The heart of Maputo

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Xipamanine market in Maputo is the kind of place that makes you believe the hype about markets and free trade. It seems to be the most natural of human endeavors. It dates back to the beginning of time when traders had to exert so much more than do those of today to get their goods across the globe. Today Xipamanine is the soul and pulse of Maputo. A swarming commercial center, only with rickety stands, narrow muddy pathways, pungent smells of pig heads, cow stomachs, traditional medicines and Indian spices.

So much to see in this place, and for some reason, so hard to pull out the camera. So many pictures I would have loved to have taken:

A decorative pile of industrial-size food cans each with a geometric patterns poked through the bottom, and a strip of metal fixed to the sides in the shape of a handle. Flour sifters.

Every male vendor (most of them quite burly) is wearing a darling, flower-patterned pull-over apron with frilly sleeves. They toss us serious stares, not at all encumbered by the 1950's housewife image that their outfit conjures for us.

A maze of aisles of used clothes, hanging in wrinkled masses, pulled straight from the bags packed by the salvation army in the US. We try to stop and look but are constantly jostled by the more directed market patrons: "da licenca," "com licenca," "disculpa." When we get a moment to take a longer look, what looked like chaos turns into careful order: there's the baby sweater stall, and the striped girls socks, the 80's leather jackets, and the high-tech sweat-wicking athletic shirt that we couldn't afford at REI. All perfectly selected, sorted, and displayed with pride.

At the edge of the maze are the tailors with their old-fashioned foot powered Singer machines, taking up hems, sleeves and darts of the used clothes that don't quite fit. And across the muddy path stand the row of ironer-dudes (in aprons) with 19th century irons filled with hot coals, taking the weeks of wrinkles out of the pants and shirts that fit just right now, thanks to the tailors.

The Home Depot section, with every hinge, pipe, pole, tool, nail, or sheet metal you could ever need. Row upon row of it.

The recycled bottle section. We had so often wondered what happened to all of the plastic water bottles flooding Maputo. Here they were. Sorted by size and strewn on tables. And being washed in buckets of soapy water. "Oh, look, he is washing bottles," says Sarah to Jonathon. "I am washing bottles," the man says to us, smiling and proud of his English.

The livestock section. Smells just the same no matter what country you are in. Goats and chickens seems to be the specialty here. Two stately Indian men are selecting chickens. They stand surrounded by women, each clutching her chicken behind the shoulders, wings folded back, feet flapping. Each foul suffers through this indignity because there is simply no choice. Each woman hollers the praises of her particular chicken. Each one, that is, except the one taking a call on her cell phone.

Piles of something brown. Almost powdered but not quite. We walked by, trying not to be too obvious in our curiosity. Quick glances, a deep inhale. "Ah, its tea." Sarah says to Jonathon. "Tea!," says one of the tea ladies with an impossibly big smile.

If you look closely you can see young men hovering at the feet at the vendor ladies. They hold long, simple poles, with angles notches that hold dozens of colors of nail polish. They squat in the center of the market stalls and offer pedicures to the market ladies. Glamour is good for everyone.

The meat aisle is particularly enticing. And nauseating at the same time. They think it will charm us into purchasing if they stab the tongue or the lung of the stomach or the intestine and hold it, dangling from a fierce, huge fork, right in front of our noses. We disappoint every time.
Tucked in the darkest corner is the guy who sells candy. He barely fits in his little stall, surrounded by heaps and mounds of bags of assorted candies. Jonathon is in heaven and carefully selects a bag of assorted fruit chews from Brazil. 100 pieces. $0.90. Yum. Good for breakfast too.

We tumble out into the light of day. The back edge of the market, where the less well-off must sell because to see their wares you have to leap from remotely dry patch to remotely dry path on a ridiculously muddy road. And it hasn't rained for days. We step aside to make room for the man hauling his huge cart down the road. Heaving it up and over piles of mud and out of deep ruts. And this must only be the first leg, because his cumbersome load does not carry a thing to sell. (stl)

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