Maputo

Armed with a map of the city-centre and two not-roaming cell phones we drive into greater Maputo. It's - big time big, if you're used to Gabs, and big time confusing. As Paul said, there're virtually no road signs. The atmosphere in the car is tense anyway; it's one of those moments where de hick-ups while travelling seem more important than the fun, and we're both convinced the other is extremely daft.


The traffic is like the city: big and confusing. Both remind us of Accra, the capital of Ghana. While quarrelling we drive straight to the meeting-point: restaurant Piri Piri, right in the centre of downtown Maputo. Thank whomever for our luck and the straightforward, grid-like basic design of the inner city!


Our luck holds on: there's a parking spot right in front of Piri Piri. That takes care of one staying with the car and one loitering in front of the restaurant, without any means of communication. We keep thinking of a brilliant solution to contact Paul, while hoping he'll just turn up without notification. The brilliant solution is of course very simple: just ask those men, enjoying their after-work beers, to phone Paul for us.


Knowing our host's coming in about 10 minutes, we dare to sit down and order a local beer. We don't have meticais yet, and this is definitely the wrong moment to wander around looking for an atm that will take our bankcards, or a money-changer who will convert our rands, so Paul's our walking wallet.
After Paul introduced us to two colleagues and some local snacks, we travel on. The Jenkins-estate is outside the other side of Maputo. On our way we'll drive past Costa do Sol - a restaurant at the Indian Ocean. Our South-African friend Anel told us their seafood is marvellous, so we'll have dinner there.
It's pitch-dark and rainy by now. We have to follow Paul closely. Driving on after our pit stop (the seafood is indeed mouth-watering) we understand why Paul said we would never find their roundavel unguided. Dirt roads, no signs - we lose all sense of direction.


The coming days we learn our way, driving to and around the city with the Jenkins-family. Paul shows us some of the noteworthy buildings, like the train station, designed by Eiffel. After we get ourselves Moz-sim-cards, we do all the tourist-things: shop, have a bite here and there, and visit a museum or two.


The Museum of Modern Art is preparing an exhibition of objects made out of scrap metal. We particularly like the Jesus-figure below, made out of weaponry.


Inside the museum we're not allowed to make pictures, so we can only show one sneak snapshot. Paul makes up for this by giving us a book for Christmas about Makonde carvings (intricate, symbolic wooden statues).


In the garden we can take photos, and visit the workshop.


Most of the resident artists are working on what looks to us as typically African woodcraft. We're puzzled when we see one guy busy coping Buddha's. Tourists probably won't buy those; are the Chinese moving in after all?


We were already surprised by the lack of Chinese shops; the stores Botswana and South Africa are plastered with, where you find a broad range of cheap whatevers. Being poorer Mozambique is maybe one stage behind, and the Chinese started exploring, but are not retailing yet.


A more public art form are the big murals we come across while driving around. Both the style and the subjects remind Maud of the murals in Nicaragua.
Another fascinating sight are the many formal and informal markets, where everything you might need is sold: food, tools, capulanas, furniture, and etcetera.