I checked my IPod clock: 5:48am. A little too early to get up, but the tent was light so I peeked out of the zippered window. The pale glow of an approaching dawn bathed both the sand and the sea in a blushing pink light. Six teenage boys waded in pairs, dragging between them, frayed, green fishing nets. I opened the door and as I turned to rouse Liam, a few hundred blood swollen mosquitoes bumbled out of the tent, sated with their nocturnal feast. I waved out as many as I could before kissing my boyfriend awake. Too sleepy to get up, he compromised by keeping the door open and loaning me his camera. I hopped outside, stretched tall, and walked delicately down towards the jetty where I climbed onto a rocky seat. Pastel pink bounced over the purple/grey/blue water and soon soft yellow rays danced into the mix as the sun peered eagerly upon the Indian Ocean. Laughing and sometimes singing, the young men hauled in their early morning catch. I breathed deeply and savored my beautiful, fortunate life.
Later that morning, after a shower that was surprisingly warm, Liam, Gavin and I headed off to explore the city of Beira. We began our self-guided tour at Cafe Riviera where we chatted, drank coffee, and gobbled up mouth-watering pastries for breakfast. After that, we headed to the city’s port, meeting people and photographing the hundreds of docked fishing boats. A crazy guy followed us around for awhile either warning us of police or thinking we were police, it was impossible to decide. We appeared to be the only tourists in town, and aside from the one nut, everyone was pleasant and seemed happy we were interested in their country.
After an annoyingly long shop at the supermarket, we ate a few chicken pot pies for lunch on the curb outside Shoprite, and dropped Gavin off at a nearby internet cafe. Liam and I walked, hand in hand (despite humid heat), down every street and avenue that caught our fancy. I enjoyed talking to people in their local language. Well, not exactly, but Portuguese is pretty similar to Spanish, and from the moment we passed through Mozambiquen immigration, the Portuguese language had been music to my ears. I speak some Spanish, having lived for 2 years in Nicaragua, and though admittedly the languages are not quite as close as I would have hoped, I could still understand. Not everything, not even 50 percent, but at least 25 percent spoken and 50 percent written and that was an earful better than my Afrikaans or my Thai or my Shona or any local language I’d heard in the last 10 months. I relished each non-unintelligible word.
Part of Liam and my mission was to get my camera fixed. That is really our perpetual mission. Sand, rocketing around the Namib dunes has very sadly screwed with the focus mechanism, and even though the camera is a new, wonderful, Christmas gift from my mother, I can no longer use it. Liam, more knowledgeable about these things, is absolutely convinced it is salvageable. If only we could find a proper camera repair shop. Unfortunately, electronics in Southern Africa cost 4 times what they cost in the rest of the world, and people make way more than 4 times less money. The effect of this is that people neither own nor need to fix cameras; no camera shops.
One man we asked ushered us into his mechanics shop. Ahmed was a Muslim Arab who spoke English well, and was keen to try and clean out the camera with Liam. I nervously nodded my permission, and having been shown to a stool, sat and watched the two boys eagerly, carefully, disassemble one of my most prized possessions. Ahmed had a building full of tools, including tiny screwdrivers and an air compressor. After an hour, unable to deconstruct the device any further, the guys put it back together unfixed. The mechanic and the mechanical engineer were perhaps even more downhearted about the failure than I was.
We said goodbye and met back up with Gavin. He and Liam went back to the port while I figured out the public transportation back home. Chapas (or minivans) troll the city, going every which way, picking up passengers. After only a little trouble, and several kind, patient strangers, I found one going my way and made it back to the tent just as the sun began to set. I sat on the sand and watched the sky burn pink, orange, red and yellow. Spectacular.
A simple loaf of bread and can of veggies made dinner for us later, and we fell into a semi peaceful, semi mosquito ridden sleep, listening to waves break not 30 feet away from our beds.
Day 2 Budget
$0.89 coffee
$0.71 pastry
$2.71 toiletries
$1.80 lunch: chicken pot pie, juice
$0.87 dinner: bread, can of veggies
$0.34 water
$0.18 pen
$0.18 chapas trip
$3.04 camping
Total 10.72
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