Maputo

It takes just under an hour to fly from Johannesburg to Maputo, the capital of Mozambique, but it feels as if you’ve landed in another world. Johannesburg International Airport is fast paced and cosmopolitan, full of people sipping on cappuccinos and browsing through Chanel perfumes and Lacoste polos to pass the time on a layover. Maputo International, on the other hand, isn’t much more than a landing strip, some cargo jet carcasses, and a big shed that doubles as a terminal. There are no gates or jet ways as the airport is only equipped to handle one airplane at a time, and all the luggage is transported by a rusty tractor hooked up to a wagon. And God help anyone who actually has a layover in Maputo because the only thing to do is drink beer in the 8-chair bar and hope that at some point another flight will arrive.

Miraculously, all of my suitcases made it to Mozambique on time and in one piece. I piled everything onto a creaky luggage cart and wheeled towards customs. I hadn’t made it halfway to the “Nothing to Declare” line when an imposing figure in an olive military uniform approached me and, without even asking what was in my bags, waved me into a small room. “Passport, please.” The official looked at my visa stamp and asked suspiciously, “And what will you be doing in Mozambique, Ms. Burr?” I explained that I was in the country to work as a fundraiser for agricultural projects and would be living in Chimoio for the next year. He placed my suitcases on a small table and began taking out all the contents I’d so carefully folded and arranged. “Of course you don’t mind if I have a look, right?”

“No, please, go ahead.” The official began with my backpack, taking out my iPod, brand new iPod speakers, Palm Pilot, digital camera, and a tangle of cords and adapters.

“It seems you have quite a lot of electronics here. Where are your receipts?” How much did you pay for this camera?”

“Everything here was a present from my Dad. I don’t know how much he paid.”

“Well, if you don’t have receipts I’m going to have to determine the value of these electronics. I think this camera, for example, is worth $400. You’ll have to pay to bring these things into Mozambique.”

“But sir,” I protested, “How will I take photos of your beautiful country if you make me pay for the camera? I don’t think that’s right.” I gave him a saccharine smile, knowing exactly how the situation would play out. The Portuguese left a fabulous legacy both in Mozambique and Brazil of bureaucracy and bribes, and petty government figures are the worst for squeezing a little extra cash out of even the simplest transactions.

The official held out his hand behind my suitcase and whispered, “Here, you pay me now. Pay here.” I fished around in my wallet and retrieved a $20 bill, likely the equivalent of a week’s salary for him. We quickly completed the transaction and he smiled, satisfied with the fat bribe, but not yet done looking through my things. He continued pawing through my suitcases, pulling out my clothes, opening bottles of lotion and sunscreen, and sniffing at my multivitamins and assorted medicines. He came across my stock of Tampax and triumphantly held up three brand new boxes. “You didn’t bring enough!” His belly shook with laughter. “For one year you will need much more than this!” Right, very funny. What an observation. On that note, the official piled everything back in my bags and extended his hand. “Welcome to Mozambique.”

Ricardo was waiting for me outside the terminal amidst a throng of porters, people carrying crates of produce and cardboard boxes, and curious onlookers. I ran over to him and gave one of the most heartfelt hugs of my life. My trip from Rio to Maputo had gone off nearly perfectly, the only bump along the way being the bribe at customs, and God was I relieved to see a familiar face waiting for me at the end of the journey. Ricardo took my suitcases and we piled into the saddest excuse for a taxi I’ve ever seen. The car was all mismatched junkyard parts and primer, the only actual paint being a bright yellow roof. The dashboard was a mess of wires and cracked plastic, but somehow the radio still functioned and was blaring out Afropop hits. Abdala, the cab driver who would be with us for the next several days, did a masterful job of fitting all of my things into the hatchback and we set off for the city center. This was my first taste of mão inglesa, as the Portuguese refer to driving on the left hand side of the road, and I must say it felt ALL WRONG. The steering wheel was misplaced, the gearshift was switched, and cars were transiting down the wrong side of the street. It seemed as if someone was holding up a giant mirror to everything and everyone except me.

Once I got over the initial shock of mão inglesa, I was plastered to the window, absolutely fascinated by Maputo. On the one hand, it a city with all of the apparent infrastructure and social problems of a developing country. The roads, when asphalted, are full of crater-sized potholes and have precious few signs or traffic signals. Pedestrians and animals wander into the streets, seemingly oblivious to the rush of vehicles, making driving a veritable obstacle course. Women dressed in brightly printed skirts and head wraps sell fruit, cigarettes, second-hand shoes, and newspapers on big mats while their barefoot children run around further clogging the space that otherwise would serve as a sidewalk. Everything appears dusty, crumbling and forgotten. On the other hand, billboards are up all over Maputo advertising cell phones with infrared ports, Toshiba laptops, and the marvels of cable TV. Mozambique simply skipped an entire phase of modernization in certain areas, going from a total lack of infrastructure due to colonial neglect and civil war straight to cutting-edge technology. Such are the contradictions here; a person living on less than a dollar a day might have a cell phone but no running water at home.

Thursday night Ricardo and I went out for dinner at one of Maputo’s best restaurants, Costa do Sol. We sat at an outdoor table just across from the beach, sipping on white wine and catching up on the four years since we’d last seen each other. In the distance, the moon rose full and bright over the Indian Ocean casting a reflection on the water. Ricardo knew the owner of the restaurant and he took amazing care of us, bringing out sampler platters of the best seafood I’ve ever eaten. We shared a crab the size of a dinner plate, laughing as we struggled to hammer its shell open and get out every sweet piece of meat. Then came a tray of tiger shrimp, each one easily five inches long, sautéed with garlic and potatoes. We got a second bottle of wine to celebrate my arrival, settled the bill, and then headed back to our apartment downtown.

The next day we got down to business bright and early. Ricardo is the President of Manica Agrolink, a consulting firm started by some friends of ours that promotes business development in the agricultural sector. I am currently employed by Agrolink as a Fundraiser, and Ricardo spent the day briefing me on the latest deals the company is trying to put together. We had several meetings with potential clients and business partners including some hydro-geologists, an agronomist, and an investment banker. I was blown away by the possibilities that exist here in Mozambique. The country is in a state of rapid development, especially in sectors such as agriculture and tourism, and now is the time to act. The money is available, people are willing to work hard, and there are interesting projects to support. The only thing missing is the right people to link everything together…and here we are.

That night Ricardo and I went out again to a small bar downtown to have drinks and dinner. The previous week, Ricardo had taught the owner how to properly make caipirinhas, cutting out the bitter white part of the lemon, mixing in the right amount of sugar, smashing everything together, and pouring in just enough cachaça to make it pop. The owner was from Zambézia state, an area in the north known for having the best food in Mozambique. He went back to the kitchen and prepared a veritable feast for us. First we had shish-kabobs with chunks of spicy beef, onions, and bell peppers. Then he brought out soft-shelled crabs liberally doused with a spicy sauce that made the roof of my mouth fall asleep for a good 20 minutes. Finally he brought out the main course: grilled chicken with peppers, a mash of white beans and manioc, and pumpkin leaves pureed with coconut milk. Needless to say the food was delicious, and we washed everything down with the closest thing Mozambique has seen to authentic Brazilian caipirinhas. The best part? We walked out of the bar without paying a thing for our meal. The owner wouldn’t accept even a tip, saying that the spike in caipirinhas sales he’d already experienced was quite sufficient.

The following morning Ricardo and I packed up all of our suitcases and Abdala gave us a lift to the airport. More adventures next time as I catch up on my narrative and tell about our trip from Maputo to Beira by plane, then on to Chimoio by 4x4…