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.
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, tryingnot to think about how much money I’d paidto 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.
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.
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.
