Our morning at the taxi rank at old fort road started off well. There were bucket loads of laughter caused by the confusion about whose seats were booked by which items of clothing, turning into sarcastic arguments full of humor. No one actually cared about where they were sitting. Tangible cultural boundaries were sensed when the younger men compiled jokes amoungst themselves, shouting them out the window at a mozambican lady, smoking cigarettes, outside the taxi. (It turned out that this lady was also kind hearted and had a significant part to play in our journey). Both parties just passing time while we waited for the taxi to fill up.
The trip up to Maputo will be remembered for abundant samosas (the word abundant I feel can only take on its most superlative form when followed by samosas), insight into Islam and more stops to bottle stores than necessary on a ordinary commute between countries. The last such stop (out of five) was to Riverside bottle store in Swaziland. There was no river nearby, I reckon the owners had got stuck into their own supplies before naming the place. A surprising percentage of passengers flooded out with slightly outstretched arms into the bottlestore. An equal number returned just as quickly but drawing most attention was the driver following closely behind with a large grin and a large sixpack under his arm. He was closely monitored, however, he was keeping them for later.
The Swazi stretch. I am currently laughing. My stomach is sore. We're all laughing. Partially out of fear. We're pushing the limits of this wv, past those envisaged by those Germans in their comfy seats far away in the northern hemisphere where roads are entirely different things. They didn't envisage taxi drivers trying to find paths for the automobile and trailer (loaded to above roof height) over barely intact pieces of tar, and operated by drivers who suddenly realize they're actually now in a rush( probably to get that sixpack into the fridge)
Although I'm pleased that the driver is consciously trying to avoid potholes, the fact that the same speed is maintained throughout creates some pretty interesting situations. I am strongly convinced that someone recently gave him a pep talk in being consistent in his life but wasn’t specific about which areas he should be flexible in.
I have figured out that if I close my eyes it feels like im on a really badly engineered roller coaster. Its just as scary as the taxi im in, but its also fun. I’m still laughing out of fear. I'm also laughing because two guys who haven't uttered a word have found their singing voices. Now everybody laughs.. Side note. There has not been a single episode of silence the entire trip (even if the taxi didn't rattle like a epileptic rattlesnake, silence would not exist) everybody is still laughing, now particularly at a mozambican who previously was not contributing anything more than an average amount of weight and space but has now found his shouting voice, quite miraculously. I am suspicious of a handful of green bottles at his feet.
Goloko then became the cause of a row which although mildly entertaining, got somewhat heated for a while. They were going in circles about who was buying who drinks on the weekend when all of a sudden; I will call her ‘the beatenberg lady’, shouted loudly: 'acebou!’ which means relax your vibe, in portuguese. She stands up with her phone next to hear ear and starts dancing (her lack of height was on her side) with hands halfway up in the air (she wasn't that short) her eyes open widely as she gets the phone passed around the taxi with a entirely expectant look on her face. She's still dancing, but every time someone new hears it she stalls, with even wider eyes expecting nothing less than pure ecstasy, and nothing less than a hundred percent attempt at maximum movement within whatever space was available. It was infectious. Like the ibhola virus. That may be too soon to use as a comical simile. (Could someone in the medical field inform me if this is so). It ended the fight and started a dance party that lasted to the border. Thanks for the beats beatenberg
After being ridiculously delayed at the border, the driver found another gear, one that the Germans don't even know about. The now slightly sozzled passengers started egging the driving on screaming 'shaya imoto' 'shaya imoto!' Not quite aware of the irony of the statement which could easily imply suicidal tendencies instead (the word shaya more commonly means hit than overtake)
The decision to stop at too many bottle stores inevitably caused problems further down the line. We were stopped at a roadblock near Boane. Mozam police are bored and highly underpaid. Calm thinking and patience are required with them. Not surprisingly Things didn't go well on this occasion. We were still a good way out of Maputo. Which wouldn't have been a massive issue if the phone lines were working. They weren't. By the time the police people relaxed their own vibes, and we were allowed to go, it was getting dark. This was the 11th hour on the mphophopho. It should have taken 7. Walking from the taxi rank to the Masana house would have been possible, but highly inconvenient that late at night. Umlungus are very visible at night, George would have been fine but he smiles so much, and so is also often visible. Luckily we got a lift from the taxi rank relatively close to the house (by an aunt of the lady i mentioned earlier) I generally do not condone this kind of descision making, but Sabrina was trustworthy and responsible, she only had 3 beers. At this point I must apologize to Lauren who had already been stressing the entire afternoon. More so when Chico asked at the rank if anyone had seen us and they told him that two umlungus and a Kenyan had got into a car an hour ago, cortisol levels must have gone up considerably.
The weekend itself was refreshing and nostalgic. My friends working in Maputo are Heros and I appreciate their friendship. Every time I learn from them things that can't be explained and am encouraged and motivated in ways that I could try describe, but would fall dismally short. Thanks for reminding me of what is possible and what is important. The rest of the weekend is my own story.
Driving back to the rank early in the morning in revealead a degree of ambivalence to Maputos character. The partially sleeping city was a refreshing change to the traffic jams and perpetual busyness of Maputo. This dreamy existence was completely shattered when entering the taxi rank, where it seems everyone was considerably more awake than we were. One very quickly starts to awaken when swamped by money changers, vendadores and faces moving about with way too much purpose this early in the morning. Seeing ladies selling bread and samosas from buckets on their head was very impressive to me at that hour. I still felt sleepy. The awakening process only completely materialized as we were being ushered into a taxi that was already leaving. No sooner were we off than the old school power beats began. All of them. Every one ever made. By white people. (I'm not talking about Marvin Gaye) I'm talking about Elton johns mates. Taxis always lie close to the realm of absurdity and never in the banal. We got back safe, full of shared food and stories to tell. I'm glad a bus wasn't an option.
