Memorial

 

I have a proposal. Here it goes:

 

A year ago this town was woken up by a loud bang. Many had left their houses before to witness the first implosion of a ghost building, a shadow above the stretch of sand and green known as Costa do Sol.

 

Twelve months after, the grey mound of rubble is still there.

 

“At least it could be a monument…” I maintain.

 

“What kind of monument?” you ask.

 

Lately, Mozambican authorities use and abuse the expression “deixa andar”. It means carelessness, incapacity of delivering. So far, the fight against “deixa andar” seems to be the main political concern of the actual government. Having that in mind, why not let the rubble stay where it is? Definitively, the ideal is turning it into a monument to the empty slogan “deixa andar”.

 

This is a post written some time ago. It seems to me that someone was afraid that the memorial could be suggested for real! Maybe suspecting reactions from the local media and after almost a year without removing a single inch of rubble, at the end of February orange machines were rushed to the site, in a show-off involving roadblocks and traffic mess. Therefore, eleven months after the implosion, they finally decided to do something.

Pet Options

 

I love all sort of living beings. The exception could be mosquitoes, cockroaches and flies, but then I’ve come to the conclusion that even these three are harmless, at least for me. I never had malaria. Since the day a gigantic cockroach jumped from some ceiling towards my sister and I, making us almost faint, I just can’t imagine anything involving roaches worst than that. Flies are just a question of tidiness and taking the usual precautions to avoid them.

 

I do separate my Tarzan’s universe in two separate worlds: the species I like to have around me and the species I am better off without. Dogs are my favorites and cats range very low in my list.

 

I don’t mind to feed stray cats but they never stick around, knowing how this place of mine is dog friendly. Over the years I met a few cat lovers and reached the following conclusions: 1) Usually, they are people badly treated by life (i. g. a problematic childhood). 2) They have difficulty in trusting and are also not to be trusted. 3) They are not very particular with tidiness. 4) They stay in a situation forever (territorial behavior), while they also can betray easily. 5) They need affection, but they don’t really know how to appreciate it. 6) They are stingy, deep inside very prosaic and very found of disguises. 7) They are less adventurous and they usually play safe.

 

There are no eternal truths. My personal impressions are not a scientific study, but simple conclusions based on profiles of cat lovers I know. As it is evident, the number is far from being enough for a statistic.

 

The last thing I suspect about cat owners is that they must have a very thick and resistant skin or they wouldn’t be able to stand the feeling of cat’s hair on their own skin. Maybe because of hard skin or lack of sensitiveness, they appreciate so much the softness of the cat’s fur. Only the thought of unwanted hair on my skin is enough to put me running to the moon and back!

Jobs and Snakes

 

Remember a diver who not so long ago was sacked from the project he had been working for almost six months? Well, the same company called him to fix a few problems left after cyclone Jokwe. We can say that he has been busy.

 

Last week, a good international company approached him with a very tempting proposal: a two years contract, in a nice place, a good position and irresistible conditions.

 

In the middle of the usual negotiations, suddenly the old company employing JP rushed to offer him a similar job. Now we are conceiving a way of getting both jobs, once one of them is just for three months.

 

The result is that JP is going to arrive this Saturday to leave within a week. Following the Portuguese say that bad luck in love means good luck in more material areas, at least it seems that he has got his diver’s carrier under control once again.

 

The remaining divers are doing fine. Maybe I’ll just tell about TD, now back in his adoptive city. Before leaving he was filming in a place abundant in poisonous snakes. Despite his concern, nothing tragic happened.

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Lembram-se de um mergulhador que não há muito tempo foi afastado do projecto no qual tinha estado a trabalhar por mais de seis meses? Bem, a mesma companhia chamou-o para resolver alguns problemas deixados pela passagem do cyclone Jokwe. Podemos dizer que ele tem estado ocupado.

 

Na semana que passou, uma boa companhia internacional contactou-o com uma proposta muito tentadora: um contrato de dois anos, num sítio agradável, uma boa posição e condições irresistíveis.

 

No meio das habituais negociações, de repente a companhia que geralmente emprega o JP apressou-se em oferecer-lhe um lugar similar. Nós estamos a ver se ele pode conseguir os dois empregos, pois um deles só tem a duração de três meses.

 

O resultado é que o JP vai chegar neste sábado para partir dentro de uma semana. Seguindo o ditado português de que má sorte ao amor representa boa sorte em áreas mais materiais, pelo menos parece que ele tem outra vez a sua carreira de mergulhador sob controlo.

 

Os restantes mergulhadores estão bem. Talvez só deva acrescentar qualquer coisa acerca do TD, que agora já está de volta à sua cidade adoptiva. Antes de partir ele esteve a filmar num lugar cheio de cobras venenosas. Apesar da sua preocupação, nada de trágico aconteceu.

Little One

 

The other day Andy called me “Little One”. I hope he was referring to my size, as in matters of height I am the average type. I had not been exercising for more than a month, though I’d been busy to keep me away from the chair.

 

If I could eat all those cheese tartlets and marzipan, and still have Andy calling me that, then I can eat another one. The last one has to be baked by myself, since in Europe I couldn’t find the cheesy taste I’m always looking for.

 

I know that Andy applies the “Little One” expression out of tenderness, since he uses it with his actual sweetheart and with Thoth too.

 

Besides being “little ones”, Thoth and I share other things. We both are kind of solitary in terms of familiarity with the same gender. Thoth doesn’t have other dogs around. I don’t have females around.

 

During the last year I concluded that for our sanity and equilibrium it is so important closeness with the opposite gender as with the same. I find that most of us have difficulty in admitting how important closeness is, especially when referring to the same gender.

 

I also defend contacts with people of different ages, though I recognize that some individuals are difficult to socialize with.

 

Thoth is a very friendly dog. When he arrived I could understand he was called “Dinky”, for sure due to his small size. Today, when I look at him, I can see an average Staffordshire, a very strong one indeed. A kick of his head or front paws can knock you down, leaving you with bad bruises. During the few parties of this summer I could testify, Thoth had to be in chains or the girls wouldn’t come in. I didn’t like a bit to see him chained to avoid hurting the girls or trashing their dresses. He is very obedient, but when excited he is difficult to control.

 

I’ve been thinking a lot of Thoth these days. Thoth is attached to every one of us, but he has a favorite. He has a thing for KT, the young man helping Andy with his mechanics. KT put up with everything Thoth does with a stoical smile, besides sleeping siesta together.

 

Just like any good Mozambican, KT is in trouble. He has a family to support. Incapable of assuming the responsibility, what does he do? He plans to go away, somehow with the excuse that in Europe he will get better wages and help his family. I bet he will never come back. This is reality.

 

Andy is supporting him. He has found a place for him to work with rich friends we have. Besides other tasks, he is going to work as a chauffeur. I still remember when he started working for us five years ago, driving a newspaper car.

 

KT gone, Andy will be left with guard George to help in the mechanics. Thoth will be left with a broken heart.

Words and Photos

 

Instead of words, I would like very much to have lots of photos in this space. But fates are against my will. First I was forced to accept the reasonability of Paul’s advice that photography in this town is not safe, after I had my camera stolen on the Marginal walk.

 

Internet slowness is the second adverse wind blowing against my intention of transforming this blog into a fifty per cent space for photos. Sometimes the network simply plays with us for days and days. While in Europe, I could upload 20 to 100 pictures in the same time it takes me to upload just one in Mozambique.

 

The slow pace of the internet service in Mozambique has been a good school to curve my impatience, my easily boiling temper. Maybe you have reasons to complain. A photo speaks a thousand words of a universal language. Words are sometimes too heavy to carry.

 

As in all things, there is bad and good about the tropical rhythm of local internet. Thanks to it, patience is now highlighting my domestic existence!

Welcomed Routine

 

Since the last week of February, I’ve been taking the first steps into a slow return to my routines. I started the pleasant way, with tae bo. To tell the truth, I was so excited with the class (pinch of afraid too due to my recent heart laziness) that I hardly slept.

 

The class went well under the supervision of our Ecuadorian-Italian teacher. She introduced a game I know from my childhood by the name of “Statues”. The players move randomly fast with the music. When the music stops, the players have to freeze at once. Failure represents crunches until the teacher says enough. I was safe!

 

Don’t go thinking tae bo is like that because the game was only a middle class stop to lift the spirits. We were also introduced to a few new moves like this one: you up your knee and at the same time you move both hands with strength from head level down to the raised knee level. The idea? With your hands bring the head of your opponent down, smashing it against your knee. That’s more tae bo like!

 

I enjoyed the class, as I always do. In terms of energy, it was as though I’d never stopped. I was craving that hour for exteriorizing bitterness, rage, hate and other “gentle” feelings of the same sort. This time my anger was directed against a guy I call Old Barracuda. Next week it’ll be someone else. Apparently, there seems to be an endless number of punch bags to smash week after week.

 

This is the view from my tae bo class windows. Sometimes, my class is an entire hour of sunset display… Kind of a pattern in my life or I wouldn’t be writing as Seabell…

Harpooned

 

JP has been busy spear fishing and doing things for and with his friends. One week after being sacked from the project he was working for, the same company called him for another job. In fact, this kind of company acts merely as diver’s agents.

 

Anyway, JP was recovering from his recent sacked scare when a friend asked him to drive a small group of tourists to the Kruger Park, one of the easy ways to make some money around here.

 

At the end of a very hot day, JP reappeared looking tired but happy.

 

“I entered through the Crocodile Gate, stayed for a while in the Lower Sabié, stopped for lunch in Sukukuza and, finally, picked a dirty road from Malelane to Crocodile again. It was great because we only missed one of the Big Five!” he detailed to me.

 

Knowing that a female group was involved, I inquired:

 

“What about the ladies?”

 

“Just three American backpacker tourists…”

 

I could see that he was unimpressed, but then you know how boys are. It was Friday night and one hour later JP reappeared dressed to kill.

 

“Going out with three backpackers?” I guessed.

 

“Just show them around. They want to know what Maputo by night is like” he answered still looking unimpressed.

 

I only saw him again the next morning, shortly before lunch. Without even giving me time to say good morning, he popped:

 

“She says she is in love with me!”

 

“Who said that?” I wanted to know.

 

“One of the American girls…” he confirmed, maintaining a “What can I do, if girls love me?” kind of smile.

 

“How is she?” I questioned.

 

“She is nice…” concluded he.

 

JP is a very uncomplicated young man. He wants an easygoing girl who understands his need of freedom, and especially his drinking and party habits. For now it seems to him a very gigantic thing to ask for. I can feel that he is getting impatient and I am afraid that he could be the one sharing my fate.

 

Days ago I observed him sitting and talking with an ex-girlfriend of more than a decade. They seemed like complete strangers politely discussing the weather. I have this capacity of reading the feelings of some people, a capacity I don’t ask and I don’t need. Months ago I still could feel JP’s emotions and connection. Today, it’s only a void difficult to witness. It just startles me how people can grow apart.

 

So, this new available JP showed me the goodbye message she had sent to him, which included her mail address. Next, he mailed a short message wishing she had arrived safely and saying that he was already missing her. The answer arrived one day after. It was far where she lived, it said, and because of that they should be only friends.

 

JP’s reaction to her mail was of disbelieve. He looked truly puzzled. As a result, he has been muttering about the girl’s attitude:

 

“We danced when she said she is in love with me. We kissed a lot and we both said things to one another… She is nice and I am free, so if someone says she is in love with me I don’t care about distances… You should hear the strong things we said to each other!”

“Forget it, JP!” I repeated each time he mulled over the episode.

 

JP is young, persistent and his muttering is non-stop. Most of the times I am the one who has to give him the answers.

 

“Stop it, JP! She is clearly a one-night stand kind of girl. You were available and the only way she had to get your attention was by saying she was in love with you. By believing in it, you gave her what she wanted: attention, one night of love and a good boost to her ego. She has done to you what you boys so much like to do with girls. You have been harpooned so fast as the fish you catch!”

 

The next weekend JP disappeared with a group of friends, including enough girls to cure his damaged self-esteem. Such weekends cost him a fortune (500 to 800USD), as local “sugar daddies” are very expensive and have the blatant attitude of only being available when there is money to be spent. They are students or workings girls behaving like call girls. I’ve been critical about the “sugar-daddy” expression, but now I am witnessing the sad truth. No further comments.

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O JP tem andado ocupado fazendo coisas para e com amigos. Uma semana depois de ter sido despedido do projecto em que estava a trabalhar, a mesma companhia chamou-o para outro serviço. De facto, este género de companhia actua meramente como agentes do mergulhador.

 

De qualquer modo, o JP estava a recuperar-se do recente susto de ser despedido quando um amigo lhe pediu para conduzir um pequeno grupo de turistas até ao Kruger Park, uma das formas fáceis de fazer algum dinheiro por aqui.

 

No fim de um dia escaldante, o JP reapareceu, cansado mas feliz.

 

“Entrei pelo Crocodile Gate, fiquei um pouco no Lower Sabié, parei para almoçar em Sukukusa e, finalmente, segui por uma picada de Malelane até chegarmos de novo ao Crocodile. Foi bom porque nós só não vimos um dos Big Five!” explicou-me ele.

 

Sabendo que estava na jogada um grupo feminino, eu quis saber:

 

“E que tal as senhoras?”

 

“Só três turistas americanas, tipo mochila às costas…”

 

Eu percebi que ele não estava muito impressionado, mas já se sabe como os rapazes são. Era sexta-feira à noite e uma hora depois o JP reapareceu vestido para matar.

 

“Vais sair com as tais turistas?” calculei eu.

 

“Só lhes vou mostrar isto aqui. Elas querem saber como é Maputo by night” respondeu ele continuando a parecer desinteressado.

 

Eu só o voltei a ver na manhã seguinte, um pouco antes do almoço. Sem me dar tempo de dizer bom-dia, ele disparou:

 

“Ela diz que está apaixonada por mim!”

 

“Quem disse isso?” quis eu saber.

 

“Uma das raparigas americanas…” confirmou ele, mantendo um sorriso do tipo “Que posso fazer, se as raparigas me amam?”

 

“Como é ela?” perguntei.

 

“É simpática…” concluiu ele.

 

O JP é um jovem muito simples. Ele procura uma rapariga que não seja exigente, que compreenda a necessidade que tem de liberdade e, especialmente, os seus hábitos de beber e ir a festas. Para já isso parece-lhe uma coisa gigantesca a pedir. Eu sinto que ele começa a estar um pouco impaciente e receio que ele tenha dificuldades em encontrar alguém de quem goste.

 

Há dias atrás eu observei-o quanto ele estava sentado a falar com uma ex-namorada de mais de uma década. Eles parecem pessoas que não se conhecem discutindo o tempo que faz. Eu tenho esta capacidade de “ler” os sentimentos de algumas pessoas, uma capacidade que não pedi e sem a qual passava muito bem. Há uns meses atrás eu ainda conseguia sentir a emoção e interesse do JP. Actualmente, é só um vazio difícil de testemunhar. Para mim é espantoso como as pessoas podem afastar-se tanto umas das outras.

 

É assim que este recentemente disponível JP me mostrou a mensagem de despedida que ela lhe enviou, a qual incluia o seu e-mail. Em seguida, ele enviou-lhe uma pequena mensagem desejando-lhe que tivesse chegado bem e dizendo-lhe que já sentia saudades dela. A resposta chegou um dia depois: era longe onde ela morava, dizia, e por causa disso eles deviam ser apenas amigos.

 

A reacção do JP ao mail dela foi de incredulidade. Parecia realmente confuso. Como consequência, ele tem andado a resmungar acerca da atitude da moça.

 

“Nós dançávamos quando ela me disse que estava apaixonada por mim. Beijámo-nos muito e dissemos coisas um ao outro… Ela é agradável e eu estou livre; por isso, se ela diz que está apaixonada por mim, eu não quero saber de distâncias… Devias ouvir as coisas que nós dissemos um ao outro!”

 

“Deixa-te disso, JP!” repetia eu sempre que ele se queixava do episódio.

 

O JP é novo, persistente e o remungar dele imparável. Quase sempre sou eu que tem de lhe dar as respostas.

 

“Pára, JP! Ela é claramente uma rapariga do tipo uma noite só. Tu estavas disponível e a única forma que ela tinha de ter a tua atenção foi dizendo-te que estava apaixonada por ti. Ao acreditares nisso, deste-lhe aquilo que ela queria: atenção, amor por uma noite e um pouco de vaidade para o ego dela. Ela fez contigo aquilo que vocês rapazes tanto gostam de fazer com as raparigas. Foste harpoado tão depressa como os peixes que tu apanhas!”

 

No fim-de-semana seguinte o JP desapareceu com um grupo de amigos, incluindo raparigas em quantidade suficiente para curar o seu orgulho ferido. Esses fins-de-semana custam-lhe uma fortuna (500 a 800USD), uma vez que as garotas locais são muito caras e têm o descaramento de só estaram disponíveis quando há bastante dinheiro para ser gasto. Elas são estudantes ou trabalham, mas comportam-se como garotas de programa. Eu já fui crítica da expressão “sugar-daddies”, usada por falantes de inglês, mas agora estou a testemunhar essa triste verdade. Não faço mais comentários.

 

Confessions of a Dancer

 

Except for a few sporadic occasions, I haven’t been dancing since December. The last time I danced, I turned for less than two minutes in Paul’s arms, before I had my right foot painfully squeezed. That’s how much he is into dancing!

 

Before being squeezed I went to a tango lesson, a little bit excited with my new dancing shoes, but I didn’t enjoy it at all. Actually, I am not sure about my dance classes in March and April. If I return, it is just because I don’t want to pass as a “quiter”.

 

What I am sure about is that I like tae bo. I never feel tired of it. I also know that I have a dancer somewhere inside of me. The question is: which dancer? I tried African dance and concluded that I would never move my butt the same way Africans do. I changed to salsa. I like the energy of free style salsa, but not enough for the discipline of regular lessons.

 

My third move was tango. I thought: I like tango music, ergo I like tango dancing. Wrong! I like tango dancing only to a certain extent. Maybe in different circumstances… There is a philosophy behind tango dancing that is not my own philosophy.

 

I hang in the balance about a few things (i. g. dancing with a prickling shaved male). If men get the same sensation about razor-shaved bodies I get, better go for another solution urgently. While professional dancers have the tendency to have their bodies roughly shaved, non-professional dancers know the same or less than you do.

 

What shall I do? As I told before, I am not sure about tango. What I am sure is that I love tae bo. Maybe I should pick modern dance, a more energetic kind of dance. Through modern dance I can express myself individually. No need for partners, with or without pricking body hair.

Born in a Fascist Country

 

I was born in a European country with a fascist tradition. Fascists, if you don’t know it, are ridiculous people just because they can’t see how dumb they are.

 

In fact, I was born in a fascist country and I can still remember the caution, risks and fears…

 

Childhood and teens was all about caution, after my parents decided to stay away from politics and survive. During university I took risks and tasted what fear is.

 

I thought that was all in the past, but then this country of mine never stops to amaze me. It is a real beautiful country. Only a little of wisdom and hardwork and it would be a paradise to live.

 

Fascist mentality is a sickness firmly rooted up there. A couple of years ago I witnessed the enthusiastic surge leading to a socialist government. I openly told close ones about the mistake committed. Today, the same who vote socialist are striking on the streets for a better life.

 

“I feel fear…” someone told me when I was there in January. I thought it could be a little exaggerated, but this week I learned about two fascists measures approved in this country of mine. One of them concerns the ban of tongue piercing. The more I find it an awful thing to do, why forbid it? Is it going to change a thing? I doubt. The only way of changing people is through education and better standards of living.

 

The second measure left me particularly irritated. From now on there are seven specific dogs not allowed to own or breed, including American Pit Bulls, Rottweilers and Staffordshire Bull Terriers, along with other four. Only that measure makes me feel a little proscribed from my own country, as I’ve owned Staffies since forever and I don’t plan to change my mind or choose between country and dogs. Staffies are loving and faithful dogs.

 

Instead of going for extreme measures, why not simply require a special authorization to own any of those dogs? I recognize that strong energetic dogs and twisted mind people are a wrong combination. The owner should have material and psychological references to own or breed such dogs. But not…Once again, my country is keen to show how fascism and intelligence are two worlds apart.

 

P.S.: Why doesn’t EU requires IQ tests for the appointed governments?

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Eu nasci num país com tradição fascista. Os fascistas, se não sabe disso, são pessoas ridículas porque não conseguem ver como são apalermados.

 

De facto, eu nasci num país fascista e ainda me consigo lembrar da cautela, riscos e medo…

 

Na minha infância e adolescência andava tudo à volta de cautela, depois dos meus pais terem decidido manter-se afastados da política e sobreviver. Durante a universidade eu corri riscos e provei o sabor do medo.

 

Pensei que isso fizesse parte do passado, mas este meu país não pára de me surpreender. É um país muito bonito. Bastava um pouco de sabedoria e trabalho duro, e podia ser um paraíso para viver.

 

A menstalidade fascista é uma doença com raizes profundas por lá. Há alguns anos atrás eu testemunhei a corrente de entusiasmo que levou à eleição de um governo socialista. Eu avisei abertamente as pessoas conhecidas sobre o erro cometido. Hoje, os mesmos que votaram socialista estão nas ruas a reclamar por melhores condições de vida.

 

“Sinto medo…” disse-me alguém quando lá estive em Janeiro. Eu pensei que poderia ser um pouco de exagero, mas esta semana tive conhecimento de duas medidas fascistas aprovadas neste meu país. Uma delas diz respeito à proibição dos pircings na língua. Por mais que eu ache que isso é uma coisa horrível de fazer, por que motivo proibir? Será que vai mudar alguma coisa? A única forma de mudar as pessoas é por meio de educação e de melhores condições de vida.

 

A segunda medida deixou-me particularmente irritada. A partir de agora há sete raças específicas de cães que não são permitidas de ter ou criar, incluindo os Pit Bull Americanos, Rottweilers e Staffordshire Bull Terriers, para além de quatro outras raças. Uma medida destas faz-me sentir proscrita do meu próprio país, uma vez que eu possuo Staffies desde sempre e não tenciono mudar de ideias ou ter de escolher entre país e cães. Os Staffies são cáes meigos e fiéis.

 

Em vez de tomar medidas radicais, por que não exigir simplesmente uma autorização especial para possuir qualquer destes cães? Eu reconheço que cães possantes e pessoas de mentalidade doentia são uma combinação errada. O dono deve ter condições materiais e psicológicas para possuir ou criar estes cães. Mas não…

 

Uma vez mais, o meu país empenhou-se em mostrar como fascismo e inteligência são dois mundos diametralmente diferentes.

 

P.S.: Por que é que a UE não exige testes de CI para os governos designados?

My African Life IV

 

Andy and Paul’s morning starts usually very early, at least during the summer. At five the first lights are already burning the horizon. Six to nine is a good period for hard jobs, like Andy’s mechanics or JP’s fishing expeditions. Around 6am the guard who stayed for the night goes home and the other takes his place.

 

Andy and Paul have breakfast together, while the important conversations of the day usually happen. The morning is more or less busy, depending on the circumstances. Breakfast here has the funny name of “matabicho”, translating to English the meaning is “kill the bug”. Crazy way that of calling the morning appetite! And it has to be enormous to be killed!

 

For an appetite like that, only a good breakfast. Traditionally, Mozambican breakfast used to be an important meal, but currently most of the families are glad if they can have bread and tea before leaving for work.

 

Andy likes coffee and eggs, but he usually waits for Tieta. He has a light morning starter and a middle morning breakfast, while Paul is pro fruit, porridge and tea. It is also a local tradition to have a mid morning snack, especially during summer when mornings are very long and tiresome.

 

Except for Sundays, when lunch can start only at 2pm and go until late afternoon, the working day lunch is around noon. Our lunch consists of a green salad, a main course and fruit. I have a simple system organized to avoid the everyday torture of answering to the question: “What shall we have today?” It goes like this: Monday, we always have chicken; Tuesday is meat turn; Wednesday is for fish; Thursday, chicken again; Friday is good for fish; Saturday we have barbecue, curry, seafood or beans stew, foods that we like the best; finally, Sunday we go out. 

 

Teatime is usually an individual option, a lot more popular during winter than summer, when teatime is for meeting friends and share a couple of beers. The three of us are soup fanatics for dinner and if we have something else is lunch leftovers or anything easy to prepare.

 

My role in the process of maintaining the home-machine working is merely organizative. I have the Friday shopping and to make sure everything is functioning. Sometimes we have to feed up to ten people and that requires some planning. I do like domestic interventions, from time to time. What I really enjoy in my domestic existence is organizing our drawers or de-cluttering, in general. I just love the gesture of opening a drawer and see how neat and clean it is! I think this kind of hobby has a lot to do with my previous experience as shop owner and an old tendency for perfectionism, fought but not entirely forgotten.

 

I try to keep moving from the moment I wake up to late afternoon, when I become a little sedentary: I write, work with Paul, read, watch a movie or listen to music. For Paul, who sleeps early, this is already pyjamas time. For Andy, it is bath and going out with friends or girlfriend.

 

Most of the time I am the last one to fall asleep. Even after reading a while, I sit listening to the intriguing sounds of the night. More often I quietly dive in the dark when it rains and an extensive orchestra of crickets and frogs plays with no rest. In these sleepless nights, I am only alerted to the late hour when George or Albert start the usual morning routine: watering the plants, pumping water for three reservoirs and sweeping the dead leaves left after the rain. That’s more or less our life, with very little of African!

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A manhã do Andy e do Paul começa normalmente muito cedo, pelo menos durante o Verão. Às cinco, as primeiras luzes do dia já queimam o horizonte. Das seis às nove é um bom período para trabalho duro, como a mecânica do Andy e as expedições de pesca do JP. Por volta das seis horas o guarda que ficou durante a noite é rendido pelo outro.

 

O Andy e o Paul tomam o pequeno almoço juntos, altura em que mantêm as conversas importantes do dia. A manhã é mais ou menos ocupada, dependendo das circunstâncias. O pequeno almoço tem aqui o engraçado nome de “matabicho”, uma forma maluca de designar o apetite matinal. E ele tem de ser enorme para ser preciso matá-lo!

 

Para um apetite desses, só um bom pequeno almoço. Tradicionalmente, o pequeno-almoço moçambicano costumava ser uma refeição importante, mas hoje a maior parte das famílias já se contenta se tiver pão e chá antes de sair para o trabalho.

 

O Andy gosta de café e ovos, mas ele geralmente espera pela Tieta. Ele começa a manhã com qualquer coisa leve e faz um pequeno almoço a meio da manhã, enquanto o Paul gosta de fruta, porridge e chá. É também tradição local petiscar qualquer coisa a meio da manhâ, especialmente durante o Verão quando as manhãs são longas e cansativas.

 

O meu papel no processo de manter a máquina-doméstica a funcionar é meramente organizativo. Tenho de fazer as compras na sexta-feira e garantir que tudo funciona. Às vezes temos de dar de comer a dez pessoas e isso exige algum planeamento. Eu gosto de intervenções domésticas, de vez em quando. O que eu mais gosto na minha existência doméstica é de organizar as nossas gavetas e deitar fora a tralha que se acumula. Adoro o gesto de abrir uma gaveta e ver como ela está arrumada e limpa! Eu penso que esta espécie de hobby tem muito a ver com a minha experiência anterior nas nossas lojas e a velha tendência de ser perfecionista, coisa que combati mas ainda não esqueci inteiramente.

 

O lanche é geralmente uma opção individual, muito mais popular durante o Inverno do que no Verão, quando o lanche é altura de se reunir com amigos para beberem algumas cervejas juntos. Nós os três somos malucos por sopa ao jantar e se comemmos qualquer coisa mais são restos do almoço ou qualquer coisa fácil de preparar.

 

À excepção dos domingos, quando o almoço pode começar só às duas da tarde e prolongar-se até à tardinha, nos dias úteis o almoço é por volta do meio-dia. O nosso almoço consiste de uma salada fresca, um prato principal e fruta. Eu organizei um sistema simples para evitar a tortura diária de responder à questão: “O que vamos comer hoje?” É assim: segunda~feira é sempre galinha; terça, é a vez de carne; quarta~feira é para peixe; quinta, galinha de novo; sexta é bom dia para peixe; no sábado fazemos churrasco, carril, marisco ou feijoada, comidas de que gostamos mais; finalmente, no domingo, vamos almoçar fora. 

 

Eu tento manter-me ocupada desde o momento em que acordo até ao fim da tarde, quando me torno um pouco sedentária: escrevo, dou algum apoio ao Paul, leio, vejo um filme ou oiço música. O Paul, que se deita cedo, a essa hora já gosta de estar de pijama. Para o Andy, é tempo de tomar banho e sair com amigos ou namorada.

 

Geralmente eu sou a última a dormir. Mesmo depois de ler um pouco, muitas vezes sento-me para ouvir os estranhos sons da noite. Esses meus mergulhos na escuridão acontecem com mais frequência quando chove e uma grande orquestra de grilos e rãs toca sem cessar. Nessas noites sem sono, só me apercebo da hora tardia quando o George ou Albert começam a executar a routina matinal: regar as plantas, bombar água para três reservatórios e varrer as folhas caídas depois da chuva. Esta é mais ou menos a nossa vida, com muito pouco de africano!