When God Takes Pictures of the Earth

I flew early Monday morning from Maputo to Nampula.  As the plane soars up and arches over the belly of Earth, I can literally feel and see the curve of the Earth from the plane.  I am thinking about how I am flying to the middle of nowhere…  Northern Mozambique has been this for so long-- inaccessible, off the map, forgotten by their own people and everyone else.  But really, when you look at the map, we are flying towards the middle of the Earth, to the middle of Africa.  I arrive in Nampula, the city, and we leave the same day for Namapa, more off the map.  Namapa is near the border with Cabo Delgado, Mozambique’s northernmost province that borders Tanzania. 

Every time I go to a place like Namapa, it’s always interesting to find out where we will stay for the night.  This time, we arrived in the dark, in the midst of an electrifying thunderstorm.  The lightening sizzled across the horizon...it looked like big rivers do on maps—one big branch with thousands of tiny tributaries, and the light was like a celestial camera flash, illuminating everything.  Carlos, our driver, said, ‘É como o Deus está a tirar fotos… God is taking pictures tonight.’

We arrived at Pensão Cahora Bassa.  I was satisfied and relieved to see that they had electricity and a water tank (my standards are very low).  The boy running the pensão opened the door to the rooms, showing a dirty towel and sheets covered in dust. 

‘These sheets look dirty,’ I remarked.

‘I can dust them off.’

‘Can’t we have clean sheets?’ 

‘I don’t have the key to the cabinet where the sheets are, only the boss does,’ the boy says matter-of-factly.

‘Can’t we call the boss?’  We call the boss and he doesn’t answer.  The boy starts taking the sheets of and snapping them to get the dirt off.  Then, another boy walks in with clean sheets.  I wonder where this boy came from… he just appears.

I check out the bathroom—it is communal and I will be sharing it with my colleague. 

‘The door doesn’t close,’ I tell the boy.

‘Yes it does.  You aren’t pushing hard enough.’

‘I am pushing as hard as I can.  Why don’t you try.’

He tries and the door doesn’t close, but this does not prompt any response or action. 

‘Do you have a towel?’ I ask.  I know this is all futile, but I am so amused by his responses, I can’t help myself.  He brings out a small soiled square, smaller than a receiving blanket for a newborn.  It is smiling, proud to have fulfilled by request.  I smile back.  This is why I love this place. 

His world is light years from mine.  I marvel at how despite how connected the world now is, with internet and cell phones making electronic bridges into some of the most remote places (even Namapa has an internet café), so many places remain are eons away from the world I know.  It makes for such a rich, diverse planet. 

Then I ask for toilet paper.  ‘We don’t have any, but you can buy it at the market.’ It is 8 o’clock and pouring rain.  The market closed a long time ago.  I am good at the drip-dry method.