Pavements, Sinkholes, and Surprise Vendors: A Maputo Obstacle Course

Photo by Zoshua Colah on Unsplash

Some people do yoga. Others hike mountains or train for marathons. I, personally, risk my life daily by attempting to walk down a pavement in Maputo.

You think I’m exaggerating. I invite you — no, I dare you — to put on a pair of flats (heels are for amateurs or adrenaline junkies) and take a leisurely stroll down Avenida 24 de Julho. You’ll find that Maputo’s pavements are less a public service and more a thrilling, unsanctioned obstacle course designed by an urban planner with a dark sense of humour and a drinking problem.

Step one: keep your eyes on the ground. Always. Look up for even a second — to admire a jacaranda tree, flirt with a passing stranger, or take in life — and that’s when you’ll fall into a hole so deep it has its own climate. I once tripped into what, I thought, was a crack in the pavement, only to find myself halfway to Beira. I came out dusty, dazed, and significantly more humble.

Then there are the poles. Random steel poles sprouting out of the middle of the pavement like forgotten Soviet monuments. Some are bent. Some lean. One near the fish market has been wrapped in a plastic bag since 1998, possibly for religious reasons. No one knows why they’re there. We respect them, like eccentric relatives at a family reunion.

And because life in Mozambique loves a good plot twist, there’s a special thrill in dodging not just holes and poles but also live electrical wires, rain-soaked rubbish, and motorbikes that occasionally mistake the pavement for a racetrack. I once had a txopela swerve around me so closely I felt his breath on my elbow. He waved. I screamed. We both moved on.

But just when you think you’ve reached a sort of urban equilibrium — when you’ve got the rhythm of the cracks, the courage of a circus performer, and the reflexes of a ninja — that’s when they appear.

The fruit vendors.

They don’t walk. They glide. They emerge like genies from clouds of mango-scented air, and before you can blink, a banana is already in your hand, and you’re being called “mana” with such sisterly urgency you momentarily forget your name.

“Olha banana, doce doce! Só 20! Só pra si, senhora, linda, bonita, minha irmã!” (Look banana, sweet sweet! Just 20! Just for you, lady, beautiful, pretty, my sister!)

It’s hard to say no when someone’s shouting compliments at you while forcefully inserting a guava into your handbag. These women have the negotiation skills of Wall Street brokers, but with less remorse. I once told one I didn’t have change. She gave me change. In exact coins. Out of her bra.

Another time, I tried to walk away without buying anything. Big mistake. She followed me for half a block, giving me the life story of the mango she wanted me to buy. That mango had survived a cyclone, two divorces, and a snake bite. I bought it out of pity. It was rotten. But emotionally resilient.

And when you’re about to give up on humanity and go home barefoot and fruit-heavy, you pass someone with a cart offering to fix your remote control, your toaster, and your sense of purpose. He doesn’t ask if anything’s broken — he knows. Everything is. You are.

But still. Still. There’s something about it, isn’t there? That gritty, chaotic, limb-threatening joy of a city that doesn’t try to be charming — but is anyway. Maputo isn’t designed to make your life easy. It’s designed to make it interesting. You might twist your ankle, but you’ll also be called “beautiful sister” by a stranger while holding a banana. Which, frankly, beats most days in the office.

So next time you find yourself on a Maputo pavement, take a deep breath, tie your laces tight, and remember: gravity is optional, fruit is inevitable, and the pole doesn’t move — you do.

If you would like more stories that intertwine humour with life’s serious twists — touching on culture, life, marriage, and work — I have plenty more tangled tales on the way.