Breaking Tables in Beira

Now you would be forgiven if you thought the very worst of Beira. First impressions of this city are never kind and sometimes people feel a deep sense of shock and almost cheated that it no longer resembles the place of their childhood memories. Remembering sun filled days when they were kids, playing on the beaches, while their parents partied the nights away are memories nostalgic and dear to many Zimbabweans. Under the decaying buildings, market stores and endless rubbish lies a city with a heartbeat and a soul. It also has a port and that is the reason why Pat and I were there. By 9.30 am in the morning, we had miraculously succeeded in clearing eight containers of dripper line from customs and were now organizing eight huge trucks to uplift them and bring them to a depot in the centre of Beira to be offloaded. After that little exercise, they had to be reloaded on to other trucks and taken off to Chimoio. We were in high spirits as the sceptics had warned us that getting them out of customs would bring us to our knees leaving us broke and reaching for the valium. Not so! broke perhaps from the heavy duties incurred but not broken, in fact we were quite smug and very pleased with ourselves for achieving the supposed impossible.

The next job was to off load the containers. This could only happen the next day. We were lucky as we had borrowed Bill and Jane Clegg's flat which overlooks the sea in the more up market part of Beira. To get inside the building was like a tough obstacle course and you needed the skills of seasoned Navy Seals to enter the building. You had to negotiate lots of heavy chains and bolts and rusted sliding garage doors. Then it entailed a steep climb up numerous flights of stairs in the dark, arms outstretched like a blind person until you felt your way to the flat door. After lots of unlocking and relocking you finally fell through the door exhausted and realized there was no chance of just popping back down to the car, if you thought you had left your reading glasses or book and in Pat's case his cigarettes behind. It was quite interesting to watch the conflict of his emotions, nicotine addiction versus exhaustive physical effort. Once inside the flat it was amazingly pleasant.

The next morning we were up bright and early and braced ourselves for the off loading. We recruited a group of young, noisy and very eager Mozambicans, who just could not wait to off load the containers as quickly as possible so they could collect their money. As the first container was opened there was a mad dash and I quickly moved out of the way before I was stampeded by the crowd. Pat commanded from one end and I from the other. I was soon waist deep in Indian dripper line and burnt lobster red from the hot Beira sun. As we emptied the last container our helpers could not contain their excitement. The ones inside the container took to drop kicking the rolls of dripper line to their comrades on the ground. As their friends lunged to catch the giant rolls, which usually bounced over their heads and trundled off down the road, everyone would fall about in wild paroxysms of laughter bordering on mass hysteria. I was too weary to reprimand them and doing it this way was fairly entertaining and the container was soon empty. With relief we paid our new friends off and watched them disappear back into the streets of Beira. We heard the sound of a truck horn and the glamorous Delphinium Shand arrived in her lorry, to start moving the line back to Chimoio. It was so late, we persuaded Delphinium to spend the night and enjoy the sights and sounds of Beira.

That night absolutely exhausted, we headed off to Club Nautico intent on a early meal and looking forward to our comfortable beds. As we entered the door I heard a loud shout of greeting. I turned to find Vicky Bowen's friendly face grinning broadly. She was accompanied by Peter and Mad Mike Hogan, instinctively I knew we were in trouble. After a couple of bottles of Vino Verde our good intentions of an early night were soon forgotten and we were headed for a night of serious revelry. As we were discussing what was on the menu at Club Nautico, Vicky insisted that we try a Chinese restaurant she had discovered in the in the centre of Beira. 

We leapt into our vehicles and raced after Peter Bowen, who drove as though he was trying to lose us in a car chase. Drawing up outside the restaurant I noted that it had an unlikely sounding Chinese name. It was called Karramombe. Tony Mackay told me he remembered a fabulous Chinese restaurant in Beira in the early sixties called Kum Fuk, but I don't think its operating now. Once seated it was everything a Chinese restaurant should be and the meal was utterly delicious. We ate with such gusto after not eating all day. I must have shocked our elegant Chinese proprietress absolutely rigid, because she felt obliged to glide across the room and give me a polite lesson on the correct way of eating Chinese pancakes much to the amusement of Mad Mike.

Our next stop was a new bar called Lorenzo's. It was fairly crowded but we found a table. As Mad Mike pulled the table towards him so we could all sit down, a piece of it broke away in his hand. He shrugged his shoulders and laid it carefully on the table in view of the waitress hovering round us. After a couple of tequilas and coffee we called for the bill. This arrived with a complimentary bowl of almonds without a nutcracker. Unable to crack her almond with her teeth Victoria became exasperated and handed the nut to Pete. He obliged by slamming a hefty fist down on the nut and as it cracked, the restaurant came to a standstill. As Vicky chewed on her almond appreciatively, I offered Peter my nut and he applied the same table slamming method. Unfortunately this incensed the Mozambican owner, she had obviously been watching the nut cracking activities from behind the bar. She stormed her way to our table, screaming obscenities at Peter in Portuguese. Her eyes then fell on the piece of broken table next to Mad Mike and I swear I felt the earth move.

Victoria listened to the tirade open mouthed, but managed to stay reasonably calm until we were presented with an enormous bill. After careful scrutiny and a quick translation, we soon realized that they were charging us for the broken table. A crowd had now gathered and were eagerly looking forward to a bar room brawl. Victoria was now understandably irate, indignantly she waved the bill at the waitress to get her to explain to the owner that we were not responsible for the broken piece of table. The waitress became mute and hostile "Pay for it"!! Victoria!! Pete shouted impatiently at Vickys retreating back, he bunched his fists gleefully, grinning manically at Delphinium "Then the table is mine"! he boomed and I will do what I like with it in this restaurant"!!! Delphinium's eyes were now like saucers and I think she was wondering uncomfortably how she would explain to her husband Doug, her obvious involvement in getting locked up with the Retzlaffs and Bowens after a night in Beira. Pat realizing things were spiraling out of control joined Vicky and between them they valiantly took on the Portuguese speaking front of house. Just as I thought we were definitely destined for a Beira cell, the owner to our surprise, suddenly ran out of steam( or perhaps recognized, she had met her match in Victoria). Taking advantage of this rather unexpected lull, Pat herded us out. We made a mad dash for our vehicles and headed out into the balmy Beira night without looking back.

NB. This email is dedicated to our beloved friend Sim Maberley who died in a tragic car accident he was much loved. He will be missed by so many!