart is back to its normal rhythm, there is nothing happier or stronger in this world.

Moments That Last

 

Today is a special day. I am away, but I thought it would be interesting if I talked a little about me. Going back in time, I can step in a certain weekend on my father’s hometown. I was 12 or 13 by then, I lived in boarding-school and sporadic weekends were the only opportunity I had to be with my mother and sister. I still remember our house with windows overlooking the main square and the playroom we had on the second floor – a room, a corridor and a veranda just for the two of us.

 

After three years of boarding-school, my interests were a little different. I always liked to read, and at school my life depended on that. So, during that particular weekend, instead of playing with dolls or miniature ovens, I raided my father’s bookcase. He was fond of suspense books and Russian literature. Avoiding ones, too skinny for long days, and others, too fat to carry around, I picked Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and Darwin’s The Origin of Species.

 

At school we could read before sleep (at least until the lights were switched off), we could read between periods of study or if we finished certain tasks before the other colleagues. Between teatime and dinner we had the afternoon recreation and study hours. I remember how difficult it was for me not drifting into slumber under the dim light of the afternoons. To avoid that I worked in a rush, thinking of the moment I would stand and announce:

 

“Homework’s finished. May I read now?”

 

The answer of the vigilant nun was always “yes” and the looks on the faces of my colleagues always urgent.

 

All this to tell that, one day, my Steinbeck’s book was seized by the nun, as unsuitable read, and another book about the life of a saint was offered to me instead. I knew that book from previous visits to the school library; nonetheless, I pretended to be reading it while in reality I had The Origin of Species behind. Maneuvering was common during boarding-school years. That’s how we could read comics and “forbidden” authors, mainly French and Russian.

 

The third day I was caught in the act. Again. This time I knew it meant trouble. Second timer… I sat on a bench in front of the nun-superior gabinet, unsure of the tidiness of my white and brown day-to-day uniform. Unsure of so many things. Grasping my red belt in expectation, I was decided to stand on my own behalf. Today, I’m certain the wait was already part of the punishment.

 

For me, the book I had been reading was just a book with the ideas of some man. His ideas were coherent and worth to know. I was sure of my reasons and determined to be strong. But inside that gabinet was the new superior, a young nun with a beautiful face and a seductive voice. Not the usual old superiors we used to joke about.

 

Unexpectedly, with her kindness, gentle manner and studied words, she drowned my defense fire. She was able to make me: 1) Admit that the ideas of that man were wrong. 2) Admit that I was wrong. 3) Feel guilty. 4) Cry… All that in half an hour!

 

But the mind and the will are not toys. You break them and there you have. You are sure the toy is yours. But it’s not. Flaubert’s Madame Bovary and Zola’s Germinal were my next reads. Two on the “black list”, for sure. I was never caught again.

 

I felt revolted for a long time. I felt bad about myself. I had my defense prepared, but she was clever and touched me through my teen need for attention, care and closeness. That same night I took a decision.

 

I was raised as a catholic, but my family wasn’t fanatic about religion. They would understand. From that day on, I would never belong to any religion. For me it was clear: “If religion doesn’t respect others’ ideas, I don’t care about religion any more.”

 

Second Part

During my entire life I never regretted this move. Recent developments give me reason. In terms of intolerance, religions are all the same. Religions have a common design in terms of disrespecting freedom.

 

I still wonder how I could survive my last years in boarding school, a place where if you didn’t followed the Sunday ritual it was surely because you were in sin. I never confessed or took communion again. I am proud of that.

 

My sons and daughter were raised out of any believe, pressure or religious talk. I am proud of that too. They are what they want to be. They think the way they want to think.

 

Up to this day, I hate any religion talk. I distaste it. Religion is an individual option and should live inside of you. I simply hate any loud religious manifestation. Religiousness makes me feel uneasy and kind of sick. My reaction to religion traps is bold, defiant, insolent, unexpected…

 

I love the freedom of thought above all the existing things. I follow personal theories and admire other’s ideas when they deserve that admiration. Happily, the number of talented people in the world is enough to keep me busy forever.

 

Sometime ago I developed the notion that we never meet the right person for us. Sometimes we find someone that has a hint of what we are looking for. Never the whole. I believe that we can’t ever, but ever, meet that person. Though that person exists and our job, as living beings, is keep looking for that person – even knowing that he or she is never going to show up. With a little of chance, you can meet someone close enough. This year I discovered other people defending this same theory.

 

The way I think is not a religion or a religious thought. It’s just a way of staying in life. A permanent search.

 

For religious minds, happiness is after life. For me happiness is possible, even without the Right One. At different degrees, even so possible. At least I know a few fulfilled couples. Lucky ones! When the matter is religion, such standards only exist in heaven.

Nicknames Bonanza

 

I guess I’ll always be more enthusiastic about reading than writing. The important aspect is that both give me fair amounts of pleasure. Though I like reading very much, some issues are bothering me. For a start, time. How can I get time enough to read all the books I want to read? Also, frequently I am a “surface” reader. I swear to read a book with calm and concentration, but soon I am so involved that my reading it’s nothing else but a running competition.

 

Someone told me it was fine to do like so, as the main thing is to keep a general impression of the author’s ideas and intentions. That is correct if you are reading in the language you master. If you are reading in a different language, you have to read with a special care. I have to read at least twice, one as a reader and another as a student. I am not sure how good my system is, but so far keeps me busy. Slowly-slowly, I am learning too.

 

In my teens I devoured books. As soon as I learned that the writing process is a little bit limitative and the writer’s mental path usually transparent, I started speed-reading just to confirm if that path was the same I had mapped. Over the years I kept two reading speeds: slow for the first pages and fast for the remaining. Even without fines at sight, I’m trying to fight that speeding tendency.

 

During my teens I was reading book after book. Any type of book. I wasn’t selective or particular. I could read anytime, anywhere. I could even read while walking, until one day I bumped on some stupid object and had to develop a system of reading with one of my hands holding the belt of a colleague. During the worst years of my reading fever – lets say from 9 to 15, not by chance boarding-school years – I acquired two nicknames: “Little Fish” and “Rocket”.

 

It was well known that I was an addicted reader. Teachers knew that I had books on my lap to dive into any free minute I had. Sometimes I was asked to put the book over the front desk, for the duration of the class. Most of the times I managed to keep it with me, and funny things would happen.

 

One day the Science teacher was explaining about different types of breathing. Easy stuff. One minute I was listening, the next minute the book was calling for me. I “left” the class, only returning when the teacher stopped in front of me and unexpectedly broke in:

 

“What sort of air do you breathe?” she critically dodged. She was meaning: “You have been reading and now I can prove you couldn’t pay attention to a single word I’ve been saying…”

 

“Dry or humid?” she insisted.

 

Pressure doesn’t allow you to think, so I merely gambled:

 

“Humid. I guess…”

 

Up to this day I don’t understand why my colleagues laugh till they double up, enjoying so much the episode to the point of nicknaming me “Little Fish”. I hated it, but I never showed a sign of distaste. Soon, I had learned with less unfortunate colleagues not to overreact or the nickname would stick on. Thankfully, it only lasted during a period.

 

However, the account of that silly moment was told and retold, passing from generation to generation of boarding students. I can say it was my first involuntary step into celebrity, the strange school celebrity so difficult to reach as to explain. Contrary to so many colleagues who rejected playing along, since the “Little Fish” nickname I started to fit and became popular among the special ones.

 

Two years later, another colleague remarked that I was usually absent from classes and when the teacher asked any question, I would regularly interjected: “Who, me?”

 

Even when the teacher was clearly speaking to a colleague of mine, I invariably would insert “Who, me?” and the teacher would reply “Yes” or “No”, depending on the circumstances. With that question I seemed to be always attentive and eager to participate.

 

On a creative work, a colleague described me as a rocket in space continuously sending a message to Earth: “Who, me?” As far as I can remember it was a nice description, but from her words yet another nickname was born. A small group of my colleagues used it for a few weeks and then it stopped.

 

That was my personal experience with nicknames. Not bad, once some of them were really unpleasant, bordering the insult. Who told girls are kind?

Tam-Tam

 

One of the past mornings I stepped out from the velvety of my sleep missing the sound of African drums. When I came to live in Mozambique, hardly a day went by without the frenzy of beats. Echoes of drums, deep silences and exotic birds perching on the cloths of unoccupied fields are gone. Today I hear playful children and small birds singing, when the city buzz allows it.

 

Drums represent an important part of Mozambican culture and tradition. They used to be frenetically beaten by people of the surrounding neighbourhoods to express either joy or sadness: births, weddings, illnesses, deaths…

 

Yet while I mentally bridge past and present of this town, a different kind of throb grabs my attention. For the first time in weeks my heart is beating with its usual energy. No wonder the drums reverie!

 

Paul’s reaction to the good news:

 

“Great! I was afraid we had to use electrical stimulation to keep it working properly!”