[Translated from the original spanish version by Natalia Molina. Thank you and congratulations to the new mummy ;-)]
- "In Mozambique you can not make friends"
This statement, coming from a beautiful woman from Granada, burnished by the waving flames of New Year's Eve bonfires on the beach of Mozambique Island, came as a shock. We are waiting for the dawn of New Year with some Japanese women on this island joined to the mainland by a narrow bridge that reminds me of Cádiz, the Silver Teacup, but with old colonial houses and an Arab center of winding houses (vertically and horizontally) lit only by the embers of coal stoves and the stars...
- "They always expect you to pay everything, and they themselves do not feel able to be friends of yours. So they may be more or less nice, but I’ve been working here for three months and there is no one I consider my friend, as an equal."
The conversation is interrupted because she goes for a walk with her group of Spanish friends and her Mozambican date (that, you can find in Mozambique ;-). The thing is the money issue also causes me a headache: not knowing if the people are friendly because they think you're going to pay for everything or because they like you. And I have a good solution. Lately I have been bringing out the topic with everyone I meet, boring them. And I let my right-wing side of brain talk, but the left-wing side steer, so in the end I still give people the vote of confidence and invite then from time to time.
Because if they are not friends, how can I call Luis, when we arrive home and tell his lover stories of the day in two languages, Portuñol and Portuguese, his face changing its orography to the rhythm of dancing candlelight? He tosses in seismic guffaw remembering the drunk man who slept from bump to bump. And joyful rivers of tears flow through the previously dry valleys of his cheeks cleaning the dust on the road when we reached the part where I throw up because of the clattering (and some beers) and people say I do it so they leave me a seat. And then comes a calm.
Or what about the Masai "adopting" me, in one of the 150 means of transport I take on my way to the Tanzanian border with the impressive dignity of his red cloak covering his shoulders: he moves out of the front seat to let me sit, while he gets wet upstairs without losing elegance, taking a fold in his cloak out of nowhere to cover his head.
(not his best photo but I wanted you to see Tanzanian version of the omelette ;-)
And he shares his room with me in Dar es Salaam and loses some of his composure from laughing when I call him Baltasar on The Kings day or when I say that I'm already a White Masai, when he hides my belly in the legendary (and now magic ) red cloak. And not only his composure but also the voice between baritone cocks to see the rush that hits me when I get to find .. coffee ! Or now that he’s gone and I'm still at his house and he doesn’t stop calling me...
If those are not friends... just for the girl from Granada, for her info ;-)
A really warm hug from Dar es Salaam !
