HAUTE COUTURE

Haute Couture

A man walked by me on the way to work this morning wearing white quilted knee-high snow boots.  I had a navy blue pair in the 1970s, one of my teen favorites.  Moon boots, they were called, and the guy looked every bit the part, wearing them in the searing heat, on a highway somewhere east of the Kalahari.

Only a few minutes later, a bicycle taxi zipped past.  The driver had on a ski hat, a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a pair of oversized dark sunglasses, the ones with crazy eyes printed on the front of the lenses.

Anything goes when it comes to fashion.   Little girls parade in second-hand Cinderella or Belle dresses, torn and tattered but undoubtedly their favorite frock.  Originally made as costumes, there is no zipper or buttons in the back.  The dresses hang on their tiny frames, wide open, exposing torn underwear or bare behinds.  Some of the patients at the hospital appear in clothes two to three sizes too large.  Already very thin from suffering with HIV, they seem to float down the hallways, like waltzing scarecrows.  Big men on small motorcycles darn oversized jackets that balloon out as they drive, looking like a darker version of Flat Stanley.

The t-shirts that arrive from all over the world and worn here are probably my best source of entertainment.  Some of the slogans and designs are dubious of their own accord.  Here, on Mozambicans, they are down right hysterical.  “Zombies Unite” and “Future Mad Scientist” were this week’s top hits, displayed by two older and unsuspecting women.   Another woman had a t-shirt with the breasts and navel drawn on the front.  Odd, as the real thing is normally exposed here.  And, in a setting that couldn’t be stranger, seated only a few seats from her was a very old woman wearing a completely sheer blouse, with absolutely nothing underneath. 

There are shoes of every ilk, as well, though most people wear flip- flops.  Often you will see someone wearing two different flip flops.  The broken one is discarded  somewhere along the side of the road.  The survivor of the pair is kept in use, paired up with another, regardless of color, or sometimes, size.  Others walk great distances barefoot.   This is all the more amazing when one considers the broken glass, trash, and litter on the street.

Of course, there is the traditional dress.  Colorfully printed yards of fabric are wrapped around women as skirts or dresses.  A matching piece of fabric tightly secures their babies on their back.  Another print, matching or not, is used as a head wrap, tied in a variety of styles.  Western dress is also common and men and women are pressed, ironed and creased.  Houses may not have running water but people here pride themselves on being clean and well presented.  For those without electricity, the irons with the hot coals are commonly used.

Walking in a village last week, three people passed me on a trail, walking single file.  They had just finished working in their machambas, or gardens.  The man, leading the way, had on a shabby suit jacket and a fedora.  The two women, following, had hoes, balanced lengthwise on their heads.   All of them were barefoot.  It didn’t occur to me until much later, sitting on my porch that evening, that I simply stepped aside and greeted them as they went on their way. 

How can it be that one can become accustomed to such things so quickly? My task is to integrate, settle and have a routine.  Yet, I do not want to lose an appreciation of the surreal sites I encounter.  I muse over these thoughts as I sit on my porch, seated in one of approximately a million plastic chairs on this continent, enjoying the cool evening air.  And just when I worry that this life will become normal, that the adventure will cease, a pig scurries across the dirt road beyond my house, exiting stage left.