When I leave in July, I will certainly miss the sites that a small Mozambican city has to offer. Young men holding hands in the street. Two women walking side by side in identical wraps. An old man in a black fedora, riding a pink bicycle with a basket on the front.
Other things I won’t miss so much. It seems every time I return home, a different bug has set up camp in my humble abode (and even, at times, inside my humble body, although that’s another story. The one that tells of all the parasites I have had in the past few years). This time, it was the grasshoppers. Brown ones, green ones, fast ones, slow ones, but at least they crunch when you kill them, as opposed to making the much less desirable squish of a big hairy spider.
All creatures great and small are an important part of daily life here. Mozambicans are endlessly entertained by the commentary a passing piglet in the road can inspire. “That one was asking for it! We almost had a barbeque tonight – hahaha!” Every time.
No comments:
Post a Comment