But there is a price to pay for all of this fun. And that cost is called ShopRite.
Those who know me well understand that grocery shopping has always fallen somewhere between musical theater and involuntary psychiatric commitment on my list of things to avoid. Thus, the contents of my fridge back home typically contained nothing more than a jar of olives, some soy milk, and a squeeze bottle of French's mustard.
But given the dearth of restaurants and takeaway places that offer healthy choices here, I've started cooking. And I'm learning that most recipes require these pesky little things called ingredients...and said ingredients don't just materialize in one's refrigerator or pantry.
Enter ShopRite, the primary grocery store chain in Mozambique. I didn't burst into tears as some of my friends here admitted to having done the first time they stepped inside, but I did experience a how-quick-can-I-get-a-flight-back-home? moment. At first glance, it appears reminiscent of the typical Albertson's back in the States, complete with linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and sullen check-out clerks. But once you start traveling up and down the aisles, you realize you aren't in Kansas any more. I have seen animal parts encased in plastic wrap that I couldn't identify even with the help of Charles Darwin. Held butter that has melted and then been re-refrigerated about, say, nine times. Smelled vegetables left to decompose in the produce aisle. Touched loaves of bread that could be used to build fortresses.
Before leaving Dallas, I had done a little shopping reconnaissance and uncovered a news story detailing that ShopRite in Africa was exposed for selling expired foods and using past-their-prime ingredients in its bakeries. Unlike America, where such a news story might ultimately cause a food store to shut its doors, ShopRite was fined about $59K (not a lot if you consider the size of this continent) and hasn't skipped a beat. So if you have ever wondered where manufacturers send decades-old potted meat products, you can rest assured that I'm pushing a grocery cart past them each week. Some of everyone's favorite '70s-era beauty products are widely available, too. Last Thursday I came across a shelf full of "Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific" shampoo. With the original packaging design.
To add insult to injury, the prices are ridiculous. A bag of decent cereal or a small portion of parmesan cheese can cost $25. Hardwood floor cleaner - with about 1/4 of the liquid inside the container missing - averages around $20. Ten flour tortillas are about $15. And just because there are some brands I recognize (like Kellogg's Corn Flakes), I can't assume the quality will be the same. I have a sneaking suspicion manufacturers modify their products specifically for third-world markets. And, let me assure you, they aren't upping the caliber of their formulations.
There are some benefits, however, as my choices have grown exponentially in certain categories. Passion Fruit, Potpourri, Meadow Mist, and Tropical Medley may sound like something out of a Massengill commercial, but those are only a few of my choices for household bleach or soap-scum remover. Seriously, Mozambican shoppers have access to a staggering array of cleaning products infused with scents never found in nature. Granted, none of these products actually WORK, but they could successfully mask the smell of the average city dump.
What I wouldn't do for some Baked Lays about now.
