Bananas

Mozambique
May 2019

Mounds of bananas overflow roadside stands and cover open market ground cloths across the continent. Abundant, inexpensive, and healthy, they are at first thought a rare example of something good in abundance, when classical economics portends scarcity. Smaller and greener than in the US, their mildly sweet flesh accompanies my breakfast oats and makes a great quick snack. Even when bruised, their intense flavor remains; an unlikely metaphor for this slice of humanity. Like most consumer goods here, bananas are an afterthought of a few coins in the market, yet my rote wanderer regime. In urban stalls where sewage stench hovers over fresh foodstuff and rural tents collect more dust than sunlight, as certain as the rooster crow and prayer call at dawn, there are bananas.

Behind a concrete wall, fires smolder and forgotten souls sort a recent delivery in an open lot where sandy rubbish and discarded peels prod my sandals. Crooked fingers tender for me eight or ten clinging together in bountiful bunches, and I furrow my brow to choose one. "Muito bem, obrigado," I manage with a dopey smile, swallowing the round consonants of my newly acquired Portuñol. Still seated, she dips her head with a toothy grin of gratitude as I clutch my fruit. My feet bend against their anatomy in the sandy soil, and I mosey away questioning the absurd finances (10 meticais for 10 bananas, or about 15 cents). The only man in the lot follows, calling me with one of the sharp wordless tones that regularly punctuate regional conversation. These I understand, if nothing else, after the soft drumming of Bantu dialects around me for four months. I turn in confusion, expecting a sudden upward price revision, but he drops two more bananas in my hand with his own toothy grin. I accept with grace and flash my own smile as my confusion lingers.

Only momentary instinct guides my turns through the market maze of concrete blocks and wooden posts, as I search for avocados and tomatoes. Any sandy mound might change my path. A seated voice crows with the desperate local inflection, "me de uma banana!" I raise my eyebrows as I translate the new language, still walking, ignoring the voice against my best instinct, perplexed by the demand. And ten steps further in the loam alleyway, between the stalls of cooking oil and dried legumes, another voice confronts me. "Hey mister! Me de uma banana..." Sorry, no. The seldom used word in my vocabulary now gathers little dust. I squeeze past a corrugated aluminium sheet placed as a wall and spy the avocados. A woman with a few assorted mandarins, bananas, and other fruits faces my avocado vendor as I stoop to the ground. I pay him and stand to stroll away. She too asks me for a banana. I'm confounded.

Voices follow me, buzzing in my ear for banana offerings, and I eventually stop responding. I'm cold and dehumanizing to preserve patience; exposing these emotions frustrates me. Upon returning to my hostel, I ask the staff why my bananas were so popular. "It's because they see them every day. To local people, they're nothing special." I cock my head sideways to rebalance my off-kilter brain. If they're not special, why swarm me like vocal fruit flies? "Because you have them. And so they're special." He taps the white skin of my bare forearm. But this isn't luxury. I paid a reasonable local price. It's not the price, though, he says. "It's you."

I stretch my mind around the coveting desire for familiar fruit. Maybe it's more than fruit. It's my Portuñol and bright shoes. My daypack and my aimless saunter. My camera and straight mzungu hair. Would they call for a stray cat if I carried it through the labyrinth of stalls? Or loaf of moldy bread? I bend for comprehension, but I'm stiff. They envy their own bananas. I can only hope they envy my rejection of a plastic carry sack even more. But this too may be my mzungu mind, stretching too thin and asking too much. They're just local bananas in foreign hands.