On Maputo, Concrete, and Technology

**Please note that due to technical difficulties, this post was written yesterday (Monday) but is being posted today (Tuesday)**

We awoke as we do most mornings here, at 0530 (at least here it is because the sun is coming through the window and not because I have to be in the ICU in 30 minutes), each peeling ourselves from our respective sheet, thankful we at least have a fan to circulate the oppressively hot and heavy air throughout our little cement room (imagine a brick oven that you might use to bake things—or people—with). After a cold shower (which is likely the only 10 minutes of the day we might not be sweating), we share breakfast with our front door open as to try and let in some of the cooler morning air. The view from our front door is not all that breathtaking as it is comprised mostly of the cement wall that surrounds the grounds of the Dutch Reform Church where we are staying. Every once in a while, we hear a rooster crow or a Muslim call to prayer in the distance, or someone on their way to the church wanders to the water spigot that is located in our “front yard”. Not uncommonly, we hear voices outside the wall and notice women walking by as marked by their basket of wares which bob just above the surface of the wall. We often make bets about what’s in the bag—today it was a baby bobbing along, either hitching a ride on someone’s neck or a really tall baby!

Anyway, after breakfast, we typically are off to work or church, but today, we took an extended weekend as the Mulenga family was traveling to South Africa to see their youngest daughter off to boarding school for the term (and any work we would have done today would have fallen on non-English speaking ears). So we walked to the center of Machava to catch a chapa into Maputo for further exploration. I think we have mentioned before that a chapa is a taxi here, much like the tro-tro’s of Ghana and the combi’s of Botswana. We’ll talk more about them later, but suffice it to say if we weren’t quite sweaty yet, a 20min ride standing between dozens of sweaty people made it so.

On arrival to town, we squeezed out of the chapa and began to navigate the city once again, taking in all of the sights and smells (some not so pleasant!) and trying to explore some of the nooks and crannies we missed the first time around. Today, after much hard work and determination, we managed to purchase a really cool Mozambique T-shirt for Jeff, a new pair of sunglasses for Erin (as hers are now laid to rest at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, a casualty of wave jumping), and a collection of postcards for loved ones that cost us no less than $30 (that is more than we paid for bus tickets to ride half-way up the country!!). At one point, we had the pleasure of meeting with Felipe Berho, one of the very important members of Vanderbilt’s team, working here in Maputo to get the clinics in Zambesia up and running. He is a very gracious man, offering to help us out in any way; we made plans to see him again over dinner and live music some night before we leave!

After our meeting with Felipe, we found an Internet Café, with “AirCon” and all, just asking us to take a break from the heat to catch up with you all! Turns out, not 10min after we logged on, the server went down. So lets take a moment to think about the irony in that situation—for almost 30min we sat in an Internet Café called "African Communications", waiting for none other than internet access, all the while Michael Bolton singing to us that all we needed was “time, love, and tenderness”. When a parrot from the pet store down the way walked into the café and squaked, we took it as our cue to head out. Unfortunately, as we would discover about 20 minutes (and several blocks) later, we had left our little digital photo storage device at the café, so we made a bee-line back, hoping it would still be there. It was, and we successfully retrieved it just in time to enjoy a much needed cold beer before our chapa ride back into town.

This ride was a doozy. Now, chapas are not known for their luxury accommodations or flawless ride, but riding at rush hour is a different experience altogether. Imagine a can of vienna sausages, except they are people and they smell worse. Truly, after barely squeezing onto the bus, I (Erin) found myself precariously positioned with all of my weight balanced between one leg (which may have actually twisted off with any wrong move) and the other arm (which was holding on for dear life to the handrail above). I would like to think that the utter strength of that arm in its buffest flexed position was keeping me upright, but the truth is I couldn't have fallen over if I had tried being that I was propped up on all sides by people. From where I was standing, I could see the young man in the window seat who had his nose covered with a rag, looking like he might lose his lunch out the window at any minute--I felt sorry for him and at that point realized you really couldn't live here if you were claustrophobic or were routinely carsick. As I watched this guy choke back his junk, I struggled to keep mine in its own place, because if I would have lost it, it would have gone straight onto the head of the beautiful baby who was staring up at me over her mother's shoulder, bare breast in her mouth just chillin' out. I entertained myself making faces at the baby who happily smiled back, just hoping that it was Jeff's arm around my waist. At each stop, we prayed for someone to get off, but no such luck, just more people on! Thankfully, our driver was skilled and the potholes were not too unbearable, but we gladly got off a few stops early to begin our last small trek, arms numb and knees aching, back to our little oven, thanking God again for our safety, our health, and our fan.