You tell them they're in poverty

Its Monday morning and its very very hot. Usually there's a refreshing sea breeze here in paradise which helps to take the edge off the sun but now even in the shade its hot. It doesn't help that everything here is built from clay bricks and corrugated iron roof, much like an oven in design, which makes the temperature inside almost unbearable. But despite that, its been an eventful week.

It has also been a week which was thankfully not spent travelling to, spending a night in, and travelling back from, Malawi. Last Monday we went to Nampula for the purpose of buying a ticket for the train and working our way there but instead we managed to extend our visas in-country and could manage to return here the same day. Because me and Celisse were joined on the journey by the two volunteers and one of the staff from Sunset (for their safety on the way back, should me and Celisse have to go to Malawi) we hired a small minibus for the journey rather than take the 3am public bus. It was relative luxury travelling without the company of goats, chickens and screaming babies but of course we paid considerably more for this luxury.

When we got to the city we headed straight for Migraçao, a small office filled with mostly asian people who, like us, were extending their stay in Mozambique for predominantly economic reasons. Despite the fact that all that is required to extend the visa is a stamp and a signature, the process takes a week and so our passports were left there. We headed for a coffee and a mid-morning pint (we're on holiday) and waited for the volunteers to finish their shopping. In the afternoon I printed out the surveys which I'm using for the feasibility study and briefly contemplated buying a motorbike to take back with us, before deciding against it until our employment and financial situations are sorted out a wee bit.

Motorbikes are a status symbol in Mossuril and garner a level of respect which a big Jaguar might in the West. Cars are few and far between here with only the heads of local government and police and a few big business and NGOs owning one. Their rarity may also explain the tendency for small children to sprint after them whenever they pass through a small village. Anyway, I'll speak more about that later.

On Wednesday we got the early boat to Ilha for some good food and to show the volunteers around, but more importantly to open me a bank account and check the mail for the packages me and Celisse have been sent by our respective mothers. The food was, as always, good and despite not being able to open an account (passport in Nampula) and not getting my package (only 3 weeks after my birthday) we left there full and happy. The minute I got back to Sunset I got phoned by Muaco, the primary teacher we've helped out over the last few months and my contact for the football. I've only played once since our disappointing loss last time and that was more an informal kickabout with some school pupils. He was asking me to come along to a grudge match.

Wednesday was Mozambican Teachers' Day, the climax at the end of Teachers' Week. It was marked by an annual game of football. At stake was a year's worth of bragging rights and the ability to decide the ultimate champion between the two titanic sides of: Primary School Teachers Vs Secondary School Teachers. After I got my shorts on and slapped on the Factor 50 I turned up 2 minutes after kick-off with the score still goalless. The pitch hadn't changed much since the last time I played, vast swathes of it were soft sand which was impossible to run or pass in and long-balls dominated play. A young, very enthusiastic boy ran off to get me my Primary School strip, a replica Barcelona shirt and shorts that I can only assume was donated because of the club's affiliation with UNICEF. At least they can be sure their shirts are going to good use! The first minute I was on I got a boot in the shin for my troubles. I don't know whether the ferocity in it was by accident, because I'm white or because I was playing for the Primary Teachers. Either way it hurt. The game was brutal and by half time we had ground out a 1-0 lead which was far from safe. All I could think about at half time was water, there was none to be seen. The same boy bounded up with a small thermos tank which he began to offer around. Inside were small home-made ice-lollies. They are made from stewing fruit in water and sugar, mashing it until its liquid and freezing it in individual plastic bags. I ripped open a plastic bag and joined my team mates in sucking the cold, fruity liquid. There was a distinct taste of fish which accompanied the sweet fruit and it was unclear whether this was intentional or not. I doubt 'fishy fruit' ice-creams would catch on back home.

The second half was ushered in with the crowd of over 200 hundred primary and secondary school pupils, old gin-drinking men and local policemen joining in songs for their respective side. Our central-midfielder Castro (interesting throwback to Mozambique's socialist history) put us two ahead with a long-range shot which beat the elderly Secondary goalkeeper and with 10 minutes left the game seemed to be beyond doubt. A highly disputed goal from their captain (a large man whom I had meet before my first game for Os Professores to ask his permission to play) led to a frantic and even more physical climax which, despite a multitude of big tackles and impressive bruises, we managed to edge out 2-1. After shaking hands and having a pitch invasion sing to us (they don't do that in Scotland) I limped back for a shower and some First Aid. The ice-lolly turned out to be a bad idea as I discovered they don't boil the well water before using it. No bother for the locals here but not friendly to Western stomachs.

But enough about bowels. On Saturday we were asked to take photos and film at the graduation ceremony of local teachers. Due to us both having graduated this year we agreed to be the official press pack there, despite it requiring us to sit in a hot room from 8am on a Saturday morning. It became very clear though that this was a very different type of graduation ceremony. The teachers has already been teaching for a year, I suppose the equivalent of a probation year in the UK. The oldest and youngest graduates were presented first, being 55 and 31 respectively. With the life expectancy in Mozambique being considerably below 50, for a 55 year old to put in the effort to train as a teacher was very impressive. But more on him later. We stood and listened to what seemed like dozens of verses of the national anthem (“Mozambique is our glorious country...”) and a variety of teachers' songs, as well as every graduand being presented with a rose and a scroll by a different member of the large VIP contingent there, it was time for photos. We patiently took group photos outside the administration building and waited for lunctime.

Lunch was served in one of the classrooms, on small, uncomfortable sloping desks. It consisted of cold chicken, chips and rice, all overcooked and a bit rubbery, but on the whole good. With it everyone was given a bottle of beer, soft-drink and water. It was nice to see almost all of the assembled company taking home doggy-bags for their family at home. Before lunch could be started though, the officials took their seats and the champagne needed to be opened. One bottle of champagne was provided for the 37 graduands, 15-20 VIPs and others. The oldest and youngest were again presented to open and distribute. The mild-mannered old man looked a bit sheepish. He had no idea how to open a bottle of champagne and, although hugely honoured to be asked to perform this most important of celebratory tasks, was unable to complete it. Lisa told me to go up and help but I felt bad sauntering up and stealing the limelight if he was able to work it out for himself. Lisa asked the Master of Ceremonies if it was ok if I helped and he made an official announcement that I was there “to assist in the opening of the champagne”. I was quite proud of my official role in proceedings and after it was opened, a splash of champagne was offered to every one of the assembled company for the toast.

After the meal there was a short interlude which seemed to be set aside for the telling of jokes with 3 or 4 different people getting up, apologising to the VIPs in advance, and telling what I understood to be generally dirty jokes. After this the VIPs left (I think it was scheduled and not because of the jokes) and we stood taking photos for a while longer. The district head of culture (a teaching role but still an impressive title) asked if me and Celisse could come along to speak about American culture with him and for him to teach us the differences between Portuguese, Mozambican and Makua culture and their influences on Mossuril today. He asked us to go in this morning but was a no-show and rescheduled for Wednesday. After all the football and local beer I'm looking forward to a bit of a cultural education.

Yesterday was another day of highs and lows. Due to our current lack of mobility and my longing for my scooter at home, I borrowed the motorbike from Mugiva, one of the guys here at Sunset to drive to the beach with Celisse. I had gone for a practice on Friday afternoon to get my head round the gears (not present on my 49cc beauty at home) and the soft-sand driving which has scared the balls off me when I've been on the back of bikes here. His bike is one of the most common types in Nampula Province, an old Chinese 125cc road bike that looks like its right out of the mid-80s. We went to the house of Mugiva's “other wife”, he has two. The area he lives is remote, secluded and difficult to get to. There are about 10 houses which are all home to different members of his family, all busily prising open cockels and skinning root vegetables in mud-huts. Mugiva is the chief of this village. The silence, the gentle lapping of the sea in the mangroves and the remoteness of the place, despite its proximity to Mossuril and Ilha (only a half hour row across the bay) made me quite like the place. Mugiva owns all the land here and wants to start up some business here to add to the booming trade around the rest of Mossuril Bay. Given the money I would do it like a shot.

Anyway, back to yesterday. Between me and Mugiva we had convinced Celisse of my ability to safely get her from A to B and, with the threat that if I kill Celisse, her Mum will kill me, fresh in my mind, we headed out. I don't like breaking promises to my mother but driving down an open road at 80km/h with nothing protecting my head apart from a sleek pair of sunglasses was something that she expressly asked me not to do. And I don't regret it for a second. We drove from Mossuril to Chocas Mar along the solid dirt road without too many issues. When we hit the soft sand between Chocas, a small beach-resort town in its own right, and Carrusca, a beautiful beach with hotel and restaurant facilities, problems began. The combination of the soft sand, the old motorbike and my relative inability to drive it properly meant that within 100 yards of hitting the sand we had fallen off 3 times, the gear pedal had completely detatched and the handlebars were starting to dislocate from the rest of the bike. Bad times. As we were starting to push the bike back to Chocas to get it fixed we met the owners of Bel-Moz who we had spoken to only a few days before. We locked the bike, had it pushed to the garage and jumped in the back of their car to get, safely, to the beach.

They were heading to Coral Lodge, a luxury 5-star hotel and restaurant set on the banks of a natural lagoon on a peninsula almost completely surrounded by light-blue sea and white sand. There is a swimming pool, diving trips to see dolphins and sharks and snorkelling around the coral reef. It is an unbelievably beautiful place. The Dutch couple who own it showed us round one of the rooms and the hotel grounds. For around $500 per night full board you get all meals, house drinks and a diving trip thrown in, a private villa with beach access and a small patio and, wait for it, an air-conditioning unit built into the canopy of your four-poster bed. All we wanted was a bacon sandwich.

Northern Mozambique is predominantly Muslim and so pork is hard to come by. The head chef at Coral Lodge, Carlos, is Mozambican but has worked around the world and is a 5-star rated chef. I felt bad just asking him for a bacon roll but he pulled out all the stops. Our olive-oil-soaked sour-dough bread sandwich was packed with 3 or 4 layers of prime bacon, with the LT of the BLT placed outside the sandwich so as we could add it ourselves. The small pots of ketchup and mayonnaise for the oven-baked chips were a nice touch and the salad dressing was incredible. We were immediately offered desert which was a home-made mango ice-cream with some kind of sponge cake which seemed to be crunchy on the outside and incredibly light on the inside. This was food. We were given cold, boiled water and I had a beer. We were charged 'mates rates' for the meal which came to around £10 after the discount, for 2 bottles of water, a coke, a beer, 2 of the best bacon sandwiches I have ever eaten and 2 desserts. We had almost forgotten the motorbike-related stress of the morning.

The staff at Coral Lodge are all local people, mostly living in Cabaceira Pequena, a village which is an island for half of the day, when the tide is high and is one of the least 'developed' places in the district. If the tide is high they swim to work, if its low they power-walk for an hour and a half to work incredibly hard learning english, restaurant techniques and all of thee other functions of a luxury lodge. These are very smart people, trained very well to deliver excellent service. I hope to be returning to Coral Lodge very soon for more of the same!

This blog is very long. Thats partly because we did a lot this week, partly because I'm feeling a bit wordy and partly because, due to our work on Saturday morning, we've been given Monday off. But bear with me, I'm having an epiphany.

Throughout my two years in Swaziland I didn't really see dire poverty. Thats partly because I was living in the most expensive private school in the country in amongst some of the wealthiest students in Southern Africa but partly also because I was not entirely aware of what dire poverty looked like. Mbabane was a clean, relatively expensive capital city with shopping malls and western shops. Poverty in Swaziland was confined mostly to rural areas and we didn't go to them very often.

Now I'm here I often think that I am not seeing poverty because of how well Mozambique is doing in terms of development. But its not that, Mossuril is still one of the poorest parts of one of the poorest countries in the world. This is the home of the opposition party and so its politically in the ruling party's interest to not invest into this area. The only solution left is that I am seeing poverty every day, all around me. People live in mud-huts with no electricity and no running water and are lucky if they live past 50, but they're just so happy. Karl Marx said that the presence of leisure is the sure sign of freedom, or something like that. Someone else said that civil society is the most important way to develop a middle class, which is the most important group for the development of a country. Throughout this week I have witnessed civil society in full swing here: organised football clubs, music groups, graduation ceremonies, local people meeting at bars to eat and drink with their surplus income, and everyone happy and laughing. You come to some of the poorest, most deprived areas of Africa and I bet you will find an overweight, middle-aged woman missing most of her teeth laughing hysterically at a dirty joke her pal just told her. You can come out with all the dollar-a-day poverty indicators and studies you want, people here are happy and they're getting on with their lives, eating and drinking.

And I'm not saying that there is not poverty in the world. Where there are famines, droughts, no food at all and a reliance on aid, that may be famine. If people are struggling to eat or stay alive that is poverty in my view. But, if you see someone today, and then you see him again next week, he has eaten and drank and makes plans and has dreams the same as everyone else. You try telling them they're in poverty. They'll laugh in your face.

Oh, and just a final piece of animal news: The dog is thin and losing hair at a rate of knots. The cat gave birth to 3 kittens on Saturday night and is intermittently beating the living crap out of the dog.