'Tis the season?

Christmas in Angoche was fantastic. Angoche is a small town that peaked at least a hundred years ago, before Quilimane stole its role as main port. Now, it feels like Frontierland; the streets are empty and the buildings have seen better days. I half expected tumbleweeds to blow by when we walked through the streets. It does, however, have a fantastic used clothing market, some incredibly well-stocked lojas, and a fish market. I think my standards of a well-stocked town are if Black Cat (peanut butter) is available. Angoche has Black Cat. You can get anything there.
Alex lives a walk through mangroves (salinas, em Portuguese) and a short boat-ride away from a beautiful island. Unfortunately, our trip coincided with a full moon, so the beach was littered with massive, VW Beetle-sized jellyfish. If one stung you, you’d become a where-jelly and your milky blue jelly-flesh would feel an uncontrollable drive to wash up on the shores of the Indian Ocean every full moon. It was impossible not to be stung, so in another month, PC is going to have a problem on their hands. There will be an exodus of PCVs towards Angoche. I can deal with returning to Angoche every month.
The day after Christmas, we looked through the Lonely Planet guide to Mozambique, and decided that Praia Nova sounded like a good place to spend an afternoon. We were certain that we could catch a bolea (hitchhike, essentially) to pass the 7 kms to the allegedly clear-watered beach. The moment that we stepped onto the deserted road to the praia, it started to downpour, and it continued to pour until we reached Praia Nova an hour and a half later. When we got there, a few of us tested the waters, which felt like acid sandpaper against our skin. So, instead of swimming, we collected sand dollars, set up chairs on the top of a sand dune, and bought a few beers from the restaurant at the end of the universe.
It was an exceptional week, due to the excellent company. We lived commune-style; ate out of large pots and slept three to a mattress. I probably won’t see them Northerners until regionals in March, and I’m already beside myself with excitement for that reunion. It sucks that us Zambezians are so far from Nampula City. Zambezia was hit really hard during the war; the roads were destroyed, and Frelimo is taking its time repairing them, so transport in our province takes a lot of planning/time. Regardless, the chapa from Alto Molongue to Gurue takes your breath away and it’s almost worth the hike. I can’t describe how freeing it feels to be sitting in the bed of an open-back chapa (i.e. a pick-up truck). The wind tangles your hair and the mountains, the mangeiras, the eucalyptus trees pass, and you leave Mozambicans standing in the dust staring with puzzled expressions on their faces until they are specks on the road. Is that a… molongo in that chapa? Why yes it is, and there’s no where else I’d rather be than with my knees crammed between your sister’s and my feet pinned underneath your brother. One day I’ll figure out why I find such pleasure in something that some find unbearably uncomfortable.
It must remind me of camping in the Sahara. I used to think it was the biggest thrill to sit out of the windows of our land cruiser. Once, we took a pickup, and Chris and Greg told us inane stories while Dad drove the thing nearly vertical down a cliff. Open-back chapas get your adrenaline pumping in the same way. Don’t tell PC, but I sometimes sit on the edge of the truck bed. If I have an adventurous streak, it’s my parent’s fault for nearly killing us so many times while growing up in Egypt. I kid, I kid. But seriously. I’m in no more danger here than I would be in Philadelphia. Life is risky.