Sitting on my Stoop

(Photo: My front yard & veranda)

A boy runs barefoot down the middle of the dusty street. His arms are spread wide and from his throat he emits a low hum-growl that rises and falls in pitch. It’s the sound of a motor, the engine that has sparked behind his bright eyes. He does not crack a smile, but instead keeps his lips set evenly and his brow furrowed, invoking from within all the concentration and seriousness it takes to keep a four wheel drive vehicle of his make running smoothly. There is a white string looped around the pointer finger of his right hand. Connected to this string, trailing behind him from about three feet, is an empty sardine can. Inside the can are three small rocks. The string is tight, and the can and its contents sail smoothly behind the boy, letting out an even clatter as the tin drags and the rocks shake. I call to the boy from the step of my veranda where I sit watching. His name is Lido.
He does not stop, but instead keeps to his path and then with a subtle dip of his left shoulder leans into his turn. He makes sure to keep his trailer tight behind him, or maybe the tin is the vehicle, and he is only the engine that drives it. He does not approach me, but instead pulls up to the side of the road with a high pitched screech of the brakes so that he is facing me.
Tudo bem? I ask him, emphasizing the question with a thumbs up.
He does not speak, nor does he smile, but slowly raises his left arm and throws forth his little thumb, and then turns back into the road with a low hum-growl followed by an even clatter.
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My house is set just off the one main road that cuts through Mossuril. I have a nice sized front yard of packed dirt that is treated as public domain; a walkway, a playground, a veranda; which is fine by me. On one side is a ruin of what once was a large ‘Portuguese house’, meaning it was built with a heavy hand, at least by local standards, and is complete with pillars, multi-tiered roof, and a large open veranda. This particular ruin only has a skeleton of a roof, and has gnarled tree limbs growing from its bowels, spilling over its walls. The house is left alone for the most part. At times a small business venture is set up in the shade of the veranda. A portrait photographer, a bike mechanic, a bread vendor. But mostly it is left to decay at its own natural pace.
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A man moves laboriously down the street atop an aging bicycle. He is moving in the direction of Chocas, away from the market. But his cargo comes from further, about 15km down the rutted dirt road. He is bearing two burlap sacks that are filled to overflowing with charcoal, wood that has been fired out in the matu. The sacks are tied down to the bicycle behind his seat with heavy rubber cord. The bottom sack is the larger of the two, probably weighing about 100 pounds. The top sack is not much smaller, probably about three quarters the size. The burlap of each has been mended with grass cord and various types of patches. It is not just the weight that labors the man, but the awkward size of his load which juts out a good foot and a half on either side. His bike progresses drunkenly as he negotiates potholes and patches of sand, and as he fights with the bicycle itself. The bicycle which does not have proper pedals, but instead just the metal rods that once served as the core for something better. His seat is tied down to the frame, but there is no way to keep it from rocking back and forth with each revolution. He gives off the impression that what he is doing is not something that you could do. His destination is wherever somebody stops him. He continues down the road and around the bend.
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On my other side is a large open lot with a small mud house tucked away in the corner. The lot belongs to the ‘Church of Christ’, and is now cared for by a young Mozambican pastor who has just arrived with his wife. The pastor has ambitiously taken to his lot, has the area cleared and swept, and has the bamboo framework for the small church that will be, set firmly in the earth.
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A woman crosses the street, slowly approaching the path that runs between my house and the yard of the church. Nothing about her manner suggests that she is in any way burdened by the 20 liter bucket of water on her head. Her posture is upright, enviably so, but not at all stiff. As mentioned, her step is slow, but almost in the sense that it seems leisurely. Her hands are together in front of her chest, mindlessly tearing at a long piece of grass. The bucket on her head is brimming and with some steps water splashes over the lidless top. I watch intently as water runs down the right side of her face, down her neck, and seeps into her blouse. She doesn’t seem bothered. Somebody yells something to her from down the street that I don’t understand. She laughs, stops, turns, throws back and forth a few lines of conversation, and then turns back to continue on. I can see she’s silently giggling to herself as she disappears past the side of my house.
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Across the street is a small compound delineated by the tall bamboo fence that runs its borders on all four sides. The compound was recently built by a man with an entrepreneurial spirit and visions of a shopping mega-center in the middle of Mossuril. If you were to ask this man what he saw for the future of the lot he would talk to you about a tourist center that arranges guided canoe rides. An internet café. Ice cream. A small restaurant. A theater. Fresh fruit smoothies. For the time being he sells phone credit. But I try to support this man and his far flung dreams, because it could mean ice cream cones just across the street.
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Three women pass. Each has a baby tied snugly to her back with a capulana.
A motorcycle flies by much faster than seems necessary, bearing two men. The passenger’s arms are straight, facing downward and slightly behind him. In each hand he clutches the legs of a live chicken.
A small child rides a bike that is far too big for him. Were he to straddle the frame his feet wouldn’t reach the pedals, so instead he sticks one leg through the triangle of the frame and pedals in short half pumps. Three equally small children chase after him screaming gleefully.
Four goats cross my yard to pick at the clumps of grass at my abandoned neighbor’s. The lead goat has a frayed blue cord around her neck that drags in the dirt behind her.
A very small little girl run-staggers happily into my yard, sees me sitting on my step writing, stops, and turns around crying.
Someone yells good morning.
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Behind the house is my yard. And behind my yard is a maze of houses and foot paths and mango trees and free range chickens living in the freest sense and palm trees and hand dug wells and crying children and vegetable gardens, that I would suppose all requires many years, or maybe just a certain know-how, to understand how to navigate.