Shoprite or Wrong?

I’m playing football now on a regular basis. The first two months were great but I really felt that something essential was missing from my life. Well, apart from the Ferrari, yacht, an Oscar, a Puma sponsorship deal and the two super models, of course… It was something different. I had not been playing football for the entire period. Two months without touching a single ball… (ehhh… No, too easy!). And I wasn’t even injured.

Of course there was enough football to be seen. Not only did I visit the legendary Mozambique vs Senegal game, but I could also follow the European Under-21 tournament Holland won (with the extremely overestimated Drenthe), the Copa America (great goal by Messi against Mexico) and even the FIFA Youth World Cup in Canada in which Sergio, the youngest of ‘my’ Argentinian 2005 squad, won the best player and goal scorer award (next to his second consecutive world title).

It is funny, actually, how I could (if I wanted to) see more football here in Third World extremely poor sub-Sahara Africa than most of you guys in techno Europe and US. Yes, last week they even had the Amsterdam and Rotterdam tournaments live.

But, now I joined a team. Well, not really a team, but a local pick-up game. A bunch of guys play every Friday in a concrete courtyard a five-a-side game. Of course, it is all Maputo style. When I was invited to join they informed me that the game would start at 20:00 hrs. I normally work until 18:30 hrs which shouldn’t be a problem apart from the fact that I had to buy some sort of futsal shoes first. And I had no clue where to buy this. Not only is there no such thing as a shopping area or a mall, but all stores close rather early as well (and yes, they have a long siesta too).

This is where our management assistant (even though here they are still referred to as secretary) came to the rescue. She offered to go with me to the Shoprite shopping centre. Did somebody say shopping centre??? A real one? One with real brand stores, hallway music, a car raffle, fast food joints, multiplex cinema, bored teenagers and frustrated husbands carrying their wives bags? YES! YES! YES!

No!.... It’s a supermarket, two banks, a flower shop, a shoe store and possible one or more kitsch gift shops I might have missed on purpose. And don’t think the shoe store is where I went for the futsal gear. No, here in Maputo, if you really want to succeed in shopping, you go to the supermarket! Either the Shoprite of the Game. These are not just your regular supermarkets, these are hypermarkets. Brazilians, Americans and the French will know these. It’s the kind of supermarket that is the size of a regular IKEA and apart from your Camembert cheese you can also buy a pool table or a new suspension for your car. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to pick up a plasma TV, wheel barrel, Christmas tree and a new wedding dress in aisle 14.

Since I already have good futsal shoes back home, I decided to go for the cheapest possible futsal look-a-like shoe. In the meanwhile the secretary had gotten company from the HR girl of our bank. It’s almost like women can smell when someone (with credit card) is going clothes shopping. What is that? Where do they get this talent from?

And they were ready! We arrived at the store together in the same car, but for some inexplicable reason these ladies had already scanned the entire sport shoe section (and undoubtedly the women’s shoe section as well) before I even got there! And they had already picked one for me. And it was perfect! I tried them on, they fit and I headed straight towards the cashier leaving behind two very disappointed looking women. The shopping was over! I committed the ultimate man sin. I went shopping with ladies and had succeeded in 39.32 seconds...

However, these women did not give up. They dove into the shoe mountain only to re-emerge with all different kind of shoes in their hands. Try this one! Maybe you like this one more! What about the one with the cute purple stripe? Why not try them all? Desperation was taking over. All rationale disappeared. Done with shoe shopping within a minute??? Impossible! Where’s the world going too? Al Gore was right! We’re doomed!

I ignored the howl of the sinister shop sisters and walked in a steady unwavering pace straight to the cashier. Don’t look back!, I kept telling myself. They’re probably more afraid of you than you of them. I reached the caixa without a scrath, quickly paid the 800 Meticais for the pair (that is a staggering 24 Euro) and headed for the car. A few minutes later they appeared. I trembled, but that wasn't necessary. I guess the full moon must’ve disappeared behind a cloud, because they were close to normal again. However, it was a long quiet ride back to the hotel…

PS: I actually intended to write about the local football thingy, but this article totally diverted and I more or less filled the page with the shopping part. Oh well, African football stories will have to come some other time.