Richards Bay and Maputo

Our first view of Richards Bay was shipping containers, gray skies, and rain. We had made plans to take Oceania’s shore excursion to visit the Duma Zulu cultural village. The village is home to more than 50 Zulu tribe members who recreate the experience of a traditional Zulu community. Although this was an anthropological experience specifically aimed at tourists, King Goodwill Zwelithini placed the royal Zulu seal of approval on Dumazulu and in my estimation they managed to stay just on the right side of authenticity.

On the hour drive from the ship we passed banana crops, vegetable fields, rows of cultivated trees and occasional homesteads. This morning Casey met the only other kid on the ship, an 11-year old named Anthony from Argentina who also took the same tour. Our bus was only half full. One of the things I like about Oceania is that instead of cramming buses beyond comfortable capacity, they often charter multiple buses so guests aren’t cramped.

I was bored by our guide’s commentary. He spoke in a flat tone with a strong South African inflection. “On your right,” boomed through the bus loudspeaker, “are local people selling pineapples.” Every half a mile or so was a person standing next to a stand of pineapples. His comments were as uninspired as a TV football announcer declaring, “In order to win the game the Seahawks will have to score some more points.” I didn’t need him to point out pineapple were for sale. I put in earphones and listened to music. One of my favorite diversions traveling is to create my own soundtrack and imagine my own stories about what I’m seeing.

Upon arrival we were escorted to a covered area and offered complimentary coffee, tea, muffins and restrooms. There was a small curio shop but no one tried too hard to get us to buy anything.

“Does Casey know about the women here?” Sukey asked.

“You mean that they’re topless?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to tell him, but I didn’t want him to point or get too excited so I mentioned that sometimes some of the young woman don’t wear bras or shirts. I think he thought I was teasing.” Sukey smiled. Our guide led us to the entrance to the trail. It was raining steadily and anyone without an umbrella or hat was getting soaked.

“Why didn’t we bring an umbrella dad?”

“Because I wasn’t very smart Casey.”

“Ladies and gentleman,” the Zulu narrator began, “welcome to our village. Because it is raining today we are going to do all our activities for you in a covered area.” Her words were met with a smattering of applause. “This village was endorsed by Zulu royalty. Today you will witness demonstrations of basket weaving, spear and shield making, beadwork and Zulu dancing. These are traditional activities of our people that we create today for your blessed enjoyment.” The more she spoke the more I wished we could listen to her lecture under cover too—I was dripping wet. It was ironic that she kept telling us we would enjoy everything under a covered area while she left us standing in the rain getting soaked. Eventually she led us toward a large covered structure that reminded me of a Polynesian longhouse.

As we took our seats our guide from the bus reminded us, “You can take all the photos you want except for the traditional healer, or sangoma. They will introduce you to him so you will know exactly who he is.”

We were seated on wooden benches in a U-shaped two-tiered configuration around the back perimeter. It was about as comfortable as a Friday night high school football game. Next to me was a friendly African man in traditional Zulu garb in bad need of a good dentist. I asked him if I could take a photo and he enthusiastically agreed I could. Soon the narrator began and started describing village life and the various crafts.

Two topless young teenagers walked in. Casey looked wide-eyed at me. He was sitting next to Anthony. I overheard Anthony say, “I’ve been blinded!” Both boys giggled as their eyes followed the girls moving around the presentation area.

“The girls in front of you are not engaged and do not have boyfriends. When they do not have any top on it means they are available for the men to pursue,” the narrator explained. “When they have the boyfriend or become betrothed than they cover with these beads,” she pointed to a beaded bra that another young woman wore. “And when they marry they wear these red hats. The white symbols on them indicate their power in the village.” We could see several women wearing wide red hats with small white markings, their breasts and midriffs fully covered.

Some of the tribe began to loudly drum and the men began an energetic, syncopated dance involving shields,

spears, bones and extraordinary high kicking. My feet and hands involuntarily kept time as I was swept into the intensity of the rhythm and tradition of a native Zulu dance. How wonderful this would be to see under a moonlit sky hundreds of years ago, I thought. For a few moments I was swept away from 2010 and could imagine the generations that listened to these drums while witnessing the pageantry, savagery and beauty of the tribe’s dance.

Finally the beat ended. “Ladies and gentleman. This concludes our fine show. I hope everybody enjoys the time seen.” She smiled at me and I smiled back, enjoying her clipped English-Zulu language and the glow I felt in the aftermath of the dance. We were invited to take pictures and I realized that the man I photographed next to me was the healer, but contrary to our guides warning he was happy to pose for pictures with us. So often things are what you are warned they will be in Africa.

On the drive back my mom had a great time talking to another couple that had also taught elementary school on US military bases in Germany in the early 1960’s. My dad was quiet, but he stayed awake and seemed to enjoy the village and the bus ride. My mom came back and sat by me. “What happened this morning mom?” I could tell when we left the ship that it had been a difficult morning.

“Your father left his wallet in his pants. When I washed them all his credit cards and papers were soaked.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I love your father. But people change. The man I married isn’t the same man you knew when you were a child. He was so intense when we first got married and he was always too worried about how you kids would behave when we went to see your grandmother in Holland. Oma didn’t really care how you acted at all. I guess when you’ve been married to someone for 52-years you really are married to different people at different times…” her voice trailed off. “The difference is now he often seems like a familiar stranger.” We were both quiet. There was really nothing to say, as I knew what she meant. “I thought I was done raising kids,” she went on, “but traveling with your dad now is a lot like having a child. I have to remind him to take his room key, make sure he has his camera and not too much money, help him button his clothing… sometimes the golden years aren’t so golden. This must be hard on you, too. You’re not only having to help me with your dad but you have Casey.”

“I guess it’s hard Mom, and part of me wishes things were different—especially with dad—but it’s OK. I feel ready for this and it’s time for me to be a father to my son and a son to my father. Even though I don’t always like it, I feel up to it. Besides mom, I’m so proud of you and dad. Most people in your situation would be sitting at home getting depressed about everything and here we are in Africa! You just left a Zulu village, we just spent 3-days on safari and we have a month ahead of us going to places we’ve never seen before… I’m really proud of both of you. Even though it’s a different trip with Dad than any of us have ever taking before, it’s still better than staying at home!

“You’re right. This is the most active I’ve seen your dad in months. He sleeps so much at home. I thought it was because he was tired, but now I’m thinking maybe it’s because he is depressed. He certainly is staying awake here!”

We returned to the ship, ate lunch, spent the last of our South African Rand on the pier (it was our last day in South Africa) and prepared for our trip to Maputo, Mozambique the next day.

That night our meal in the dining room wasn’t very good. Food is subjective so I won’t get into details. Suffice it to say that between the waiter forgetting things, my steak arriving barely warm, my father’s milk served with ice and the light on our table not working, I knew that this wasn’t our night. Although the cruise started six days ago, it was our first meal in the Grand Dining Room. I was confident our experience was an anomaly—apparently the kitchen staff, service staff and maintenance staff were all struggling with our table—so I chose to ignore the problems and enjoy dinner. Even a bad meal on a cruise ship is usually better than what I eat at home. Our previous dinners at Tapas On The Terrace and Toscana were excellent, and I’m sure that the Grand Dining Room will be excellent next time too.

Mozambique was colonized by Portugal in the early 1500’s and declared independency in 1975. From 1975 till 1992 the county experienced an intense and brutal civil war. The current democratic government is less than two decades old. Although the capital, Maputo, is fairly developed by African standards, there is rampant poverty in the rural areas. I booked a private city tour for us.

When we left the ship our tour company wasn’t waiting at the gangway. A Caucasian man in an official port vehicle approached me and when I explained who I was looking for he kindly offered to drive us from the ship to the port gate. It turned out he was in charge of security and maintenance for the entire port facility. The ship offered a complimentary shuttle from the gangway to the Maputo central railway station, which is famous, both for its ornate beauty and because it was designed by Gustave Eiffel noted for the Eiffel Tower, but we needed to find our tour guide.

The guide, Atalie, was waiting at the gate arguing with port security to let her in. The four of us climbed into her 12-passenger air-conditioned touring bus and quickly escaped the humid heat. The private 4-hour tour cost $200 for four of us. We started by visiting a local food and produce market. The smell of sweltering heat, fresh fish, tropical fruit and pungent herbs swirled together to create a unique sticky scent of African commerce. I loved it.

“Would you like to try this?” Atalie offered me a brown pasty looking root. I normally don’t try unknown things in strange countries but my son was watching me and I wanted to appear brave. Sensing my apprehension she said, “It’s like a sweet lemon. Just mind the seed.” I put it in my mouth and it tasted good.

“Want to try it Casey?”

“No, I don’t think I’d like it.” His eyes wandered everywhere as his mind imported more than his consciousness could think about now. My father and mother enjoyed themselves. They have shopped in markets like this all over the world. From Paraguay to Istanbul to Goa to Holland they have frequented local sellers and walked away from more than they have bought. My dad is a fierce negotiator and I suspect that even after he has forgotten the names of his grandkids he will still be able to walk away from a bad deal, hoping that the seller will come running after him to meet his price.

We visited Independence Square, the Iron House, an expensive art gallery a Roman-Catholic cathedral and the Museum of Natural History. The museum is famous for its collection of elephant fetuses. An elephant pregnancy lasts almost two years, and the museum displays about 15 fetuses ranging from a few weeks old to 22 months. The museum also has a large collection of spears, swords and indigenous stone carvings. One of the statues caught Casey’s eye.

“Look at that dad,” he pointed laughing. In the glass case in front of us was a little stone man with a penis wider than its arm. “Take a picture dad, please?” He wasn’t that excited by the thousand-year old spears or elephant fetuses but the well-endowed little man was pleasing to his 12-year old mind.

The downtown Maputo streets our difficult to navigate as the government is in the midst of changing their names. Many major streets are names after famous communists. For example, Ho Chi Minh Drive, Karl Marx Avenue, Fidel Castro Boulevard, but now they are being named after local patriots favored by the current regime. Our guide wanted to take us to a beach but I explained we weren’t that interested in beaches—we were headed to the Seychelles Islands and Maldives over the next few weeks—and asked instead to go to an inexpensive local crafts market. She took us to a fantastic one spread throughout a local park. She explained that these vendors used to set up on the main downtown streets but the government wanted to get them off the roads so they gave them this space to use. On Saturdays, all the vendors went to a market near the town center, but the rest of the week they were set up here.

As we approached the market thousands of colorful batiks fluttered like kites in the wind. The market was filled with wooden carvings, masks, batiks, clothing and vendors eager to sell. There were far more peddlers than shoppers. The prices were excellent. I negotiated 50 small (14 inch by 6 inch) colorful batiks for $1.25 each. Casey will give them to his social studies class at school. I also purchased a dozen large (3 feet by 2 feet) batiks for $10 each and an ornate drummer carving. My dad bought his first cane. My mom found a dress for her sister and Casey got a ukulele and an ebony rhino. It was a shame that no other passengers from Nautica were there. The prices were excellent and the vendors were eager to sell. Our guide was getting nervous because she needed to get us back to the ship and pick up her next group.

I told her it was fine if we skipped the rest of the tour so we could just shop. She was relieved and gave us another 15 minutes. On the way back Atalie pointed out a dismal building, “This is the free public hospital. But it doesn’t work. If you are sick you need to go to the private hospital because the queue here is so long. Most Mozambique people don’t have the money it takes to go there so sometimes they die in the queue.”

“You mean people die waiting in that line?”

“Yes, it happens almost every day. Very sad,” she said shaking her head.

“How much does the private hospital cost?” I asked.

“At least one hundred US dollars for a visit. Sometimes more.” To me that sounded cheap. At home a hundred bucks might get you an aspirin in the emergency room.

“What does a policeman earn a month in Mozambique?”

“About ninety US dollars. The minimum salary in Mozambique is officially $78 a month, but many people earn less.” I hoped Casey was listening. His iPad was six-month wages for a policeman here. I had just spent three months local wages on give away souvenirs. One of the rewards of travel is increased consciousness of how fortunate we are in the first world. The UN estimates that 20% of the world’s population lives in extreme poverty. Many of them are from Africa.

When we arrived at the port gate the security guards wouldn’t let us back in. Atalie got agitated and we sat in our air-conditioned vehicle for about twenty minutes while the security guards and our guide argued back and forth. Phone calls were made, people arrive, fists were shaking and voices were raised. “I am so embarrassed by this,” Atalie explained. “What you are seeing is black racism against blacks. It is very bad here in Mozambique.” Eventually we were allowed back on to the ship.

“They don’t want us here. We are expensive cargo,” my dad quipped as the gate finally opened.

That afternoon my mom, dad and I were invited to join a trivia team. On Oceania daily trivia is a major event. Well over a hundred passengers gather together each afternoon and compete with each other for bragging rights and the ship’s currency: “O” points. A few nights ago my mom said, “Jack, I don’t know if we should play trivia this trip. I don’t know how your father will do… it’s something we’ve always enjoyed and I hate to keep taking things away from him, but I am worried he will just be frustrated.”

“It’s just trivia mom. There are lots of people who just sit there and don’t know many answers. I think we should do it.”

When we arrived at the Nautica Lounge my dad introduced himself to Karin, who put together the team we were invited to join, and humbly offered his “old, tired brain.”

The second question that day was, “Which ocean does the Paraguayan river in Bolivia flow towards.?” Most of our team thought it was the Atlantic, but my dad quietly said he thought it was the Pacific. My dad’s voice, like his height, is lower now. Karin was sitting next to him and said aloud, “Pete thinks it’s the Pacific.” Whether it’s because he is the oldest or everyone was being polite, the team eventually wrote down my father’s guess.

Later on in the game (there are usually 20 questions) the cruise director, Dottie, asked a particularly hard question. “What nation has the world has the second longest coast line?”

“It is Chile?” Someone asked.

“What about Argentina or the US?” Someone else suggested.

As the team debated my father quietly said, “I think it might be Indonesia.” Karin heard my dad and shushed everyone.

“Peter has a suggestion. What about Indonesia?” Our ten other teammates all looked at each other, nodding their heads, impressed by my dad’s guess. We wrote down Indonesia. When the totals were tallied we ended up tying for first place with 18 correct answers. We were the only team that answered Indonesia correctly. We would have had 19 had we known that a group of unicorns are called a blessing. I was so proud of my dad. He is a retired, well-regarded professor. Education, history and social studies are his expertise. Maybe knowing that Indonesia has the second longest coast line in the world isn’t that big a deal, but to me it felt like he has just completed an Iron Man marathon.

This morning I saw my dad in the gym, running on a treadmill. Not easy for a guy with Parkinson’s. He is doing everything he can to slow down his diseases. I have nothing but admiration and respect for the way he and my mom are facing his difficult descent into mindlessness and inertia. They have bad days, she gets frustrated, he gets depressed but they keep trying and some days, like today, they get little victories disguised as answers in a trivia game.

Thanks for reading,

Jack