Hairy Situations

My recent travels have taught me that if you have three connecting flights, you're bound to miss (or nearly miss) at least one. It happened on my way to Taiwan and it happened on my way to Germany. I flew through the Frankfurt airport to make my connection to Stuttgart, dodging long customs lines and facing sullen airport personnel, only to be informed at the gate that boarding had already closed. I promptly burst into tears.
The way back was much better, although I had to run through the Johannesburg airport to make my connection to Maputo. (By the way, nothing is more discouraging than seeing the sign GATES 1-30... and knowing you're gate 30.) There was no one next to me on my long flight from Frankfurt to Joburg, so I took advantage by stretching out on the other seat. Flying is great! When you're not exhausted or sick, and you can drink a gin and tonic while watching the Glee! Concert Movie on your in-flight entertainment screen I even debated between vodka-tomato juice and Irish cream-coffee for breakfast, but the stewardess's crisp "Can I offer you tea, juice, coffee, or water?" made me reconsider, lest I be judged for my early morning cocktail.
Once in Maputo, I collected my bags, only to be stopped by customs. As the customs lady opened up my suitcase, I thought, "Oh no! Not my canned meats! All my food! Well, at least I didn't bring the hair..."
Okay, back up.

Lore, Kevin's grandmother, had sweetly offered me some hair that she had kept for years- her own long locks from youth, and her daughter's (Kevin's mother's) as well. After I told her that long hair is coveted in Mozambique, and all the women lust for my dark straight hair to braid into their weave, Lore presented me with the two ponytails. "Oh...." I think was my reaction. I mentally ran through the list of Mozambican women who I could give the hair to. I wondered if giving hair would feel as strange as receiving it. In the end, I had to decline.

It's not like it's illegal to bring hair into the country, but it probably would've raised some questions. Among piles of chocolate and sauce mixes, two shiny long locks of hair clearly from two different people, and clearly neither from me. It could've been awkward. But who knows- the customs lady might have just taken them to put in her weave.


Less than 48 hours back in Mozambique, and it's already sinking in little by little. On the way back to Chicumbane, my chapa gets stopped no less than EIGHT times by the police. (I still can't quite figure out what the police do, other than stand on the road about every 50 km and pull cars over arbitrarily to check for license and registration. Everyone knows they're looking for a bribe.) Twice, the chapa pulls over so that the cobrador can pour water over the steaming, bubbling radiator. All this time, I'm thinking, "This car is probably going to explode one day, and Dear Lord don't let it be today."
My next chapa ride, from Chicumbane to Xai Xai. (Literally, NO food in my fridge. Except the two full shelves of German chocolate I brought back.) I went from taking up two seats in a plane to sitting "bitch seat" in a chapa- that middle console between the driver and the passenger that is supposed to be a cupholder but is usually converted into a seat with a pillow- except this time no pillow.
While driving, the motorista keeps trying to hit on me. At one point, he looks over and asks me a question in Changana (obnoxious, because he knows I don't speak Changana) and I see the car stopped in front of us but he doesn't. The passengers in back all gasp as the motorista floors the brakes and we screech to a stop one inch from the bumper of the other car. Immediately the motorista starts cussing and screaming out the window at the other guy. But the chapa passengers all know what's up. "Stop talking to the mulungu (white person)," they say, even as he's blustering about how the other guy's the idiot, who stops in the middle of the road like that, etc. "No, you weren't paying attention because you were talking to the China girl" they grumble. I smirk and exit the chapa with a console-shaped imprint on my butt.