Mozambique - Part 9

On the morning of May 13^th, my goal seemed simple enough: Get to Blantyre. Our trio intact once again, I’d convinced the others to forego the Ilha de Mozambique in favor of Malawi’s second largest city, a place with guidebook foretold cheap accommodation, running water, internet access, and English speaking European doctors on staff, waiting to stitch up my forehead. Blantyre was my shining beacon.

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 2^nd 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

Mozambique - Part 7b

Ok, yes. We survived the ordeal, and yes, Liam was right. That was the worst thing that happened to us that day, but to be fair, it was only the worst because it was so bad, not because the day got any better.

That morning, when we’d climbed into the ill-fated car, Roy, the driver, told us that he was originally planning to leave at 5am, but it must have been angels that had made him late so that he could pick us up. Well, I’m not sure about angels, but we were certainly thanking God when we climbed into the minibus and began our 50 mile trip to Caia. So were the other passengers. Gracias a Dios (thanks to God) was muttered by several of the people we squashed on top of (which is a bit strange because they use obrigado instead of gracias here for thank you.) The only person who didn’t seem happy we were alive was the driver of the bus who seemed to be arguing with everyone else about who knows what.

On the way to Caia, I mainly focused on not passing out and dying. I felt spacey. At one point, Roy and his buddy got off and encouraged us to get off too, telling us the hospital was nearby. Immediately after we’d disembarked, the bus began to drive off with our backpacks still tied on top. I jumped onto the side of the bus and yelled at the driver to stop. Everyone inside was yelling unintelligibly, and the driver stopped only long enough for Liam to hop back in before we were off again, destination unknown. NO one spoke English but someone indicated to us that the hospital was up ahead.

Six miles further down the road, we encountered the mighty Zambezi river. No bridge spanned the flow, but instead, cars and people were taken across by a ferry...which was of course closed for the evening. Worn out, Liam got out of the minibus, removed our bags, and finally found an English speaking truck driver who informed us that there was a clinic about 6 miles back the way we’d come. Ah! So frustrating.

While Liam was gone in search of more information, I stood outside the minibus and a large crowd of children gathered to stare at me. Normally, being white, children like to stare and wave, but being white with half my face and my shirt covered in blood brought the attention to a whole new level. I was sighing and saying hello to my jaws-to-the-floor audience when a local guy approached. Though he spoke some English, he was very drunk and kept trying to grab my backpack and get me to follow him and leave my “husband”; loudly volunteering of course to be my new one. While I fended off my admirer and grasped my things with all of my might, the mysteriously cranky bus driver began driving away. There were only a few people inside the vehicle and I began screeching about Liam. Angrily, the man slammed on the brakes and began honking nonstop until Liam came running back. Undeterred by the arrival of my boyfriend, the drunk guy hopped in with us and demanded we proceed to the hospital.

Desperately and unsuccessfully, we asked the oddly impatient (especially for an African) minibus driver if he was going back to Caia by pointing at him and the road and repeating “Caia?” He gave us only a growl in response, but ten minutes later, dropped us off in front of a rundown white building. It was the clinic. He barked “$3.00 each”. We paid. My drunk suitor then demanded money from Liam. What? Why? For translations of course. Not a chance, and the man left with neither money nor a wife.

Squaring our shoulders, Liam and I walked into the hospital, determined to get me cleaned up. Of course no one spoke English, so in Spanish I tried to explain our situation to the kind looking doctor who informed us that before being treated, we needed to go file a report with the police. Weighed down by our increasingly heavy backpacks, Liam and I trudged through the mazelike village asking everyone we saw where the police station was. Finally, our tired eyes spotted it. I sat down on a cement step for a moment and Liam and I had a pow wow to discuss our options:

Need #1: A western doctor, trained in scar prevention, to clean and stitch up my face and remove the glass shards from my arm.

Need #1 deemed: Impossible.

Need #2: A public phone to call my family and tell them what happened and that I was ok.

Need #2 deemed: Impossible.

Need #3: Warm, clean, running water, soap, tweezers, and a butterfly bandage.

We realized that Liam would be able to do as much as a dirty, underfunded African clinic could to get me patched up, at least temporarily, and without the potentially very expensive hassle of going to the police and filing a report in a language neither of us spoke.

Need #3 deemed: Possible (except for the butterfly bandage part).

Need #4: A place to stay for the night that wasn’t too expensive because we only had the equivalent of about $20 between us.

Need #4 deemed: Possible (hopefully).

Need #5: Dinner. Though after dark now, we’d only eaten a light breakfast.

Need # 5 deemed: This we could take care of. We could eat at the restaurant across the street, and, at the very least, check that need off of the list. Ha! Just kidding! Liam ordered rice and chicken without checking the price, and after waiting an HOUR, we were given half of a chicken and charged $12 (a live chicken isn’t worth $5). Mouths gaped open, we argued for awhile. This was an unimaginable price, and twice what we’d been paying at the most expensive places previously. It wasn’t just that it was ridiculously expensive, we needed money for a hotel. Normally camping would be ok, but I NEEDED water.

A local man heard our balking and came over to ask if we were alright. I fought back tired tears trying to explain our situation in Spanish. Kindly, he offered to take Liam to an ATM on his motorbike. Honestly, it had not previously occurred to us that a village that rural would have an ATM, but Liam jumped at the opportunity. Twenty minutes after he’d gone, Liam returned. The ATM was out of order. Of course it was. Dejected, we paid the outrageous bill, and picked at our meal quietly.

I watched the road for good Samaritans. Though I have already in my life (especially my travel life) had far more than my fair share of strangers appear out of thin air and save me when I needed them most, it seemed implausible that this much bad luck could befall us without someone stepping in to help. Any second, a car full of tourists or NGOs would show up and we would temporarily hand in the reins to them, and they, more organized at that moment, would fix everything.

No one came, and weighed down with life, we trudged back to the hospital to leave a note for Gavin in case he knew of our accident and went to the hospital to find us. When the doctor I’d spoken to earlier asked about the police slip, I tried to explain how the chicken was expensive and the ATM was broken and we couldn’t pay for a doctor because we needed money for a hotel, but if he could please give this note to our fri…

The fatherly doctor cut me off with a scolding babble. Too tired to fight the day any further, we allowed ourselves to be dragged into a back room where I was seated on bed with a seriously stained sheet. Knowing Africans were far tougher and braver than their western counterparts regarding pain and injuries, I let out not even a whimper while my glassy arm was scrubbed, my excess skin torn off and my wounds cleaned and disinfected with burning iodine. When it was over, I whispered a thank you and Liam began nursing his unfortunately mashed hand.

Back at reception, the doctor doled out 3 Tylenol pills and explained 4 times that I was to take one that night, one the next morning, and one the next night. He was admirably, if not a bit comically, determined not to let the exact dosage get lost in translation. In the end, the bill was only $0.05. This we could afford, and the fact that we didn’t have change for a 15-cent piece bothered only the fair minded man. If the 450lb restaurant woman got an extra $10 off of us, we could tip this man $0.10.

We paid for a little, but adequate hotel room that night with the last of our cash and though there was no running water, the manager pumped us a cold bucket from the outside well. There was a mirror in the room and we agreed that I should have had stitches or at least a butterfly bandage…but without these things, Liam gently re-bandaged my face with scar reduction in mind. I had never loved him more.

FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY the day was permitted to end and we lay down on the worn mattress together. I was exhausted, but terrified to sleep because I imagined I might go into a coma and die. I demanded that Liam rouse me in the middle of night should he awaken.* Sleep at last enclosed and though it was deep, black, and dreamless, I did not die. It was not yet my day.

*Liam did apparently wake me up and I am told that I snapped at him irritably. I am very sorry about that.

Mozambique - Part 6

There’d been a lengthy lull in conversation, but the instant I looked down at my open guidebook, 40-something Juan, the Director of Customs for the province of Manica, asked me yet another question about my family. As I began to explain when, and to whom, my younger sister got married, I glanced out the pick-up truck’s back window. Liam caught my eye and threw me a windswept wink.

Our hitchhike back to Beira went much faster than the journey there (the saved time mostly due to a lack of pointless 1 ½ hour stops). So I had to converse non-stop with our chatty kathy driver while Liam and Gavin lounged in the sunny, breezy truck bed? It was worth it! We knocked almost 6 hours off of our previous time traversing the EN1, and, in the end, when Liam asked if he could pitch in for gas, Juan looked at him, smiled and said, “I suspect not”, before driving away. Pretty good lift.

That morning, we’d awoken before dawn in Vilankulo, a bustling, dirty, little one-horse town in southern Mozambique. Glacier melt water coursed from the tap, disappointingly precluding a shower, so we simply packed up and jumped into the back of a crowded pick-up truck taxi, which brought us 12 miles to the EN1, Mozambique’s major North-South highway. In Pambara, more of a truck stop than a town, a grandmotherly woman kindly poured me some hot “agua” for tea, and we waited, watching a few little kids play a sand-throwy game of soccer. That was when Juan drove by, picked us up and sped the three of us northward.

Once in Inchope, the intersection village 3 hours west of Beira, I bought delicious muffins from a middle-aged woman who plainly thought the idea of selling my foreign self her wares was a hilarious, knee slapper of an event and would, without a doubt, spend the next few weeks telling friends and family, “Well, you’ll never guess what happened to me the other day…”

Liam, Gavin and I rode a maddening, stop-go-stop-go-stop-go-stop-go-stop-go minibus into Beira, which took forever. It was dark by the time we arrived and, at my pleading suggestion, we went out for a dinner of fresh prawns (the best I’d ever eaten) before heading back to the pleasantly familiar, Biques campground, setting up shop, and going to bed.

Day 6 Budget

$0.54 minibus

$1.25 toothbrush

$0.89 biscuits

$0.96 water

$0.54 mini-muffins and 2 hard-boiled eggs

$3.57 minibus

$4.29 yummy prawn dinner

$0.89 Mozambique’s famous custard dessert

$0.21 bananas

$1.07 taxi

$3.04 camping

Total $17.25

Mozambique - Part 3

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