Mozambique - Part 4

At 6:00am, I sleepily meandered from the dormitory hut to the hostel’s circular restaurant/bar/sitting area to quietly blog and maybe catch a little of the sunrise…if only those gloomy clouds would disappear. By 7:30am, cushions were flying off chairs, a bookshelf had just crashed to the ground and a dozen wooden blinds had broken loose from their bindings and were hurling around the room like arrows, wildly shot by a blind man toward an elusive flock of birds. A heavy, tropical rain noisily pelted every direction but straight down while lightning and thunder mercilessly roared through the murky sky.

I huddled alone in the center of the round building with Tinks, Liam’s cute little laptop, protectively hidden beneath my coat. Several waterlogged employees rushed to and fro, trying to secure items yet unbroken. Not exactly the peaceful, productive morning I was after, but by 8:00am, the deluge abated enough for Liam to dash over and join me, and, by 9:00am, I was ready to leave for breakfast.

Originally, we had planned to take a boat to Bazaruto Island that day, set up camp, and spend the afternoon idly lounging on a balmy beach. Unfortunately, the government shut down the only campground, in favor of more profitable (and higher taxed) accommodation; doubles ranging between $365 and $790 per night.

Determined not to entirely waste the day trudging around the dirty little gateway town of Vilankulo between sessions of wintry rain, I tried to hurry Liam and Gavin along, eager to get to my growing mental list of chores. To no avail however. Once Gavin was finally ready to leave, my two dear travel partners could not possibly have walked more sluggishly towards the city center. At last we entered Bartize restaurant, but the “inexpensive” meals our guidebook promised they served, were in fact, quite expensive, so we headed at an agonizing snail’s pace to the supermarket. On the way, Gavin jammed his chin into my shoulder painfully to get my attention while asking me a question, and when I snapped my answer back, he and Liam looked at me like I was crazy. Irritated, I trudged ahead of the guys.

Outside the supermarket, I paced and “humpfed” with impatience during Gavin’s lengthy ATM use. Liam finally asked me if I wouldn’t rather just do my own thing and meet back later.

“Fine!” I angrily retorted, then turned tail on him and walked in the opposite direction. Liam caught up with me quickly, pulled me aside, and asked what all the morning’s attitude had been about. I looked up at him sulkily, brows knitted, but unsure of how to explain. I couldn’t with a straight face blame my mood on the rain, I mean that’s what you get when you travel in the tropics. I certainly couldn’t scream, “You stupid guys are SLOWPOKES!” and remain 28 years old. Nor could I, I resolutely decided, let him know I was just a control freak and everyone and everything seemed to be forgetting who was boss that particular morning.

Instead, I said nothing, shutting my boyfriend out entirely. Frustrated, he told me that he felt sometimes like I might prefer to travel alone.

While I went to buy fruit (meeting the guys later at the bakery) I decided that, sigh, I did not want to travel alone. Overall, I enjoyed the companionship of the guys (heck, I was in love with Liam) and for the rest of the day I did my best to be a little nicer to them both.

Due to a lack of electricity and icky weather, I didn’t make too much progress on my chore list, but I did get to meet a few other travelers, snap some photos of the dreary town, and gobble up an expensive bar of conciliatory chocolate.

While I spent my day at the hostel, a sweet, clever, 15-year-old named Americo, spent the day becoming like a little brother to Liam and Gavin. He taught them some Portuguese words in exchange for some conversational English practice.

That night, Americo was escorting us all to dinner when 2 policemen stopped us in street.

“I need to see your documents now!” One of them slurred in Portuguese.

At the outset, we tried to get Americo to translate for us, but the typically bright, animated kid went into statue mode, so I stepped in with my dodgy Spanish.

“We are just going to dinner now, just going to a restaurant to eat.” I explained.

“You need to show me your documents before you go to dinner.” The first man slurred again. The second guy smiled lazily. I fished out my passport, and prompted Gavin to do the same. While they scrutinized the English documents like 4-year-olds desperately pretending to read a book they cannot, I explained how Liam had left his stuff in the hostel safe while walking around at night avoid getting robbed (as is pretty much always suggested).

“You have no documents!” The first man wailed and repeated this dramatically for several minutes. “You must give me your documents! Blah blah Portuguese blah blah…if you are in an accident, we need to identify you!”

“Gavin and I can identify him tonight.” I reasoned, a bit annoyed, “And he doesn’t have documents with him now, so if you want to interrupt our night and take us back to the hostel, you may see his documents, but otherwise, we will remember to carry them in the future. Okay?”

After some grumbling and slurred Portuguese, the man looked at Liam, pointed menacingly at his chest, and said, “Fine, but you remember, if I see you without documents again, you will go jailhouse!” He said last, emboldened part, in English, startling Liam, who hadn’t understood the Spanish/Portuguese exchange.

“That’s just fine. Good night! Thanks.” I told them, hooking my arm around my fairly bewildered, but thoroughly amused boyfriend, and heading away from the police. After half a block, I translated what had happened and Americo came out of his poorly timed stupor, telling us that those specific cops are always, “Smoking the…you know in English…I think this thing is called…the weed?” He mimicked a joint wide eyed and we laughed. The guys praised my admittedly meager but generally handy grasp of romantic languages, and we continued.

At the mysteriously named Complexico Alemania, or the German Complex, we ordered the 4 cheapest “traditional” dishes on the menu. Two of them were ok at best, while the other 2 were basically inedible. I am a fearless eater who can stomach just about anything in a pinch, but the vegetable added to the cassava root on my plate was disgusting, just horrible.

As I busied myself trying to wipe the bitter green sauce off of the potato-like cassava, Vilankulo’s electricity failed… again, and the restaurant submerged into darkness. Even before the first emergency candle was lighted, a man sprinted out of the room and drove his car up to the entrance. Stereo on full blast, he opened his door. It is one thing to go without light, but without music? Impossible! Not here.

Akon, Rhiana, and of course, Africa’s most beloved musician, 50-Cent, filled the air with their rhythmic verses. Dancing and foot tapping resumed as laughter and conversations spilled out into the candlelit night.

Fifteen-year-old Americo assures us that the gross cassava greens make you get really big, strong, and buff. Oh good.

Day 4 Budget

$1.07 three oranges and one fruit named ‘ata’

$1.61 tea and pastry

$0.46 veggies

$0.68 water

$1.43 cheese

$2.39 disgusting dinner

$2.50 chocolate

$10.00 dorm bed

Total $20.14