Birthday weekends can be a bit of a treat for PC
Volunteers. A large gathering of young Americans
focused around the purpose of celebration, and as is usually the case for vols
in southern Mozambique, at a beach. A
chance to relax a bit and speak English that non-native speaking Americans have
trouble understanding. This particular 25th birthday festivity
happened for a good friend of mine, Emily, and was set to happen at a secluded
beach, Linga Linga. Originally planned
as a simple nine hour expedition out of Mabalane to central Inhambane, my
journey soon became one of the more active, more wakeful, and more fun weekends
of my life.
Thursday
On striking 2:40, my alarm begins to beep-beep me from
sleep. After four short hours of sleep,
weariness is strangely absent from my mind.
I grab my packed bag, make a peanut butter sandwich and head out the
door. After crossing the field and
railroad tracks, my feet tread the dark, starlit road into town. Thursday’s usually don’t see many people
trying to leave Mabalane, so I’m not surprised to find there’s still space on
the parked chapa. I have a one of four
spots on the back seat: the worst seat.
Not only is it raised slightly closer to the roof so you can never
really sit up straight, but taking its position behind the wheels, the back
seat also enhances every bump in the road.
The 100 kilometers of pot-hole marked, torn up asphalt and dirt road
that lay between Mabalane and Chokwe. No
biggie, we’ve done this before. The
chapa leaves the stop around 4:00.
(Sleep-4 hrs, Travel-0 hrs)
Six hours of travel later, I’m in a chapa on the outskirts
of Maputo. At this point, I don’t know
my way about the chapa system in Maputo, and have to ask the driver and
money-handler how to get where I think I want to go. My destination is the PC Office, which a part
of my mind associates with the words Costa do Sol. I end up being told to relax by a welder who
calls himself Rasta. Apparently a friend
of the driver with a day off, Rasta assures me he’s from Maputo and will get me
where I want to go. After an hour or so
of detours I’m sure I didn’t have to take, my friends and I pull up to a large
chapa station I’m unfamiliar with. They
point me to the chapa marked Costa do Sol and I hop in.
Twenty minutes later, trees, shacks and sand surround me,
and I am 95 percent certain I am not where I wanted to be. As the crowd in the chapa dwindles down to
just me, I decide to ask for help. When
we reach the final stop, the driver points me to another chapa, one I
recognize, one that has a pink banner across the top that says Costa do Sol on
it. This chapa runs around a part of
town I am familiar with and passes within a block of the office on its way to
its final stop, where I am now, Costa do Sol.
At 12:30, I enter the PC Office. Over the next five hours I return to a
familiar yet forgotten mode of work I often entered in my time as a
student. With a computer in front of me,
internet music coming through my headphones, an empty bag of chips and a
chocolate bar beside me, I work like a man possessed. Efficiency.
Sweet, sweet efficiency envelops me as I cram a day’s worth of work into
a few hours, and it feels wonderful.
Towards the end of my work, Hannah and Kyla, two volunteers from Maputo
who are also working in the office, draw my attention to an upcoming drug in
Russia called Krocodil. While some might
consider this a distraction, it should be noted that such things are not only
common, but necessary in academia.
(Sleep-4, Travel-8)
My work finished, the three of us hop a tuk-tuk to Hannah’s
small apartment; a tight squeeze for even three people, but free sleeping is
free and PCV’s don’t complain. After a
day of no food other than a bag of chips and chocolate, I’m starving. Luckily, Hannah knows a place that serves
excellent chicken and we all get a half for ourselves. Shortly into the meal, Vicrum, a PCV from my
training group joins us and we enjoy the rest of our meal in conversation
before heading to a nearby barraca.
Somehow, whiskey becomes the drink of choice this night and we enjoy. Shortly into our cups, Gabby, yet another
volunteer from my training group (and my Kili climbing partner), joins us. For the next few hours, we go through an
array of whiskeys, stories, jokes, and episodes of Xena which are playing on
the tv in the corner.
With a healthy sideways motion to our steps and a slight
slur to our words, our company parts ways and heads home for the evening. Hannah, Kyla, and I decide to watch Space Jam
as we fall asleep because Kyla has never seen it. Kyla is asleep before the theme song finishes,
Hannah shortly after, and I fall asleep around 2:00 as Bugs and Daffy try to
steal Micheal’s shorts.
Friday
At 6:00 my alarm starts to sing again and by 6:30 I’m
sitting in a chapa heading to the north side of Maputo. Before long, I’m wondering around the Zimpeto
area (a stretch along the main highway where there is a market and a lot of
traveler transfers between the main northern road and the city) with a pao and
bagia sandwich in hand telling numerous people I’m not going to pay for their
chapa to such-and-such place. My goal is
to boleia (hitch) to Xai-Xai to meet Queshia and Dan before continuing to
Emily’s site, sounds easy enough. (Sleep-8, Travel-9)
After a half hour of waiting and flailing at people as they
drive by, a salmon colored car pulls over and the driver offers me a ride to Manhica,
which is not Xai-Xai, but closer. He tells
me he is a retired port director from Beira (one of the largest ports in
Moz). Our conversation mainly covers the
tenants currently living in his parents’ old house (where he is going now) and
the general youth’s lack of respect towards the property of others. Before long we arrive in Manhica and he pulls
off at a café where he is meeting others.
Before saying goodbye, he yells across the street at a lady he knows who
is talking to a man in a water truck.
Next thing I know, I’m in said water truck heading to Macia. In the beginning, conversation is sparse as the
driver talks on the phone several times in quick succession in Changana. After a short break from the phone, he
informs me that his wife had left six weeks ago without saying a word, and now
she is back at his house and his family is in chaos. We have a long conversation about the
importance of communication in a relationship and before long he drops me off
near my favorite chicken spot in Macia.
After a quick bite, I’m back on the road and in another vehicle. The driver of this safari looking truck is
the owner of 23,000 hectares (57,000 acres) of Moz land near the border of
Zimbabwe and South Africa, neighboring two national parks. He’s planning on making it a game reserve,
and also a haven for rhinos who have been heavily poached in the area. We talk about travel, America, and the ethics
and effects of the eviction of white farm owners in Zimbabwe during the 1990s. Xai-Xai is bustling when he drops me off, and
I keep moving to catch a chapa heading to the north edge of town where Queshia and Dan are waiting.
(Sleep-8, Travel 14)
Around noon, Queisha reports seeing “a single white arm in a
chapa,” and I hop out to greet my friends.
We make up our minds to boleia, and the rest of our day passes as
follows:
- A hour ride to Manjacaze in the backseat of a car with a small boy, whose head is enormous, sitting in Queisha’s lap
- A 15 minute ride to the Inhambane border in a truck with a man who is certain we should pay him because we’re white (at least Dan and I
- A hour ride to Quissico in a water truck that moves before Dan is entirely in the back, but he saves himself from falling out
- A nice, speedy ride to Inharrime in an SUV with a man who likes Whitney Houston and who greets us with, “Yes, yes, just get in. Hurry.
- A chapa ride to Maxixe in which the sliding chapa door needs to be closed in the front and then the back
- And finally, a chapa to Emily’s site, without much incident
Around 19:00 we are greeted roadside by Emily, Lauren, and
Tans. They escort us to Tans’ house
where a group of volunteers waits with food and drink a plenty. The rest of the night is full of shrimp
pasta, booze, music videos and assholes (the card game). (Sleep-8, Travel-21)
Saturday
My alarm screams once again at 6. After a cup of tea, Tans and I hit the
road. The group will meet a boat in the
bay at 8:30 and things must be bought and arranged before then. My charge is to buy bread for 14 people and
with that sack in my hand, and a cooler in Tans’, we arrive at Emily’s to find
out they’ve already bought bread. Hope
the group is hungry. After the yo-yo,
everyone is ready to go and we’re boarding a dhow (sailboat) to cross Inhambane
Bay to Linga-Linga. (Sleep-14,
Travel-21)
Even on schedule, the dhow crew are a bit worried about
reaching our destination before low-tide on the bay. Before long, we sail out of the smaller inlet
into the bay, but not before starting into the sangria. Like I said, weekends with friends are cause
for celebration and we’ve got a three hour sail ride across the bay, what
better time to celebrate?
Two and a half hours, and several bottles, into the voyage
and the tide is clearly dropping. Our
crew navigates through the deeper sections as best they can, but eventually we
run into a small sand bar. Myself and
four other pcv’s readily hand their beverage to a neighbor and hop in to the
bay. We make quick work of dislodging
the boat and are soon back in the boat a little soggier but no worse for the
ware. We stay at attention for other
sand bars as dislodging a boat once is fun, but many times gets a little
silly. Within a half hour, we enter the
inlet that leads us closer to camp and are soon on dry land again. After a short walk through brush and under
coconuts trees, we come upon a clearing.
(Sleep-14, Travel-24)
Our camp is formed around a large cashew tree with three
hammocks hanging from the lower limbs.
We make quick work of setting up the tents and head to the beach. Linga Linga is a northern peninsula extending
into Inhambane Bay, and access is difficult.
As a result, our group has the beach to ourselves. The sun is shining and a strong breeze is
coming of the Indian Ocean. A lazy,
relaxing afternoon on the beach with frisbee, more drinks, and conversation
makes the hassle of travel worthwhile.
As the sun approaches the horizon, the group starts to migrate back to
camp. A splendid supper has been cooked
for us in a small dining area at one end of the camp, including many types of
seafood. Being famished, I quickly over eat
myself, but am still contented. Our
party moves back to proximity of the cashew tree and find a fire has been set.
We start into a game of contact that lasts hours, and never becomes
dull. Shortly into the game, someone
brings out a cake for Emily’s birthday.
Then someone else brings out cookies.
Then someone else brings out brownies.
Even after engorging myself at supper, I can’t stop myself from having
my fill of each of the chocolaty deserts.
Sometimes I feel like a mooch while bathing in the kindness and
thoughtfulness of others, but I try to payback that kindness when I can and I
won’t complain at the moment. The rest
of the night includs a trip back to the beach to see bioluminescence in the
water, a spirit animal debate, more drinks, more desert, and talk around the
fire. After several hours that pass like
several minutes, the group has dwindled to five of us, and I’m ready for
sleep. As I lay down on the esteira (straw
mat), a light rain begins to hiss on the leaves of the cashew tree above me.
Sunday
Sleeping outside instills a sort of energy for me in the
mornings, and when I open my eyes and see the sky is grey, I am quickly on my
feet. It’s 5:30 and the boatmen want to
push off at 7:30. The tide will be low
early again, but also, some of us hope to get back to site and have a long
journey following the crossing of the bay.
While the others sleep, I gather up all of my things and my bag is
promptly packed. By the time I finish,
others have started to stir and help me in cleaning up the aftermath of party
strewn about the camp. Bread is the main
course for breakfast we’re all on the boat at 8:00. (Sleep-16, Travel-24)
The group is still a little groggy as we coast through the
inlet, but spirits are still up. The
morning is cool, the water calm. Birds
are singing and flying in all directions.
When we reach the bay, the mood of the weather seems to change and the
wind hits us hard from the direction of our destination. Our going is slow, as we need to tack (moving
serpentine to catch the wind in the sail while still moving forward) to make
any use of the wind. Karina apparently
has experience with sails and performs the maneuver well. After three hours, we’ve travelled the same
distance we travelled in one hour the day before. By the time we reach the part of the bay at
the mouth of our inlet, the tide is out and we are maneuvering through a deeper
channel when we finally get stuck.
Looking around, people are walking around in the inlet we want to
enter. Apparently they harvest roots and
mussels from the exposed section of the bay at this time each day. A debate starts among us of whether or not we
should just walk back to our dock, but on account of the stuff we brought with
us and our obvious ignorance of the tides, we decide to wait with the boat.
We break out the extra bread I bought, which turned out to
be a lucky mistake, and make a quick meal.
I walk over to an exposed sand bar and draw a series of lines to mark
the motion of the tide. After a short
time, I see that the water is rising around 2 inches every 10 minutes. Not much, but it’s progress (a common theme
in Mozambique). Even with the progress,
some of the PCVs start worrying about the long journey home and whether they’ll
be able to make it following the delay.
To bolster the progress of the tide, everyone exits the boat and begins
to push and pull the boat and before long it’s free and moving. Everyone hops or scuttles back into the
boat. And we get stuck again.
An hour of repetitive effort and disappointment later, eight
of us still remain in the water pushing when we’re needed, clinging to the side
of the boat like rags in the wind when we’re not. By the time we reach the last straight to
Morrumbene, we have no more problems and are coasting to the dock. People are still walking on sandbars
harvesting mussels and roots, but we’re passing them by. We reach the dock, say goodbye to the crew,
and walk back to Emily’s house. At the
last partings, we say goodbye to those heading in different directions
(including a final goodbye to my friend Sadie who would be leaving country
soon). It’s a strange feeling saying
goodbye to people after you’ve been through such a strange and trying
experience. A sort of esoteric joy and
at the same time the sad conclusion of the situation. After the goodbyes, Dan, Queshia, and I head
back to the southern road. (Sleep-16,
Travel-30)
It’s now 13:30, the sun is strong, and we’ve had little or
no water this morning. However, we agree
to push on and try to boleia to save a little money. Standing on the side of the road, we watch
the cars pass for nearly twenty minutes before a sharp looking white sedan
pulls over. I’m ecstatic, as this car is
likely going to be the fastest thing we could hope for. Sadly, the man driving asks us what we’re
willing to pay for the boleia. Typically
PCVs boleia to save the money they would otherwise spend on a chapa. However, after a short conversation we decide
to take the man on his offer as we’re exhausted, couldn’t expect a better ride
and would pay more than he’s asking for a chapa. We hop in the backseat of the car and talk
about the cost of boleias and how exhausted we are following the voyage we just
had. Before long we cover the distance
between Morrumbene and Maxixe and are able to finally get some food, juice and
water. After having our snacks and
rehydrating, the three of us promptly pass out.
I wake up a short time later and we’re moving. I can see the 140 kmph mark on the
speedometer, but the needle is buried somewhere past it. Dan hops out at his
site around 18:00 and by 18:30 Queshia and I are walking along the road in Xai-Xai. I couldn’t possibly hope to arrive in
Mabalane tonight, so Queshia tells me to crash at her place. I’m eating a good burger at a restaurant near
Queshia’s house, running the numbers through my head when I realize that since
I went to bed Wednesday evening, over the past four days, I had slept for 17
hours and travelled for 35. I hang my
head and have a good laugh at memories and madness of the weekend. After the burger, Queshia and I head back to
her house, where there is a shower (a delicacy for PCVs). We watch an episode of Captain Planet, have a
spontaneous dance lesson, and go to bed.
Monday
I wake up late, to the sound of heavy rain on the roof. Queshia tells me I’m welcome to stay another
day to avoid the rain and I happily accept.
A day of rest, what a fascinating idea.
 |
| At this point, we'd been stuck in this spot for about a half-hour. The positive attitude of this photo provides good insight into the character of the PCVs I work with and go through such pains to see when I have the opportunity. |
