Walk the beach

    While we ate breakfast Sunday morning the worship leader for the English service called to urgently request help setting up sound equipment. So I finished my eggs and took a chappa (shop'pa - the public transport) to the house where we meet. By the time I got there it was mostly done, so I arranged a few things and walked on on the adjacent beach. It was about seven kilometers home via the beach, so I strolled. A group of Mozambican boys in underwear rolled in the sand and leapt in the waves. A middle-aged South African couple with their daughter walked their dog. They wore the uniforms of leisure: the man a loose button-up shirt, and and the women sundresses and sun-hats. Two young Europeans sat facing each other, deep in conversation, with posture a of friends not a couple. The the two empty beers stuck in the sand and her ukulele next to them gave carefree ambiance to faces showing intense consideration of the topic at hand. Under the pines at the top of the beach Zionists in white robes held their service, singing in a Bantu language.

   The beach is broken into segments by groynes, built perpendicular to the water to decrease erosion, and each beach has its own function, demographics, and smells. 

The next I crossed was a fishing beach, shown by a sheen of silvery scales mixed with the sand. Collateral damage of minnows and dead jellyfish lined the water, where they had been drug out by shore nets. I climbed another barrier and was greeted by more fish breeze, but this was home to small dugouts which lined the top of the beach. These are rolled like the logs they were into the surf, paddled out beyond the waves, and then sails are set. 

    Women squatted just above the waves sorting the 4-6 inch catch-of-the-day. Clothes were spread to dry on the boulders of the barrier, and a driftwood fire cooked crabs. The next beach was mostly deserted, except for some potential apostles mending their nets and chatting in a tribal language. They quieted as I passed, but at least they didn't stare like many others.

    

The ravaged sand on the next beach showed definite signs of a struggle; the slope just out of reach of the rising tide was furrowed and pitted from some violent conflict. Some craters bore tell-tale signs of bare toes, as though a frenzied army had rushed the shore. The truth was much more pleasant, and the pair of upright sticks on either end made it easy to recreate the rousing football match that had so ravaged the sand.

The next barrier I climbed revealed a dichotomy characteristic of African economics. The pristine beach on the other side was edged by the patio of a restaurant/beach-club, instead of flotsam and trash.

South Africans and Portuguese families dined under umbrellas, some youth played sand volleyball, and Mozambicans waited tables. A Caucasian man loaded his yacht onto a trailer (assisted by Mozambicans) pulled by a new pickup. On the far side a Chinese couple, dressed for the occasion, fished from the Groyne with 15 foot saltwater poles. 

    I finally found a relatively uninhabited beach, with shade and a wall to lean against and stopped to read and write for a while.

My reverie was disturbed by a yell, followed by the body of a boy in a running front tuck off the low wall. His younger companion attempted to replicate the stunt, but his body rebelled and he just jumped into the sand. I watched them for a bit, then joined and did a couple of front and back flips. I gave some pointers in meagre Portuguese accompanied by demonstrations, and the older of the two flung his body into the air with abandon. He was used to doing back handsprings, and it is hard to overcome that instinct once it is ingrained. We parted ways with a handshake and I wandered on down the beach. 

    A freighter left the Beira port, passing the two dredgers that keep the channel open. Well, one is now responsible for the work since the other ran aground and has been slowly sinking over the past three weeks.I crossed another fishing beach with small fish scattered in the sand. I thought perhaps this was waste until I noticed they were separated into squares, spread one layer thick, drying in the sun. Their odor could be tasted. 

    Upwind, and over the next barrier, a group of young men sprawled in a circle around a handle of gin and a bag of sugarcane. One demonstrated his English prowess with the oft heard phrase: "How are you my friend?!" "Estou bem, e você?" His English was apparently exhausted with this exchange and my Portuguese was tiring, so I waved and moseyed on. I passed two more congregations of Zionists, one apparently in a heated debate between the sexes. I also passed two football games, with upright sticks confirming my earlier deduction. One pitch was in danger of being claimed by the rising tide. The goals were at the brink of the waves, and all the action was further up the beach.

    I reached the point of Ponta Gea and turned inland. I picked my way home along unfamiliar streets, and became somewhat disoriented. Fortunately the sun and shore steered me true and I began to recognize landmarks again. When I reached home I took a quick cold shower to rinse off the sand and salt, and went to the evening service of Peniel Portuguese. By 2300, after a four hour service and waiting on a leaders' meeting, I was so tired I could hardly see.