A walk down the street of Vilanculos

One Sunday evening, Cait and I decided to walk around town, instead of sitting at the church, waiting, until Maria picked up all the people for the service to then start.

 

We’d seen a stall alongside the road earlier that looked interesting, so we headed in that direction. As we neared its location, though, we could see that it was empty; the owner must have packed up and headed home already.

 

Maria would still be gone for at least another half hour, so we decided to get a closer look at the smaller market since the couple of times we’d been there previously had only been quick 5-minute stops for eggs, sugar, vegetables, etc. As soon as we walked in, an older man approached us flailing his arms in a way that made us think him drunk. We tried to keep walking, but he stopped me in my tracks, literally, by standing in front of me, almost too close. I had no idea what he wanted. His gestures gave me the impression that he wanted to dance with me. (What was I supposed to think of his strange behavior?) He was making noises but no intelligible words came out of his mouth. Eventually, he spit out the word “cigarette.” Oh, I understand.

“Sorry. I do not have cigarettes.”

Thankfully, that’s when Cait grabbed my hand and pulled me out of that situation.

 

On our way out of the market, we took a different route so as to avoid the possibility of another run-in with that strange man. Walking by some more stalls, a man called out to us saying he must ask a question. Me, not being able to refuse, reluctantly backtracked towards him to answer his question.

“Where are you from?” (Of course. That’s a pretty typical question we hear a lot.)

“America,” I reply.

“How old are you?”

“18.” When he hears this, an incredulous look crosses his facial features.

“What’s your name?”

“Rebecca.”

 

 Now I was starting to get uneasy, especially with the way he was looking me up and down. Then his brother, a man we had passed earlier and who had gazed at Cait with too much interest, wandered over to join our little conversation. The guy we were talking to said that his brother was “loving on Cait.” Hmm…how does one respond to that? Then he started talking about how neither one of them had wives and how they wanted them.

 

“Are you two married?”

“No, and I don’t think my parents would allow me to get married in Mozambique.”

 

 Now that the situation had become increasingly uncomfortable, we then hastily exited by walking away, saying Ciao. After all this, we certainly were glad to see the face of a friend on our way back to the church.