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O cheiro da pobreza




Cero ganas de traducir...

Shocked. That's how I've felt all day.  

Putting aside the fact that I'm finally with my family again, enjoying my holidays and time with them, I can't help seeing what's going on around me.  

Yesterday at around noon, when we got to the border between South Africa and Mozambique, it all came back. The smell... Mozambique smell as we call it with my sisters, the smell of poverty, it's really strong and unmistakable. A mix between decomposing garbage, piss, sweat and something else I can't quite pick.  

We went inside the border office to get our visas, I tried to look cool as I saw what awaited in that office: Many people, all sweaty, impatient and really loud, pushing to get their passport stamped. No such thing as a line, try and get to the front if you can. Whilst one of my sisters and I completed some forms I saw how my 2 younger sisters (who live in Mozambique) disappeared into the crowd and emerge after a few minutes with a look of triumph, they managed to get their passports stamped. 

I was preparing myself mentally to do the same, but I was saved by my parents, who have quite a few yrs. of experience in this and managed to get the visas done without doing the line and pretty fast.  

Once we got though the border and on the road again, I saw people walking, carrying their bag/s under the midday sun and like 40 degrees. As I discovered later, most of those people were walking all the way from the border to Maputo because they didn't have the cents (Meticales) they needed to take the bus (chapa).  

Maputo looked the same as always to me. My parents had told me it had really changed, but I didn't see any substantial changes, just a couple of new mansions and shopping centres.  

Raf

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