Screeeeeeeeeech!! Eighteen wheels skidded to an abrupt halt. Liam protectively pulled my head back to his chest as a pothole bounced me toward the ceiling. I couldn’t understand why the truck was stopping, but the driver and his two cronies jabbered on excitedly as they jumped from the cab. Squashed against Liam, I sat up, rubbed my drowsy eyes, and tried to stretch my sore back.
That morning, I’d awoken far more gently to the soft, muffled lapping of the Indian Ocean. When I peaked outside the tent at 6:00am, I saw a pallid, grey mist blanketing the sand, the sea, and the local fishermen. My tired, slightly irritable boyfriend refused to get up and going so early and groggily bear-hugged me back to sleep for another 40 minutes.
It was 9:00am before the 3 of us were packed, ready, and gathered on the road leading away from the town of Beira. Despite the cloud cover, I stood, sweat soaked in the humidity, my left thumb out and our freshly made cardboard sign held high and enthusiastically by my right hand. “EN 1”, the name of the Mozambique’s only major north/south highway, running 3 hours west of Beira, stood out in bold, purple marker. As the only girl, I was the “face of this operation”, so I smiled big and toothy, trying to grin us passage toward the southern town of Vilankulo.
A man in a beat up truck stopped after only a few minutes and told us he could take us, but only 4 miles. Liam, with tremendous foresight, quickly agreed, and we threw our stuff in the bed before hopping in the back seat. Carlos, about 45, was a Portuguese man who had lived in Mozambique for 30 years as both a horse veterinarian and a bakery owner. His warm, convivial manner covered any language difficulties, and he practiced his English while I practiced my Spanish. As it turned out, he had just taken a blood sample to Beira from his ranch to get it tested but found the lab shut down for the day. Since I didn’t trust my Spanish enough to believe there was actually blood the red cooler on the floor, he was obliged to show us the vile. His horse was mysteriously sick, and he was running home before driving all the way to the Chimoio laboratory. He could drop us off at the EN 1 if we didn’t mind running by his house.
We didn’t mind, and inside his apartment we met his bright eyed, 8 year old son, introduced as, “This is my children Manuel”. Seated at the huge dining room table, we were served coffee, tea, Neapolitan-looking cake, and a huge bowl of BBQ flavored cheese balls. We feasted, and upon leaving, switched to his comfy, new SUV. Two speedy hours later, Carlos dropped us off with two big bags of bread rolls and a sack of cashews, refusing a cent in gas money. It was a hitchhike for the record books. He’d picked us up going only 4 miles, but thoughtfully switched to a more comfortable car, fed us, gave us extra food, and drove us 2 ½ hours further.
We stood at the EN 1 intersection in the tiny village of Inchope. An hour passed as the sun did its best to melt us. Our gung-ho determination began to falter as cars failed to go by. Eventually, a flat-bed semi-truck stopped and agreed to bring us about 215 miles to the Vilankulo intersection for $7.14 each. We agreed and piled into the back seat (well, really the soft mattressed bed) of the cab. A plump, unfriendly, black woman with a space hogging bootie sat with us, and two cheerful guys shared the passenger seat.
The truck hauled enormous bags of peanuts and a flock of goats tethered to a center strap, but despite the living, bleating, slowly cooking load, our driver was not in a hurry and we took several hour-long stop breaks. A Dire Straits CD played on repeat hour after hour as the hot, sundrenched day dropped into a dusty rose colored dusk and sunk finally into darkness. Liam and my song is Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet”, so that was romantic, but only the first several times. The cab regrettably had ZERO suspension and the smooth looking road prevented even reading.
When we switched provinces, the road worsened considerably, 4 inch deep potholes often ran the width of it, corners sharpened, and pavement came and went at random. A few hours after sunset was when we halted so abruptly. Liam, ever curious and energetic, hopped out after the driver and the two guys.
A few minutes later, they all returned and Liam sat back down next to me with an amused smile and big eyes. He explained that the truck had hit a rabbit and the guys had retrieved the ill-fated bunny from the ditch and excitedly tied it onto the back of the truck for a later meal. Up front, the animated men babbled loudly. At length, the driver sat back a bit and said joyfully, “Ahhhh, Delicioso!!!!” no doubt imagining the delicious taste of his upcoming road-kill feast.
At 10:30pm, the semi pulled off of the road and let us off at the intersection, 12 miles from Vilankulo. Several drunk, money hungry guys arranged a ‘taxi’ (the back of a pickup) for us and a few others. A guy in his early 20s slurred loudly in accented English, “YOU PAY 50...AND YOU PAY 50...AND YOU PAY 50...cause you WHITE!” And, turning to 2 other locals wanting a ride said, “And you pay 20 and 20”. For no reason beyond alcohol, he said this in English, and when we tiredly protested, he agreed everyone should pay 50 ($1.79), though I seriously doubt that happened.
On the way, the 3 drunkards tried to beg everything from drinks to money to sunglasses off of us. “You give me money cause you’re white and you’re rich ! Hahahaha. What do you give me? Give me your hat!” We were way too weary and sober to take this in good humor and they refused even to drop us off at our hotel despite the exorbitant price. We shivered in the cold, windy truck bed, annoyed at the 3 guys and hoping they wouldn’t rob us upon arrival.
A soft spoken passenger eventually got our attention. He wasn’t going as far as we were, but he kind-heartedly gave us clear directions in perfect English as to where to go once we were dropped off. We thanked him appreciatively and he explained how he was a Zimbabwean who’d been working here in the area for a few years. Of course! Obviously, the nicest person on the vehicle was Zimbabwean. When our friend disembarked, Liam joked quietly how Zims must just travel around looking for people to help. “Let’s gather together and form a gang... a Help Gang! We will just surround tourists and make sure they get where they want to go! And get there as cheaply and easily as possible! What’s our motto? Be polite and HELP PEOPLE! Yeah! Let’s go!” He laughed, referencing our many experiences with the highly civilized, extremely educated, ridiculously nice and caring Zimbabwean people.
In Vilankulo, following the advice of our Zim friend, Liam, Gavin and I walked along the beach path directly to the playfully named Zombie Cucumber’s Backpacker Hostel. There was no camping available, but, too tired to search any further, we crashed onto dorm mattresses in a circular hut.
Day 3 Budget
$0.18 city bus
$2.14 two pastries and plain yogurt
$0.18 hard boiled egg
$0.45 water
$0.71 bill collected for girls I nanny for
$7.14 semi truck ride from Inchope to Pambara
$1.78 pickup truck ride from Pambara to Vilankulo
$10.00 hostel dormitory bed
Total 22.58
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