2010. October 13.

This piece I started under strike. Since the beginning of the year the basic food, energy, water and fuel prices rose with an average of 30 per cent in Mozambique. On 1 September the government increased the price of the bread with an additional 17 per cent that was the last drop in the glass: the continuous and large-scale price increases afflict the population more than particularly as 74 % live on less than 2 dollars, while 52 % on less than 1 dollar a day. Moreover, against its huge agricultural potential, the country is highly dependent on the South-African import that has become more expensive too in the recent months owing to the strengthening of the rand.

Yet on the same day, 1 September (and then on the 2nd), the discontented mass took to the streets of Maputo and the nearby town of Matole to protest against the price increases. On 3 September the strike broke out in Chimoio too (where I also happen to live) and the strike soon bursted into riots. The protesters ruined the local markets, looted their fellow citizens’ stalls, packed anyway so modestly, and barricaded the roads with burning tyres.

My soul only trained to peace so far, became somewhat upset, when at my unsuspecting hanging around on the central market, waiting for the milk and yoghurt boys starting at 9, suddenly everyone started to race around me, up and down, shouting “quickly, into the market building, close the door” – so I also ran where they did. Then, after some minutes, the unrest calmed down and I seized the opportunity and hurried back to the office.

However, Mozambique being the cradle of suave and patience, the country was rather a haven of tranquillity and dead silence on the weekend, and by the beginning of the following week the strike-spirit blew over. Although, this needed the government too, that froze the further price increases for a time and revoked a part of them – although newer disturbances are still forecasted for the end of the year.

In Chimoio two, on national level thirteen people have been killed in the riots, two children among them, whereas more than 500 people have been injured (the state-friendly sources report on lower numbers of course). The police fired at the protesters, in many cases, with live bullets, according to them, because the plastic bullets had run out of their guns…

Zimbabwe – in a coconut shell

Until now, my Zimbabwe-experience is rather limited to one city, Mutare, although there I managed to get even four times. Thus for now and rather only in a coconut shell.

Passing the border is already an experience in itself. My visits to Zimbabwe were primarily motivated by (Mozambican) visa reasons, as a result of which the passing did not always go that smooth. The first problem arose when at my second visit the Zimbabwean migration officer announced that I was actually not allowed to buy a Zimbabwean visa there at the border because Hungary fell into category C on the list hanging on the wall next to him on a slightly worn piece of paper. (That happened to mean that they could not have issued me a visa there one month before either.) But if they once made a fault, once (!) they could also make an exception, so visa to Zimbabwe put into my hand. At my third visit exactly the same scene took place, the officer managing even harder to interpret the location of the two previous visas in my passport, so once again, making and exception and visa in my hand (officially, I was still not allowed to get one there!). At the fourth visit, however, no frowning, list-surfing, disbelieving – our small country might have passed into category B in the meantime (though the website of our Foreign Ministry makes no mention of it), ((or would just have the printing slipped in MsWord?)). Rather the fact seemed a bit problematic that I left Mozambique every month on the very same day that happened to fall on the last day of the validity of my visa and already the following day I had such a racking homesick that I was racing back for another month. Up to my habit, I fabricated a nice round story, and was only smiling in the hope that he might relent, but he might have thought that even I was laughing at my own joke. “You are obviously only coming and going, my lady, in order to extend your stay in Mozambique. This is the last time, next time we will refuse you the entry.” Instead of remorse I rather got cheered up, if not else than for the reason that, as I established during the chitchat, the border officers’ life is not that terrible either – between two pass checks one of them was just ardently facebooking.

In Zimbabwe, people are very nice. And they are remarkably solution-oriented too. Thus, after passing the border, the first sentence addressed to you sounds the following: „Hey, sista, how are you? Change, dollar? Taxi? Let’s go, let’s go!” Among themselves they talk in shona (like many in Mozambique too), but if you hear “murungo”, it is most surely about you. So you can bravely turn to them. The only tiny little problem is that their motivation for a dialogue is mostly limited to these above 4 sentences (note: now I only mean the man in the street!, always respect to the exception.)

In Mutare, however, it is worth being careful too. I was almost hit twice on the average every day, while I was passing the street completely orderly. In addition, the conversations can also hide some excitement. I exploited my fourth Mutare-excursion for going to cinema, as Chimoio offers quite a limited cinema-kind experience (nothing). After his long and unsuccessful guessing, I have disclosed the boy sitting next to me that I was not from Austria, but from the neighbouring country, following which he informed me: “Yes-yes, I remember, we learned it in school that Hungary and Austria had been fighting (woow, I thought) for the, you know, for that thing, hmmm, for the opium!” There you are, Afghanistan. “And you, what kind of drug are you taking?” – he continued. I enlightened him on the situation: I am not taking any drugs, I am not smoking, drinking, I am not doing anything that would be useful for him. Then he replied: “Today I saw something very weird. You know what it was? A dead person’s body. In a plastic bag. You know, when it is chopped up, and carried in a bag.” “Aha. And why are you telling me now all this?!” – I asked. “Don’t you think that this is weird? In which hotel are you staying actually?” I did not wait till the end of the movie.

Mutare and the useful information

Mutare, located in a valley surrounded by high hills is the third largest city of Zimbabwe. It has, to me at least, the atmosphere of a relaxed rural-town, and maybe because of this, it seems to be little, although, in fact, it is quite big (of course a question of viewpoint) with 200 000 inhabitants. It has not only the atmosphere of a relaxed rural-town, but also that of a sleepy American little town in the Midwest in the early 90s, except for the palm trees and that it is full of One-Dollar-shops. Which is rather our era’s invention.

The one-dollar is not a Zimbabwean one-dollar, but US one-dollar: in the beginning of 2009 – after its economy had finally collapsed – Zimbabwe officially switched to a multi-currency economy (US dollar, English pound, Botswanean pula, South-African rand). That so that up to the end of 2008 the use of the US dollar was considered a crime… However, after between the end of 2007 and 2008 the rate of the inflation ran up to 7 sextillion already (the sextuple of the million!), the Zimbabwean dollar only found customers nowhere but in the souvenir stalls. Today, out of these four currencies, practically only the US dollar is in use, though the change drops sometimes in rand.

In my impression, the city of Mutare has nothing particular to see, but in order to place my statement on a scientific basis, according to the travel guides as well, the real attracting forces of Mutare are its proximity to the Bvumba Mountains and the Nyanga National Park as well as to Mozambique (15 minutes from the border). Besides, on the northern side of the city stretches the Cecil Kop Nature Reserve, with the Tiger’s Klof Dam in it, where around 4 pm. zebras, giraffes, antelopes and rhinos gather at the feeder, and along the side of it the curious tourists. Besides, I also discovered in Mutare a park, named “Aloe garden”, with palms, tiny modest flowers and huge trees, although the benches look somewhat broken-down and are surrounded by garbage heaps as well as the lawn is interpreted by some rather as a bed – but for a short while one can have a nice leisure there too.
What I am definitely keeping as an experience from Mutare is: Ann Bruce. Both as a backpacker (it is comfortable, clean and the breakfast is hearty), and as a source of common courtesies and other useful information. An exemplary warning in the bathroom: “This bath is dangerous. Do not slip.” In the toilette: „Do not pee on the floor, on the seat or anywhere else except the very big hole. Behave like a pissing angel!” Ann Bruce’s son-in-law is actually – and what a surprise – a Hungarian, and works in Botswana (we are really everywhere) in the capital’s hospital as the only orthopaedist. I have also gathered the information at Ann Bruce that in Pine Tree Inn in Nyanga National Park they celebrate nothing else, but Christmas in July, in the middle of winter, with Christmas tree and Santa Claus.

A useful piece of information can however pounce on you at every place and at every moment. Once I have received a tip in the taxi shuttling between the border and Mutare, in the direction how you can smuggle diamonds. This shall rather remain my secret now, I would by no means like to impel anyone into sin (and as for me, I was anyway promised a tiny little stone:)
Then, on another occasion I managed to travel in such a wreck car that called itself a taxi, on and in which I could thoroughly estimate how our Trabant from 1970s could now look like, had it survived the years. The wreck-character only started to disturb me a bit, when I noticed that through the ping-pong racket-size hole next to the gear-change I could see down to the ground. And at this very moment all the dust of the road poured into my face. When yesterday I was wondering how I should describe here this case, I was just sitting in a chapa, and, just out of curiosity, I looked down to the chassis. There too I could see down to the ground. It seems, this is then a local typicality… Between the border and Mutare, you can only get about actually with a taxi, for which the 15 dollar fare might seem to be a long figure, at first – but only for the unexperienced, cause the real fare is 2 dollars. But one always tries...
For this, of course, you also have to share the taxi, sometimes altogether with 5 to 6 people on 4 seats.

Engagement in Africa

That’s what you call “at the good place at the good time (which was less true on the market at the beginning of the strike). In my colleague, Delfim’s life, it happened so that he was tying the knot on the last day of July (why “it happened so”, about that a bit later). Well, had I arrived a bit later, I would still have had a chance of course (before someone would start speculating now, the bride would not be me!). Since Delfim himself – never forget the here most common polygamy – was also planning to have more wives.

Now everyone could cry correcting me that an engagement is not at all yet tying the knot, at its dreaded name: marriage. But here it practically is. Namely, to win somebody’s hand (not the heart) needs a material and financial investment of such an extent, that a wise bridegroom does not change his mind later. (According to Delfim too, through this engagement it is like they had married already…) In the smaller villages in the countryside it still occurs that the family decides about the prospective. Today in the majority of the cases, however, it is the young people already who discuss between themselves if they bind their life to each other or not – though the parental approval is still necessary.
The parental approval embodies in a list that contains all the things the groom has to procure before he can marry the girl. Delfim’s list contained the following: an entire suit for the mother-in-law and the father-in-law (including shoes, socks and the watch!), two dresses, necklace and a watch for the intended (which she would be wearing on the ceremony) as well as a suit and a headscarf made of capulana (the traditional local textile) for the grandmother too. (That was only the material part of the investment…). All this for the husband-candidate to prove, he is taking the case serious, and he will eventually also be able to support the apple of the family’s eye. The entire family takes part in the procurement of the list items, and if the groom’s father still lives, it is his primary responsibility to cover all the costs – if not, that goes to the uncle.

When the groom has successfully acquired everything, without shortfall, it can follow to the ceremony. The day and the hour are always set by the father of the bride, no room for negotiation (that’s why “it happened” to take place on this day in Delfim’s life). The networking between the two families and the ceremony design are done by the bestmen, the padrinhos, always chosen from among the friends and neighbours of the family – only a married couple can be padrinho that also has experience already. The ceremony is organised by the bride’s family, in their house, on their own cost.

… cash transfer

Somehow, the whole engagement ceremony is a continuous cash transfer. Around 3 pm. (this time either, not with the precision of a Swiss watch… ) the grandmother of the bride places a bowl in the first gate that opens to the street. The family members of the groom (the groom himself is not there yet, neither his parents, and nor even the guests) put such an amount into the bowl that they judge sufficient. If this deposit proves to be too little, the gate remains closed – and if not, they can enter the plot. And that’s how it goes on at every single coming gate, staircase and door, and the amount to deposit doubles up in every single bowl. If the last door has opened too, the groom’s family members have to guess from among three girls wrapped in capulana, which one the groom’s heart has chosen. If they guess wrong and put the money on the wrong head, the girl can keep the money. They can then guess further, but of course only with a higher amount. When they have hit the bride, her bestmen bring in the suit and accessories asked for on the list. Only they do not bring table or carpet to place them on, therefore the groom’s family has to take care of it too, “wisely in advance”, since it is not allowed to put anything on the ground.

Then comes the next cash transfer (though already the last one): the family members hand over a symbolic amount in a separate purse both to the future mother-in-law and the father-in-law. This symbolic amount in Delfim’s case totalled up to 5000 and 6000 meticais (around 110 and 135 euros), respectively... The bride then has to take out so much from the purse of her father that she needs and that she believes she is actually worth. Following this, the groom’s family members have yet to make up this amount in the purse… In case they could not, the ceremony comes to an end – and the family considerably looses from its credibility and prestige.
In case they can, the ceremony continues and the groom himself can finally arrive. Accompanied by the padrinho’s amusing address about duty and alliance, illustrated by a watch and a handcuff…, the two in love exchange the rings, and commences the real festa, feast, the handing over of the presents, family photos without end, dances to pulsing African rythms or just clinging to each other to popular Latin hits, up until six in the morning.

Delfim also revealed the secret behind the wings: today, in most of the cases, the bride and the groom arrange in advance already how much the girl will take out from that purse. Who is also trained actually by her female family members yet before the ceremony in order to know how much she is worth, thus how much it behoves her to take out.

This engagement ceremony was, however, just the n’dau style one. If you go a bit to the east, the families from the shona tribe require heads of the ox (even 15 to 20), a part of the machamba (farming land), bowls, pans, jewelry instead of money from the groom to prove the wealth and standing of his family.

According to the local belief, there are two important moments in our life: when we are born and when we get married. If a marriage is not concluded according to the traditions, the families do not recognise it, thus neither the child born, nor do they provide help in case of need. When one day the wife passes away, her own family is not even willing to bury her. The husband has then 48 hours to raise all that he should have had in case of a traditional wedding. Only after that is the family ready to recognise the dead woman as its own and organise the funeral.

Chimanimani and the local language-whirl

Bom dia, marara se? – Good morning, how are you?
Ndinotenda! – Thank you!
Mareí? – How much does it cost?

A small language lesson, because if you go to Chimanimani, they do not necessarily understand what you say them in Portuguese. Just like anywhere else in the country. Although the official language of the country is Portuguese, but – according to the last census in 1997 – only 6 per cent of the population speak it as a mother tongue (in the capital this is 25 %), whereas only 40 % claim that they speak the language at all. At home people learn and use the language of their tribe, and they only learn Portuguese at school – maybe, most of them only on the street since they do not go to school.

The above language is chiúte, but it could easily be shona too. Up until now the linguists have not succeeded to determine the exact number of the local languages, the guesses point to between 20 and 30. Some of them resemble each other to such an extent that they could even be the same, whereas some differ so much that its speakers have no clue of what the other says. In the majority of the languages one can also discover a host of Portuguese words, first of all those of the modernity owing to the way of life of the tribes. And in the Portuguese of Mozambique, in particular in that used by the young people a vast-vast number of English words that all have the Portuguese equivalent. But it must be a lot cooooler this way.
An entire English phrase comes, however, most probably from a Zimbabwean – and most probably illegal – migrant, or, in quite many cases, a political refugee. From 2008, thanks to President Mugabe’s repressive governance and economic policy driving the country into bankruptcy, masses of Zimbabweans have flowed into Mozambique’s neighbouring province of Manica. Where, beyond the problem of illegality, they have at least no language difficulties, the common language being shona which here and there, simply everyone speaks.

Thus the result is a language potpourri, where mostly the local language proves to be the most common, and, in most cases, the most practical too. For instance in Chimanimani, where the following conversation took place (yet in Portuguese) right away at the entrance between the park guard, with a toothbrush pridefully peeping out from his vest pocket and my colleague, Dionísio – regarding how much actually the entrance costs (I need to add, everyday at least one or two tourists arrive):
 How much is the entrance fee? We would stay 1,5 days.
 I phone first.
 Why?
 Cause I need to talk first.
 But why?
 H’mmm, for money.

At this point Dionísio took the conversation to chiúte (that he actually considers his mother tongue), which, apparently, the guard was also much happier about, saying with more self- assurance that we should then arrange the exact entrance fee rather with the director of the park… Though, this he meant in this form after Dionísio had whispered him that we could even report him at the inspectorate for treating the amount of the entrance in such a flexible way… (FYI, the entrance for Mozambicans is 100 meticais, for foreigners 200 meticais (2,2 and 4,4 euros, respectively), and for the car another 200 meticais.)

Later, we paid the fare to the director, and were also orderly registered in a small booklet. But on the following day, at the exit gate, another book was lying in front of us for the check out. Which contained much fewer pages and names and ours by no means. Since we did not consider “entering twice” that funny, we complained, the consequence of which was that thanks to their „double bookkeeping” they could not finally charge us the fee for the accommodation … tourist income-optimisation.

But what is Chimanimani?

A nature protection area covering 2056 sq. km in the middle part of the country at the western border, a two-three-hour-drive from Chimoio – four-fifth of it stretching on the territory of Mozambique (1756 sq. km), and one-fifth on that of Zimbabwe. The park being in a still very wild state abounds in a varied flora and fauna: during hiking one meets monkeys hanging from the trees, can see rare bird species, antelopes and buffalos, can paddle in little clear mountain pools lurking between the rocks and considered sacred among the locals, so all in all, can enjoy the absence of civilisation. In the Mountains of Chimanimani rises the highest peak too of Mozambique, the 2436 m high Monte Binga. Chimanimani itself is also a mountain, its name in shona means “tight gorge”, a “tight place”. Namely, because it stems from a place where it is really tight – I can attest.

The tourist infrastructure on the Zimbabwean side is actually far more developed that shows that the tourism in this part of Mozambique is yet an area in great need of strengthening. And not only to be able to exploit the natural, cultural and historical potential of the region but also, and first of all, to be able to turn back the generating income into the local development. The Zimbabwean side hides by the way the southernmost tropical rainforest in Africa, not only with rare species, like strelitzia, wild orchid, tree ferns, cycad and other rare trees, but with special sizes too: a 1000-year-old red mahagony tree rising to a nearly 70 m height and reaching a 16 m of perimeter.

The 1,5 days into which we squeezed our tour was just enough, and owing to the 2x8 km long hiking under the burning sun with our backpack was not less exhausting too – this was, however, the first time in my life when I felt, mountain climbing was actually something that was worth. To Chimanimani, it is worth devoting at least 2-3 days, most optimally, calculating with the fact too that you have to bring up all your food and drink for yourself, on foot. With car you can only clamber up easily until a point, and even then, almost only with 4WD – yet, the last 8 km it is more worth and practical to climb on foot.

We spent the night in Chikukwa, one of the 5 camps of Chimanimani, in a little hut, with thatched roof, only 2 simple beds and a corner camouflaged as a bathroom, yet completely neat – and cheap: a 2-person hut costs 200 meticais, some 4,4 euros. I used the word “spent” deliberately, since I had not closed my eyes almost the whole night. A long time ago – or maybe never? – did I sleep in inkyinkyinkydark, at around 1500 meter high that for a girl from the Great Plain is already like the Mount Everest.

The following morning, we had breakfast at the foot of the Nhahuco waterfall, in the cool of the dewdrops, a half-an-hour walk from the camp, on the way there swaying across a log lying over a small mountain stream. On our way back, uphill amid the steep rocks, accompanied by squealing monkeys hopping from one limb to the other, on the side of a great stone table the some 3000-year-old Chinhamapere cave paintings bursted upon our view, drew by the Bushman with coal and blood, showing motifs well-known from the history book: hunting men, collecting women and the picture of the game to kill (in local version: elephant, antelope and crocodile). At this point I realised that already in the prehistoric era people knew very well that success was laying on concentration and visualisation – and today we somehow seem to have forgotten to use these… On the last meters of our way, our guide, Robert stopped for a moment at a springwater, tore off a leaf from a plant, folded it and drank the water from the leaf. According to the tradition, you can only drink the water of the spring from a leaf. Why exactly, Robert did not know anymore – the locals are simply following all old myths and customs – I assume, this one too brings some bad luck for you…
To roam in Chimanimani is actually only advisable with a guide: on the hand he knows very well the routes and where the sights are, on the other, he knows with greater certainty, where you do not walk into an area that has been mined yet during the independence and then the civil war, and up until today for some reason has not been yet identified, thus demined.

… not a campfire

But not everything is like a fairy tale in Chimanimani, just like in the whole of Mozambique. The landscape at night was coloured unfortunately not by the moon light, neither by the camp fire. But by the forest in flames in the very middle (!) of the Chimanimani National Park. Which was not at all set on fire by the heat. A major income source, as well as solid fuel for the Mozambicans is the charcoal, gained from the wood burnt down, that is forests burnt up, and then sold in half-quintal sacks along the road and on the market. That’s how the forests of Mozambique slowly and slowly (but rather rapidly) disappear day after day. The so-called uncontrolled burnings are responsible for the disappearance of a 219 hectar forest area every year, more palpably, an area of 405 500 football camps. As it was aptly observed couple of weeks ago in a seminar dealing with the management of natural resources in Mozambique: “This country is burnt down by its own inhabitants at such a pace, that there is no time left for reforestation.”

For more photos, please see the following link:
http://picasaweb.google.com/107607413794295381580/Mocambique#

My project is carried out within the framework of the Junior Expert Programme (NFP – Nachwuchsförderungsprogramm) of German Development Service (DED – Deutscher Entwicklungsdienst – www.ded.de). The coordination and background support for my participation were provided by the Hungarian Volunteer Sending Foundation (HVSF – www.hvsf.hu).