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 8

Before I’d even opened my eyes, I was aware of a dull pain afflicting the entire left side of my body and a far sharper sting over my left eyebrow. Recalling the accident, I swung my right arm over Liam and listened gratefully to his heartbeat for a moment before I took my living, breathing, fortunate self out to find breakfast.

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!)

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 7a

My incurable writer's block for this event forced me to use Liam's version of the first half of the day:

Once again, Gavin, Les and I found ourselves at the side of the road waiting for a ride but the many passing Chapas (minibuses) stopping to offer us a lift for a price wouldn’t take no for an answer. We had caught a Chapa before, so we knew the drill. They couldn’t seem to grasp the concept that we wanted to go all the way to our destination without stopping every kilometre to pack even more people into a clearly already overstuffed vehicle. And when we said that we wanted to get all the way to our destination without paying, they would just laugh, say something like “you can’t get places for free!” and drive away. We decided not to tell them of the thousands of comfortable African kilometres that we had already covered at zero cost. As we tried to shoo away our 19^th annoying minibus driver in 30 minutes an empty, cushy looking 4WD passed by without seeing us. Yet another missed opportunity! Locals surrounded us, offering advice on where to catch buses, minibuses blocked our view of the cars we wanted to catch and Les and I were becoming irritable. Gavin, always the last to lose his cool reassured us with his favourite line: “if missing a few potential hitchhikes is the worst thing that happens to us today, we should consider ourselves lucky”.

BAM!... silence. We hit another pothole at 120kph and the CD player took stress leave for a few seconds before resuming the Portuguese pop. The terrible roads must be the reason cassette players still reign supreme in African cars. CD players aren’t made with the third world in mind. We had successfully hitchhiked once again and our hosts were friendly and seemed more interested in us than our money. Not only that, but we had happened upon a ride going nearly all the way to our eventual destination, Ilha De Mozambique. Fourteen or so hours of driving covered in a single hitchhike! Unheard of! Gavin had been allocated to a different vehicle with our driver’s friends also going to the same destination, so presumably while Gavin did the same in his car, Les and I chatted with our hosts about the usual stuff. After a while the conversation died away like an unattended fire and we all fell into silence.

BAM! The front axle took another battering as we smashed into yet another pothole. This time the music didn’t return. The car’s electrics were not working – I couldn’t wind down my electric window. When I asked, one of the guys in front explained to me that “It is my friend’s car. This always happens” and at the first opportunity, we pulled over so they could fix the problem. They also noticed that one of the tyres was getting low, so decided to replace it. Wanting to be helpful, I fetched the spare from the back (one of those temporary-use wheels) and brought it around to where the other two were busily jacking up the car. We bolted the tiny, flimsy-looking wheel in place and were back on the road soon enough.

As the second hour of driving passed Les scribbled away in her book and I blogged on Tinks but it was difficult to concentrate. Considering the road quality and the fact that we were running on a temporary-use tyre, the car was going a little too fast for my liking and the look on Les’s face indicated that she felt the same way. The two in front had swapped and the new man behind the wheel clearly fancied himself as a rally driver. We careened through a small village on the heavily potholed Mozambican artery road at 120kph without slowing. As per usual, the road was lined with men on bikes, women carrying huge loads on their heads, children and various animals. We approached a small child clothed in rags shepherding five goats. He stood at the side of the road with three of them, beckoning the two still idling on the bitumen (pavement, in American) to join him. Our driver slowed from 120kph to 100kph (in the clearly marked 60kph zone) and pressed his fist to the horn. But one of the goats was too slow. It leapt sideways a second too late and our car smashed into its rear legs. Les let out an uncontrolled “ugh” and covered her eyes. I gawked backwards to assess the damage. The goat spun on the tarmac for a few seconds, blood spurting from its crumpled rear legs. The animal’s life was clearly over and the poor shepherd had just lost 20% of his flock. Les and I, shocked by the carnage were forced to express our trauma using only facial expressions for fear of hurting our driver’s feelings. The two in front acted as if nothing had happened, and without saying a word, sped back up to 120kph.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Gavin was in another car I would have suggested getting out at this point but, instead, for the very first time in Africa I buckled my seatbelt. Les reached for hers, but there was no connecting buckle, so as subtly as possible she shifted left across the back seat towards me and clipped the centre belt around her waist. Not two minutes later, the car was completely written off.

A huge pothole materialised from nothing and our driver veered sharply off the left of the road into the dirt and then to compensate, steered sharply right. The car skidded on the right side of the road, and grass on the verge bowed away from the speeding vehicle in a cloud of dust. Les and I, gripping the chairs in front of us knew the driver was no longer in control and, no longer able to contain her natural urge to scream for the sake of politeness, Les released a repressed screech. The car veered to the left a second time, back wheels accelerating to overtake the front ones like an overexcited dog. All of a sudden the screeching stopped. The tyres had left the ground. A blur of golden-green whizzed past the top of my window in silence before.... bang... crunch... scccrrrrape. Les’s head smacked into my shoulder and Tinks leapt off my lap. The car was upside down, then right way up, then upside down again and sliding through the long grass. It came to a stop, rocking back and forth on its roof, wheels spinning.

There was silence for a moment before broken by Les’s screams: “we’re trapped!” She unbuckled her seatbelt and crashed into the ceiling. She took a moment to right herself and bashed on the window with her fists before trying the door handle. To her (and my) surprise the door sprung open enthusiastically, shoving the ample greenery aside. Les was out of sight in 2 seconds flat (her movie-trained self-preservation instinct was to get out before the vehicle exploded). I, still suspended by my seatbelt, clearly remember my next thought: “Well this sucks. Now what?” Outside, Les had presumably made it away from the Hollywood blast radius because now all I could hear was my name being screamed over and over. Les’s shrill cries were unsettling, making me feel less confident in my composure. Was there something she knew that I didn’t? Was something wrong? Well, other than the fact that we had just nearly died.

More and more blood succumbed to gravity, congregating in my scull so I unbuckled and accelerated upwards abruptly, colliding with force into the ceiling. Somehow, even though it was covered in broken glass, I came out of the interaction unscathed. I took a moment to gather my thoughts. The healthy volume of Les’s panicked screams indicated that she was probably ok so my mind turned to my other precious: Tinks. I looked around, spotting her on the ceiling above/below the driver’s seat and semi-submerged in a mound of broken glass. I retrieved and dusted her off, slipped her under my arm and swiftly exited the vehicle through Les’s open door. Following the wails I found Les sitting in the middle of the road with her head between her knees. I assured her that we would be ok and she thanked me for my concern, lifting her head to look me in the eyes. I had to conceal my shock: looking like a batman villain, the left side of her face dripped with blood while the right remained unscathed. It appeared serious, but on closer inspection I could see it was just a cut on her eyebrow. This and some glass cuts on her arm (from landing on the ceiling) were the only injuries sustained from the accident! I, and the two drivers, had come out of the incident without a scratch! I helped Les move to the side of the road and we sat in silence for a moment to catch our breath. She exhaled deeply, lowering her head on to my shoulder and whispered: “I don’t think we should give them any money for petrol.”

Les was still breathing heavily and rocking slightly when a car approached along the straight road. Immediately, she leapt up to wave the driver down and dismissed my suggestion that she remain sitting, pointing out with wild eyes that she looked “more pathetic”. I couldn’t disagree. The chapa stopped and the twenty people within flooded out to help flip the destroyed car and push it back onto the road. After attempting to tow the car to town using the now even fuller chapa (Les wouldn’t get into the car again – and I can’t blame her) for a while, one of the tyres on the buckled front axle exploded and we were finally forced to leave the wreck behind. The four of us squashed in the chapa, sitting on top of other people where necessary and were finally on our way to the nearest town (80km away). Sardine-packed amongst locals I had a chance to ponder our good fortune at having survived the ordeal. I turned to Les and in my most reassuring tone said: “If rolling a car at 120kph is the worst thing that happens to us today...” My joke (and with it, my stupid grin) withered under Les’s scowl.

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 5

The motorized, multicolored wooden dhow skipped over small turquoise swells as if attempting to fly. Our wannabe seaplane was bearing towards the Bazaruto Archipelago, a collection of lush, tropical, white sand islands spread 6 to 16 miles off of Mozambique’s southern coastline. Lonely Planet described the area as a “quintessential tropical paradise”, so my hopes were high.

We’d left Vilankulo at 7:45am, when the captain of the expedition declared the cool, cloudy weather acceptable for snorkeling. Wearing my heaviest coat atop my bathing suit, I sat shivering on the rough plank seat, trying not to think about how much money I’d paid to get in that cold water without even the warmth of a wetsuit.

(Above: I took off my jacket for the photo and tried to look warm.)

When the 15 year old driving the boat tenderly eased it into a rocky inlet, with a proficiency that belied his age, Liam, Gavin, myself, and the 2 Dutch guys on the trip, disembarked. Once having donned flippers, a mask, and a snorkel, I was the very last one from our group to summon enough willpower to inch myself into the sea. The chilly water wasn’t as clear as it could have been, but the abundance of pretty fish darting in and around the deeply creviced rocks, like neon clad 80s children playing hide and seek, sweetened the deal sufficiently. I saw a clownfish, an eel, a swordfish type fella, and a fire engine red, spiky starfish, but my favorite spotting was a bright, carroty colored school, each constituent boasting big, glossy, purple eyes.

I swam nonstop, kicking and paddling at a near frantic pace to keep warm. Several hours after we’d begun, my limbs ached, and Liam, Gavin and I climbed over several yards of flat, burgundy rock onto a sunny beach clearly ripped right from some poor sucker’s screen saver. Scuffing my feet through the toasty sand, I trailed my friends toward a lonely bay.

The paradisiacal environment had the effect of knocking 20 years off of our respective ages and we played like children; building dams, witch castles and canals, and then defending them from the eternally threatening incoming tide. Boys once again, Liam and Gavin had a violent sandball fight, and staying true to my 8-year-old self, I did not participate in that. Eventually, tired, hungry, and seriously needing another sunscreen application, we snorkeled our increasingly rosy selves back to the waiting boat.

Jigsaw puzzling our bread, tomatoes, green peppers, and hard boiled eggs into sandwich form, without the convenience of utensils or plates; we devoured our lunches and decided to take a walk. Slowly strolling the direction we hadn’t yet explored, the 5 of us softly tread along, stopping extensively to examine tide pools, pretty conch shells, and an incredibly massive whole hand sized sand dollar; surely the currency of some enormous whale. We were alone except for residents of the few, $300+ a night cottages (the only type of accommodation available on the archipelago). These 5 star tourists detracted only minimally from our sense of seclusion.

Many contented hours later, our boatman found us on a sand bar extending from the island like a curly tail on a dog. Liam hurried to help me spell out ‘MOZAMBIQUE’ with the shells I’d collected for the task before we climbed back into the waiting dhow. A torn and faded patchwork green sail unfurled downwards, nimbly searching for and finding the wind like a sunflower craning its face toward the sun. A stiff breeze kicked up and the loud running motor seemed unnecessary until we realized it was being used as rudder. The boat shored up onto the beach in Vilankulo, and 8 blissful hours since it’d begun, our excursion came to an end.

The 3 plates of saucy chicken and rice we nourished ourselves with later at a tiny, nameless restaurant run by a giggling, friendly, “mama” was 1000 times tastier than the dinner we’d eaten the previous night for the same price. After wolfing down our food, we all put our 2 cents into the choosing of a pineapple and it was a definite win. Back at the hostel, we shared it with Americo who was there practicing his English with another tourist, and after our sweet and sour dessert, our little friend pulled out parting gifts for each of us. Necklaces he’d crafted from various seeds and reeds were what he bestowed upon us, and after placing them around our necks and saying goodbye, Liam and I hid under our billowy mosquito nets whispering about what a perfect day it had been until we fell asleep.

Day 5 Budget

$1.36 eggs, bread, veggies

$42.86 snorkeling

$1.25 chocolate

$1.61 dinner

$0.36 pineapple

$10.00 dorm bed

$1.25 water

Total 58.69