Mozambique’s allure is purely phonetic. It has a ‘z’ and a ‘q’ in it. So does ‘quiz,’ but Mozambique does not pop. So does ‘quartz,’ but Mozambique does not shine. I felt an instant bond with other tourists I encountered there, not merely in being there, but in our shared ignorance. It sounded like a cool place to go. Bazaruto Archipelago? Come on.

I followed my sister Sara into the back row of a half-empty minivan taxi. “Fish market?” I asked the driver as we scooted in against the window. The driver nodded with a subtle roll of his eyes. I had just spoken the only two English words he knew. The fish market is the only place tourists want to go in Maputo. The legend of the jumbo prawns single-handedly sustains the country’s whole tourism industry.

The van jingled along, stopping frequently to pick up another three people each time. When the vehicle, approximately the size of a baby elephant, filled up with its 19th passenger, I felt sure it had reached its maximum capacity. The fourth, back row had only four passengers crammed across it, and the van could evidently fit five per row.

Sara and I were waiting for the driver to tell us when we reached the market. It occurred to me that we might never reach it or wouldn’t know if we did. I thought the driver might cruise past our stop out of forgetfulness or spite. The van stopped again, but not for us. A twentieth passenger clambered into our row, forcing me into the rear corner of the cab, and Sara onto my lap.

I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was: “how the hell are we going to get out of this car?” A wide woman with a basket of bananas mumbled something, and we got a demonstration. The van rumbled to a halt. Half of the passengers had to get out to enable the woman to exit. As they re-boarded, I imagined the piercing stares we would received when Sara and I arrived at our stop, and the entire van had to do a Mozambican fire-drill to let us out.

To prevent suffocation, Sara craned her neck out the pop-out window. I watched her examine it with an odd fascination. The van came to yet another stop. There was some kind of argument taking place between the driver and a wannabe passenger who begged to be allowed onboard. Sara couldn’t take it anymore. The van was too crowded and too hot; she’d had enough and wanted off. She sprung for the most expedient path to freedom and, seizing the opportunity, swung her leg out the window. The other passengers heard her and turned around to see what the skinny white girl was doing. Everybody chuckled at the absurdity of her attempted escape. It was the first time I had seen anyone in Mozambique smile.

The locals already knew what Sara discovered as she untangled her leg from the pane: resistance was pointless. The situation was what it was, the van was sweaty and cramped, Mozambique was struggling, and we had no choice but to deal with it.

The whole van emptied at the market. I limped out and paid the driver what he asked for, which was probably five times as much as the the real rate.

The pungent fish smell reminded me of my mission’s purpose, the one reason I came to Mozambique other than its sexy name: the ocean, and all of its succulent oversized crustaceans.

The market crackled, at least relative to the slow-motion, walking-dead city streets. I can’t imagine it had changed much since colonial times. Fish were piled on bare wooden tables with no ice or prices. Maputo survives on the day’s catch. I didn’t know what kinds of fish I was looking at, but they were thick, raw, whiskery, and diverse. Mounds of pink, fleshy squid. Buckets of floating clams. It was the Times Square of seafood—everything freakishly oversized. I gaped at predatory crabs with claws like eagle wings. The lobsters were so unusual in appearance I had no idea they were living creatures until I saw the bottom of a cardboard box, which I had assumed to be lined with a turquoise-patterned cloth, squirm. They were two feet long and decorated with what appeared to be zebra stripes, polka dots, and rare gemstones. They looked like rusty toucans. I had never seen creatures like this before.

The prawns surpassed my hopes. One whole branch of the market was devoted to them. They soaked in massive red and blue plastic barrels. They were eight inches long and marvelous.

A few women had a monopoly on the whole Maputo prawn circuit. They knew exactly how much to overcharge oogly-eyed tourists like us—a price commensurate with our vastly excessive enthusiasm. The move was to play it cool. We didn’t make that move. We showed our cards too early by approaching the prawn counter with raised eyebrows, making awe-stricken sounds like crashing waves and pointing stupidly. We might as well have shown up tar and feathered, with dollar bills instead of feathers. The Prawn Queen knew exactly what to do with us.

“We want prawns,” I said. “Jumbos.”

She picked up her best-in-show specimen from the top layer of her bucket and stretched it out in front of me. It could have been a foot long.

“Big prawn,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “Very good.” I asked for two kilos.

She reached into her bucket with both hands and plopped a heap of prawns into a brown paper bag. We paid the equivalent of twenty U.S. dollars for over four pounds of prawns, which, in my hungry daze, and compared to American prices, seemed like a steal.

The center of the market transforms into an outdoor dining area with plastic chairs and tables draped in floral vinyl. We negotiated to have the prawns prepared for us, and waited for them in the shady courtyard.

And waited.

And got hungry.

And fidgeted with the hot sauce.

And got cranky.

And waited some more.

We became so physically weak and so frustrated that we had to make a move. Sara stayed put at the table in case the food happened to come out, while I went back to the Queen and inquired as to the progress of our delectable sea-feast. She assured me to wait just a little bit longer. I went back to the table.

The sun was setting; my anger was rising. After an hour and a half, something was clearly wrong. I went exploring the various kitchens lining the shadowy interior of the market, looking for a wok of sizzling tiger prawns. All I found were stone-faced women glaring at me in front of stinky sinks. How dare I barge into their kitchen to remonstrate some anonymous Mozam-middleman for the unacceptable delay of my dinner? How entitled! How American!

Sara and I discussed methods of sabotaging the prawn lady’s whole operation and ruining her reputation from Maputo to Harare. But making a scene was futile. And probably dangerous. And realistically impossible given our withering state. Was this how long things took to get done in Mozambique all the time? Or were we being tortured, taunted, toyed with, and forced to suffer the same abjection in which the local people had been drowning since the first Portuguese ships landed on African sand? Were we being punished?