Despite being only 150 miles away, and despite the three of us being packed, ready, and waiting, thumbs extended, by 9am, as we stood on the small dirt track leading toward Malawi, I began to wonder if we’d make it there by nightfall. Happily, my concern faded away soon enough when the 2nd vehicle to drive by (in 35 minutes) stopped and picked us up.
Portuguese (only) speaking Alberto appeared to be a hardworking, middle-aged man. Unfortunately for him (but to our great amusement) his limited language skills failed to weed out from his wardrobe the navy blue T-shirt he wore. Soft yellow and red letters on his chest touted him to be the “WORLD’S GREATEST MOTHER”.
In the back of Alberto’s (dump truck length truck? What the heck is the name for those size of trucks?...In between a semi and a pickup...) semickup, I wedged my butt into a heavy tire, nervously trying to avoid being thrown out of the bouncing vehicle. Sharing the dirty truck bed with us were 2 barrels of gasoline and a large boat motor.
Anxious as I was about hitchhiking again and road travel in general, even I had to laugh a little when we stopped near a village school because our bloodhound driver smelled gas. Safety first! Sure enough, Alberto and his trusty assistant found a leak in the bottom of one container. After a brief discussion, the two of them flipped the heavy barrel onto its head and called it good. As we trundled off, the entire school, having had come out to stare at us, energetically waved goodbye. (2 whitey guys + 1 bandaged up whitey girl = a sighting far more interesting than any classroom mathematics).
Soon enough, we arrived in Sena and we couldn’t help but notice that the bridge drawn in our Lonely Planet map was nothing more than a narrow railway suspended above the great Zambezi River. Not a good mistake, in my opinion, for a guidebook to have.
Our driver didn’t stop in Sena, but since he knew our destination, we trusted him and rode out of town 6 miles before backing down to the red clay edge of the waterway. Several men stood around and after the three of us were ushered off, they unloaded and cleaned up the truck. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere and after scanning the empty river for a bit, Liam and Gavin sent my Spanishy self in to discuss the situation.
“Blah blah river blah blah boat blah blah you wait here.” That was basically all I could glean from the busy, fast talking men. So using 5 inch long wooden tree thorns as toothpicks, we sat on our bags and waited, all the while venturing guesses as to what might happen to us next:
Would a big ferry come for the truck to board?
Would a small ferry come to pick up the people, fuel, and motor?
Would a row boat come and use the motor that Alberto brought?
Would a boat come, pick up the stuff and leave us to cross some yet unseen bridge further down the river?
We had no clue, but as 5 minutes dragged out into 45 minutes, I caught snippets of the conversation: boat...time...police...gasoline...police.
Illegal petrol! Obviously! They were smuggling black market gasoline across the river. That is why we were so far from town!
When a speedboat pulled up onto the shore, it boarded 2 barrels of fuel, 1 boat motor, 3 tourists, and 1 World’s Greatest Mother. And indeed, for the next 20 minutes as we sped across the mighty, muddy Zambezi, Alberto and the driver scanned the horizon for the frequently muttered “la policia” while Liam, Gavin and I kept our eyes on a very different type of show stopper; massive crocodiles sunned themselves on the numerous sandy islands and river banks. We flew along and I prayed we wouldn’t hit an overturned log and capsize our vessel. Long, menacing rows of teeth (not to mention 2 large, leaky barrels of fuel) might prove a boat accident to be more fatal than the one we'd had in the car.
At last we docked safely, and saying a final goodbye to the powerful river we’d been following for months, as well as to our new outlaw friends, we heaved on our backpacks and walked to Mutarara. It was afternoon by this time and we were definitely the center of attention in the tiny grass hut village. The three of us moseyed around until we located a cement restaurant/hotel run by an older couple who were probably members of what was Mutarara’s upper class.
Flora, a woman heavily creased by a lifetime of smiles, greeted us cheerfully in slow, patient, Portuguese while holding her (extremely and constantly doted upon) 1-year-old granddaughter. I spoke to her for awhile, ordering food for us all and learning that the 2 chappas to the Malawian border would not leave until the next morning. When I told her we would try and hitchhike that afternoon, Flora smiled, shook her head and gave me a sweet, but distinct, ‘Poor white people, they are so dumb’ look. “There are no private cars going to Malawi” she explained slowly, as if talking to a child, “There are no private cars here.”
It dawned on me that she might be right and after a pow-wow with the guys, we concluded that since the only car we’d seen was a rusted chassis, partly submerged in dirt, we would stay in Mutarara for the night. Due to limited funds, the 3 of us slept, mosquito netted up, on a double bed in a room with no running water. Squashed uncomfortably in the middle that night, I dreamed of Blantyre. Only 120 more miles.
Day 9 Budget
$0.43 breakfast
$0.43 water
$1.79 hitchhike
$0.54 Sprite
$2.50 lunch
$1.43 dinner
$4.79 accommodation
Total: $11.91
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