Walking with a simultaneous limp and skip in my step, I found the town of Caia’s market, and armed with our last 50Metcash ($1.79), my first priority was to find water. Locals boiled theirs but we couldn’t do that, so I searched for the bottled type. Half an hour later, I was still looking. Each shop owner was sure the stand right over there would have exactly what I wanted. One man got my hopes up by asking if I wanted a case or a bottle. When I told him a bottle, he asked if I preferred a small or large one. Gladly I asked for a large. His face fell and he admitted that he didn’t sell larges. Quickly, I told him a small would be ok, but then he looked at me, shook his head confessed he had none of those either. Confused, I asked if he sold cases, and to my great bewilderment he did not. Surely I had misunderstood something, so I clearly asked again if he sold ANY type of water. “No Ma’am but the shop over there might sell something like that.” I looked at him blankly. In Nicaragua they have a saying that goes, “I have more time than life.” It applied here.
At long last, I located a comparatively large store and my big, blue eyes fell upon a big, beautiful bottle of H2O. I leaned over the counter pointing, and requested triumphantly in Spanish, “One large water please.”
“25 Metcash” the man responded, handing me my intended purchase.
I pulled out my 50 note and he looked at me like I’d given him a 1000 note. “I have no change for that!” he sputtered in Portuguese and showed me his box of paltry change. “Don’t you have any small money?”
The store, though at least 150sqft in size, could not muster the equivalent of 89 cents. I shook my head and smiled as he ran out of the shop with my bill, on the hunt for some change. Laughing softly, I closed my eyes. I could hear children giggling and screeching while men and women languidly haggled over prices; above it all, at least 4 different African pop songs blared aimlessly from scratchy speakers. I smelled an amalgam of raw fish, fruit, spices and freshly baked bread. Markets, by nature, are inefficient and somewhat ridiculous, but that morning, I was just exceedingly happy to be part of the crazy Alice in Wonderland frustration for one more day.
Fifteen minutes later, the guy returned with my money and I completed the purchase. On my way out of the maze, I bought several delicious bananas and a few sandy muffins before returning to the hotel. Still somewhat clingy, I practically sat on top of Liam as we dined.
At 2:00pm, after leaving several notes at the hospital for Gavin and successfully (yay!) using an ATM, Liam and I hitched a lift to the river in an attempt to find our missing travel partner. Traffic was stopped in a long line, and while chatting to a few truck drivers, we learned that despite being Africa’s major eastern lengthwise artery, semi trucks would commonly have to wait up to a week before it was their turn to cross. Luckily, a brand new, nearly finished bridged towered above us. The ribbon would be cut in less than a month and, in the words of one man, “It’s going to change the face of southern Africa forever.”
(there is a goat atop this truck)
Jumping on board, we couldn’t help but notice the ferry price per person was the same as our exorbitant hospital bill...$0.05. Unfortunately, despite all our efforts both directions, we couldn’t find anyone to pay.
On the northern side of the continent splitting river, a few bored locals approached us and asked where we were going (a favorite question for Africans...and Asians now that I think about it). In my slow, puzzling Spanish, I explained our search for Gavin and gave them a brief description (white guy). A sense of purpose temporarily interrupted their idle lives and they were off; here, there, every whichaway, until one guy named Paul ran up and grabbed Liam by the arm.
“Come! Come with me! I found someone who knows something!”
Liam and I were ushered into a dark, shadowy, restaurant and told to take a seat on the blackened benches while we waited for the boss. Paul backed out of the room respectfully. Only 2 yards away sat a huge and imperious woman, The Boss, slowly stirring a pot of corn meal which bubbled furiously over a fire burning on the earthen floor.
“Hello. We look...” Liam began in English but was firmly cut off by a man sitting next to The Boss, “Please wait!”
A couple nearby spoke to the prodigious lady and then left the building. The woman eyed us evenly.
“Now what is it that you wanted to ask me?” she queried, mafia boss style, in perfect English. We explained our hunt for Gav.
“I know the man you are looking for.” She reported solemnly. “He is white and is wearing black shortpants I believe.”
Excitedly, we confirmed her assumption. “Do you know where he is now?”
“This man was here from 6:00am until 2:00pm. This man has eaten at my restaurant. Then, he left on the ferry at 2:00pm. He has gone to search for you and you.” She pointed at the both of us expressively.
Thanking the redoubtable woman for her precious information and congratulating her on her flawless English, we reversed out of the intimidating room, ran back down to the ferry, crossed the river and began walking back to Caia. Originally we’d planned to hitch or take a minibus, but no minibuses, and only coldhearted, callous drivers passed. So we walked…and walked…and walked, for an hour and a half, stopping only briefly to watch a disturbingly close hippo snort around in a swamp next to the road. Finally we returned, and running up to the hotel hopefully, we crashed inside and found a white man in black shorts calmly watching a game of rugby. Gavin!
(Gavin’s story: Gavin, 40 kilometers down the road, had learned about our accident, though because he spoke no Portuguese, he only understood ‘accidente’, 2 white people, and the motion of a car flipping. Knowing we never wore seatbelts, poor Gav had no idea if we were dead or alive, and if we were alive, he figured our injuries were probably pretty serious. The car he was in, having found out the scary news, sped up to get to the nearest gas station so they could return to the crash site. The vehicle was instantly pulled over for speeding and the policeman spent half an hour sorting out a ticket for them. Finally, they reached Caia’s filling station but the entire place was out of petrol. Crossing the river on the ferry, they fruitlessly searched the entire town for black market gasoline. When they tried to cross back over to maybe meet us in Caia, the ferry was closed so they all, including Gavin, slept in their car. At 6:00am, the ferry commenced operation and the ever unhelpful Roy and his sidekick Zizu, our drivers, crossed on the first one and climbed into Gavin’s car, ready to continue the journey north. Gavin got out and they stupidly told him to wait where he was, when we had made explicitly clear to them that Gavin was supposed to meet us at the hospital on the southern, Caia side of the Zambezi. Gavin waited and waited but eventually decided to cross, and on the southern side, got in a minibus that unluckily passed the truck Liam and I were hitching with. Once in Caia, Gavin admitted that being the only white people had made finding us easier because he simply had to ask around “Where are my friends” and everyone in town knew exactly who he meant. Finally, our trio was reunited once again!)
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