Business at the bus stop
Hawkers do their best with a captive audience
IT’S about 10.30am when we enter Baixa (pronounced Baa-shaa), the market area of downtown Maputo. We are here to catch a minibus to Swaziland.
We join four passengers who are already sitting inside the kombi — together we take up about a third of the kombi’s capacity. And that is if there are no extra benches squeezed in and the driver is not going to be creative and make people sit on the space behind the front seat, facing the rest of the passengers.
Someone approaches us as if sent by the driver of our minibus (whom we have not seen and do not know) to confirm that we have meticais only for payment. We don’t.
The guy then comes to our rescue and does a quick exchange because, as he says, the taxi is about to leave. We comply, thinking he is legit. Later we learn that we were robbed of a whole R40.
Somebody also comes to collect our passports. Seeing my shocked face, he says: “It’s the procedure.”
Quickly from seats behind us a woman shouts: “Yes, it’s the procedure Sisi, don’t be afraid.”
That irritates me — when exactly did I call for her assurance?
While lots happens during the many hours we spend waiting in the minibus, nothing beats the hawkers.
Back home, the hawkers’ main wares are refreshments, fruits and vegetables, toiletries and cheap jewellery. That’s the first thing.
The second thing is that, back home, if I look straight ahead and ignore the hawker, they get the message and leave me alone — not in downtown Maputo!
The hawkers do not budge until you say something. They just keep repeating their pitch, looking you straight in the eye, until you verbalise your non-interest.
If only it ended there. No, there will be
I’ll get you a man — and will you then buy garlic?
follow-up questions demanding that you confirm or justify your reasons for not buying.
Hawkers here also sell just about anything and everything.
We see trolleys of groceries, door and window frames, and even a lone car door, which is also up for grabs.
Somebody carries a tumbler and ice-cold water. You pay, they pour, you drink, and then give it back for the tumbler to be sold to the next thirsty throat.
“Here’s the gearbox, it’s new,” somebody says to my daughter through the kombi window.
Probably out of boredom, or in an attempt to tire out the hawker, my daughter asks: “It’s for which car?” And the quick response is: “Any car.” Then there is an overfriendly hawker, who comes up and calls me “Skoni” (slang for sister-in-law). She has only two bulbs of garlic and is selling the cloves.
“Just take two cloves, Skoni, and surprise your man, it’s great in stew.”
“I don’t have a man.” That’s me trying to get rid of her.
Without hesitation, she says: “Skoni, that’s easy, I’ll get you a man — and will you then buy two cloves of garlic?”
She keeps a straight face as she says this, as if she has just made a lot of sense. I burst out laughing. Other passengers laugh too. Meanwhile, she quickly moves on to the next promising customer.
Another hawker comes and spreads out some floral dressmaking material to prove that it is really 5m. Nobody has challenged her to that; actually, nobody has said anything. She just puts on her performance, we watch, and after the show, one by one, we say why we are not buying.
And, no jokes, it is at 5.15pm that we start preparing to leave. First it’s the payments. Then somebody writes down our names again, checks our passports again, and I lose count of how many times we are counted (he keeps being interrupted and starts afresh).
Just after 6pm, with the sunset approaching, we begin zigzagging through a maze of roads. We are finally exiting Maputo. —