Unexpected Party

 

Andy’s party was supposed to happen on Sunday 21, but not the way it really happened. JP arrived that same day from Qatar and we had plenty reasons to celebrate.

 

Being a Sunday, I knew guard George and I would have to sweat a good part of the afternoon to be ready around 6pm. But the truth is that Paul said the magical word “feijoada” and soon, before 1pm, a crowd of 30 noisy, thirsty souls invaded our backyard.

 

I don’t mind parties and happy people, on the contrary, but I do like things to happen my own way. When I am forced to watch people dancing and drinking right after my breakfast (It was Sunday, per Jupiter!), my mood turns a bit sour.

 

Anyway, George and I have done all we could to make Andy feel happy and JP welcomed. I suppose we succeeded. There were broken glasses, tears and conspiracy clouds… The contrary would mean boring.

 

Looking back through the blurred window of the days already past, I can realize now that this party group seem to be getting old very fast, so fast they didn’t have time to realize it yet.

Mornings Without Sun

 

 

 

 

 

Mornings are instants
Forever lost, forever written

 

Mornings are words
Never asked, never told

 

 

                   Eyes diluted in the mist

Writing Pause

 

I’ve been writing a book. I am sure that I’ll finish it and maybe write some more, but I felt like stopping for a while. The reason making me stop is puzzlement. I don’t know if writer puzzlement exists, but I am sure simple human puzzlement is common.

 

I was writing under the impression that a polluted and smelly river was a bad thing from any possible point of view. I needed information, so I started to read a local blog and discovered a few disturbing aspects: 1) Local people don’t seem to bother that much. 2) They get offended if a stranger points at the river condition and the fetid stench, being stranger any person who doesn’t live there. It’s like they are saying: “If you don’t smell it, you are not allowed to touch the subject.”

 

As a person and as someone trying to write, I’ve just discovered that my truth never is absolute. I am sure this puzzlement is a learning process that will change the way I write and maybe the way I live. For now, I absolutely need this assessment pause.

Fragile Economy

 

We live under a very fragile economy. It just takes day-to-day small things to keep us remembering of that.

 

Since weeks ago we started to notice that a few basic stuff went missing from the shelves. It’s truth that we only shop in two or three places, but they are the main suppliers of Maputo consumers. For instance, I couldn’t find honey to bake a cake and we had to search in three different shops before finding our regular washing powder. 

 

It took us to be in South Africa to realize why: the Rand is getting stronger and Mozambican economy is complaining. Between other things, this is also a clear indicator of the deficient capitalization of this system. The fact is that nobody cares, government included.

 

They all forget (or never learned) the importance of a strong private sector for the economy. I know they all admit it and now and then loudly say it. They even write it on paper. In practical terms, there’s no single measure indicating that same importance.

TV Cooking

 

Saturday 6 was a happy day. A happy day, obviously, starts with a happy morning. And what defines a happy morning? Sometimes it’s just a slant of autumn light. Sometimes it’s just a gust of wind. And sometimes it’s a humming sound escaping from an open door.

 

Saturday mornings are faithfully devoted to cooking. On that particular one I tested a few TV recipes, both sweet and savoury. The last one was easy and consisted of a simplified lasagna recipe. The dessert turned out to be too sweet and gluey.

 

While I was cooking inside, Tieta mastered her matapa in our small backyard kitchen and puppy Keket, who is rediscovering the pleasures of past privileges and her fondness for Yellow Spiky, played not far from my feet. Sometimes I give, sometimes I take back. It seems to be a popular current motto and I am a good student. Anyway, sometime in the morning I remember for a moment thinking how television has been helping people to get better in the kitchen. Finally… a merit!

About Being Yellow and Red

 

 

 Round and round it goes

      Yellow that’s how it is

 

The centre explodes in red

The colour exists to please

 

       It gives, gently it gives

     Again, again and again

 

          Fragility in the wind

          Flower until the end

 

                                   It can seem pointlessly happy            But when closed for the night

                                         It can seem utterly boring            Tomorrow is a different story

 

 

June Craft Exhibition

 

Old, beautiful Fortaleza de Maputo staged an exhibition under the designation: Feira Junina-Artesanato. The name is just because it happened in June, period not only ideal for events of this nature but also when Mozambique celebrates 34 years as an independent country. An organization associated to the World Crafts Council was responsible for the event sponsored by a couple of local companies. The purpose was celebrating being Mozambican, through cultural tradition and craftsmanship.

 

All in all, the positive aspects supplanted the negative: 1) Picking Fortaleza de Maputo was a good move. 2) The visit was worthwhile, both in terms of quality and quantity. 3) A timid attempt to show Mozambican cuisine was highly appreciated.

 

Negative, only the fact that it was too short: a mere 4 days, 3 to 7 of June. We could hear people complaining everywhere. This is a small town. Most people go to a place because they hear someone talking about it. Publicizing works, but independent opinion works even better.

 

Presumably, the best crafts of all corners of Mozambique could be appreciated during Feira Junina. My favorite stand displayed silver and Ming porcelain work. The sea gives 500 years old nuggets of history and people transform them into the bread they eat. It has been like this since ever. History nature and the poor, a clever partnership.

Photographer Eyes

 

Shortly after we started a newsletter with a small space to photographers and their stories, I noticed that an important newspaper had the same idea. Well, it’s not a new thing and, besides, we all imitate someone else’s these days.

 

A couple of weeks ago they published an amazing picture. The moment I saw it I understood what a photographer really is: a person who wants other people to see things the way he sees them. I knew it because I recognized the need to make people look through my own eyes. It’s a familiar feeling.

 

That doesn’t mean I am a photographer. To be a photographer requires a few skills I don’t have, at least for now. Anyway, that extraordinary picture wasn’t very different from the best picture I would have taken if the person driving the car where I was had just stopped when I asked.

 

This would be my best picture ever: I was in a car leaving the Kruger Park, so I had a camera with me. The weather was very dry and hot. I saw the man from a reasonable distance, distance enough to stop and shoot if I was heard. That man was sitting on a tiny metal bar part of the sugar cane irrigation system, high above the ground, rubbing soap on his half naked body as if he was comfortably showering at home.

 

A good picture results from the combination of opportunity, eyes, camera and skills. That particular day I learned that sometimes a photographer also needs the support and good will of other people.

 

                                                                                                     In memoriam Ricardo Rangel.

Under a Tree

 

Since a week ago, I swapped my healthy eating habits for just eating. Why? Because the equation traveling with Paul and Andy equals eating non-stop is becoming sort of a pattern. In the end, Paul always complains: “We eat too much… We spend too much in food…” Needless to say he is the first to say “let’s” when the opportunity comes.

 

The owner of the place where we stayed suggested the first restaurant. We had stopped on the road for lunch and, as the meat portions in South Africa are gigantic, we weren’t really hungry. We craved fish to level the appetite.

 

The restaurant was a small, unpretentious place, yet the chef keeps the tables busy. We all ordered fish. I found the grilled sole I picked very okay, yet far from extraordinaire.

 

The next day we had beef fillet with spinach mash (Andy actual favorite food) and fries. We usually select the same mid-shopping place: nice, busy, but not extraordinaire.

 

Thursday night we went to an emblematic seafront restaurant where we regularly eat when in Duban. Finally, we had an almost extraordinaire moment. Extraordinaire was discovering that the main chef and manager is, in reality, a Mozambican character named Luís (Louis, as he is called). He cooks and performs. To be precise, he performs while cooking Japanese. Between other things, he can joggle pepper and salt mills, he can build an egg tower or make hearts out of fried rice.

 

The next day we had just a light meal before heading back to Maputo, a 560km ride. Saturday we returned to Tieta’s diet, whose highlight was a peanut curry.

 

Sunday I backed a honey cake, a recipe I really wanted to try and couldn’t just because there’s no honey available here. I brought it from South Africa, evidently. The cake is good, but not extraordinaire. Cakes involving liquid ingredients are a bit tricky to bake. I suppose it’s due to the existing high level of humidity.

 

We have an agreement in terms of Sunday lunch. The weeks we manage to visit a beach, we stay home. The remaining weeks we lunch out. No beach this week, so we went out for lunch.

 

The hotel where Jo once worked as a chef has occupied one of the too many beautiful and neglected areas of this town. It’s now a café, a small garden, an event space and a very small open theater. The food is simple, nothing extraordinaire about it, but the weather has been fantastic and we had lunch under a very old acacia tree. And that is, admittedly, extraordinaire.

These Silent Waters