Maputo, Mozambique – November 1999

Fruit-Fest

In November, the mango season begins. Over the past 2 weeks, I began quizzing my Mozambican colleagues and friends on whether they’d seen any mangoes at the market, and went on the lookout for any signs of mango peels.

Last November, when I’d only been living in Maputo for less than four months, I had not fully grasped what delicious delicacies the summer months were to bring. Pink watermelons and sweet pineapples dotted the various fruit-stands across the city, while ripe tomatoes garnished even the simplest salad. And of course, the mangoes arrived.

After gorging voraciously on mangoes until early autumn, I made a seamless transition to tangerines. After all, they too proved to be irresistible and, more importantly, less messy and intrusive. Better yet, they were abundant and endless and sold right outside my apartment by a skinny kid whose opening line was always, “Hi there, Brazilian woman, I have fruits.” Fruits?!? Where?!! Let me see…

The Central Market

Since moving to the Indian Ocean, I have taken up fruits as my addiction of choice and have unabashedly displayed my dependency to friends and work acquaintances alike. I usually replenish my stock on Saturday at the Central Market, Maputo’s oldest and grandest stomping ground. The Market is a gigantic, cavernous building, which has outgrown its original size. Although several stands still fill the building, others spill from it and form an extension of the original beyond the roof. With my car parked a block away, I venture through the main entrance and head to the Lettuce Lady, my first stop.

At the Lettuce Lady I buy…er…lettuce. About 750 grams worth, for the equivalent of 50 US cents. And some cabbage, green peppers and whatever else looks nice. Which is sometimes a problem when I am in a hurry – everything looks wonderful! In Mozambique, organic farming is naturally the norm and in this case, less seems to be better: less pesticide, artificial flavoring and snazzy packaging, for instance.

With not much else between me and produce, I am free to admire, taste, feel and smell the freshness around. I am urged to try the grapes, sample the cashews and examine the bananas. And after paying, I walk away with advice on how best to cook sweet potatoes, and what other ingredients to add to a cabbage soup.

At the Central Market, opinions command authority, form allegiances and cement friendships.

While shopping a few months ago, I headed over to a stall managed by a friendly-looking woman. I’d bought some pineapples from her before, and had started to tentatively dub her the Pineapple Lady. After asking her for – what else? – a pineapple, I watched in amazement as she shook her head and informed me that she wouldn’t sell any to me because “they were not very nice.” I faltered, unsure how to react, and distraught at the news. She expected better pineapples soon, and assured me that she would only sell them to me when they were “right.” Right. In a country where the per capita income is less than $150 and where selling a pineapple may be the difference between having dinner or not, this woman’s gesture was unprecedented. I thanked her and picked out some other items from her stall, vowing to come back. She has since become my regular second stop, after lettuce.

In the chaos and confusion of the Market, the routine keeps everyone sane. Once inside the building, I am approached at 3-second intervals by young (and not-so-young) boys asking to help me carry my load. In a city where the number of street kids increases exponentially day after day, the vast majority of them scrape a living down at the market by offering to guard cars, cart shopping bags and occasionally, pick-pocketing. Depending on my mood and on the number of times I have been approached (sometimes by the same kid over and over), I either politely refuse or rudely tell them to clear off.

This goes on until “my friend” finds me, which he inevitably does, usually 5-10 minutes after I’ve arrived. He is a little boy of about 9 years old and his name is Fernando. He smiles, I smile. He takes my laden-filled bags and walks with me as I go around the place searching for fresh basil, scallions and whatever else has eluded me until that point. Sometimes I ask Fernando for advice on the best deals, and although I am certain he almost always leads me to the stall of an uncle or other family member, I don’t mind participating in the patronage. It makes him look good, and I am assured of quality wares. The allegiances are cemented.

Yesterday, after Fernando found me, I asked him if the mangoes had arrived. He dutifully led me to several stalls stacked high with them, all from the province of Inhambane, north of Maputo. “Inhambane mangoes?” I asked the ladies. They smiled and nodded. “The best in Mozambique,” they answered. How could I refuse?

Now that summer is encroaching and the temperature is rising, mangoes will appear everywhere. I will find a Mango Lady at the Market and buy them by the dozen. I will forgo the neatness of tangerines and instead clamor to get my fingers sticky with mango juice and pulp. And as the heat becomes oppressive, I will turn to the Ocean, seeking solace in its breeze, and following the coast to the best beaches. And the best mangoes.

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