Namaacha

I had to battle a mild hangover and high temperatures first thing, to retrieve personal possessions that I’d dumped in the office before last night’s wedding. I chatted to a txopela driver called Sabite from Pemba in the north. In telling me how he came to be working in Maputo it was a stark reminder of the marginal existence people live in monetary terms. He landed a job as a domestic worker in Beira and the new employer covered the cost of the 800 meticais bus ticket to reach that city. He hadn’t bargained for the employer to then subtract money from his weekly pay to cover the cost of the ticket, and it left him with too little. His debt of 800 meticais is only £9.52 at today’s exchange rate so in UK terms is an indication of the very small but pivotal amounts constituting people’s livelihoods here. Sabite said his situation there was untenable so he left and came to Maputo.

I’ve always been interested in the town of Namaacha when passing through towards Eswatini. I reserved a room for the night but put very little thought into how I might arrive there, especially being loth to hire a car. There were a few false starts in downtown Maputo whilst trying to locate the random patch from where minibuses depart for Namaacha. Drunk loiterers added to the confusion until I eventually realised I needed to cross the city to another bus depot known as Junta, and join the scramble there. The urban bus I boarded almost broke down and passengers started getting riled up at the driver before it cranked into action again.

At Junta an age was spent battling with sweat, vendors and payments (can’t really argue with £1.19 equivalent for 80 kilometres), but the chapa towards Namaacha set off and it was a sweltering but relaxing journey. I noticed how prominent are the links with China on many of the buses we passed; one still displaying its moving electronic sign for the city of Guangzhou.

I find Namaacha quite intriguing as a town. It’s a place where on the surface there is very little but what there is spreads over more kilometres than seems necessary and then merges into the Eswatini border. It has that red earth vibe that characterises more upland towns and has an eclectic mix of derelict casinos, well tended convent gardens, and Total petrol stations. My favourite building is this old Correios (post office), which is the same conclusion I’ve made when stumbling on them in other random towns. The jury is out on whether this is still functional. The friendliness of the townsfolk struck me although some may say that the exuberance of a few young women near the market crossed into intimidating.

The only hotel in town does take simple bookings but has a strange dynamic as it is principally a residential home for the elderly or people on wellbeing retreats. The staff are attentive but seem to treat all guests regardless of age and/or physical condition as if they are suffering from dementia. I didn’t require a detailed demonstration of how to point an air conditioner remote at the unit fixed to the wall. On examining my passport and place of birth the receptionist stated factually ‘it’s cold in Rochdale isn’t it.’ Erm, yes. Especially with Storm Dennis haring off the Pennines.

I feel incredibly sad reading the news about Caroline Flack’s death this evening. Although it’s not been confirmed, suicide is the most likely cause. Whatever personal issues she was going through, I am almost certain they could have been overcome without the pressure laid on by the gutter press. I do not know how anyone working for those media outlets can look themselves in the face and be satisfied with what they do. If their defence is that it’s ‘within the public interest’ to report on the personal lives of celebrities, this must be challenged. I would counter that it’s hugely against the public interest to create addictions to smear and gossip and cause some people to sadly end their lives due to the added pressure. Society is so flawed.