Home, Sweet Home

Yesterday, for the first time in 66 days, Laura and I unpacked our suitcases.

We’re grateful for the hosts that we’ve had over the past two months (most recently Larry and Susan Weil and their cat, Felix), but are certainly glad to be able to relax in our own space for the remaining ten months.

We have moved into an apartment that is not too dissimilar to any apartment in any urban area back in Canada. As in any new home, we are still adjusting to some unusual sounds and smells. The electricity is a little unsteady, so the lights take a little while to come to life, and the water running from the taps isn’t potable, but those are minor inconveniences. There’s a gas stove fed by a butane cylinder sitting on the floor beside it, which makes us feel a little like we’re camping every time we strike a match to make something for dinner.

Africans needn’t maintain the same sharp distinction between “inside” and “outside” as we do in Canada, since the snow never flies here. On the balcony, there is both a laundry machine and a “water closet” in the truest sense of the term: the whole room serves as the shower stall, with the shower head positioned such that one could literally have a shower while sitting on the john, though I would imagine that doing so would result in the toilet paper being a little more soggy than is my preference (for those less adventuresome souls who may be planning a visit, we do have more typically North American facilities inside the apartment, with better water pressure than our first shower experience).

The most unsettling part about life in Maputo is the need for security. Our apartment is surrounded with metal grates over every possible opening, including our three balconies. We secure the front gate with two heavy padlocks. This is Mozambique’s version of a screen door.

Our previous homes have been surrounded by walls or fences topped with razor wire. (Those who can’t afford razor wire make due with shards of glass from broken bottles fixed atop their walls with mortar.) Our previous homes have also had guards – not trained, uniformed soldiers carrying weapons, but boys whose job it is to open the gate when the patrão (boss) arrives and to provide a general presence around the house, for whatever that’s worth.

Some businesses have real guards with uniforms and menacing-looking guns. I’ve often wondered how many of those guns really work, but I suspect (and hope!) that my question will remain unanswered.

Our front gate and padlocks help us to feel safe. Most of the noise around us comes from children playing in neighbouring apartments. From in here, in many ways, the reality of Africa seems very far away.