Look what I done got myself into this time…

I decided to leave Zimbabwe after getting back from the Zambezi Valley.  News that my grandmother passed away had come (love ya, Gramma), and I wanted some time to myself.  Will, his friends, and his family were amazing in hosting me, and I thank them a million times over.  There’s lots more to see in Zimbabwe (including the obvious Victoria Falls), but it’ll have to wait for “next time”…  For now, I was headed back to Mozambique.
The trip back to Chimoio, was long, but fairly uneventful… except for a fight that broke out on the bus at a rest stop between a vagrant and a blind man. It felt good to be back in Mozambique, where there’s no tension and plenty of basic necessities. I suppose that’s what I really like about Mozambique. Despite coming out of a war 10 or 12 years ago, the country has made amazing progress and the people are extremely warm and friendly. Of course, most of the progress is thanks to lots of foreign aid, but I think it’s testament to the (comparatively) low levels of corruption within the government.

Taka greeted me back at the Pink Papaya. It was fairly quiet during my stay, which was very welcome. I spent most of my time with Taka and a Swiss bicyclist; I was the baby traveler in our group, traveling just under a year, while they had 4 and 2 years, respectively, under their belt. During this time I had internal battles with myself as to whether I should go to Malawi or northern Mozambique first. It made more sense to go to Malawi, I knew, but I really wanted to do some exploring in northern Mozambique – the less traveled part of the country. And so, I was off, into the north.

I got a chapa to the local junction and then was offered a ride by a man, Said, and his son Zein. We went slowly, slowly up the road toward the Zambezi river. “We’re going slowly,” Said said “because we know we won’t get there in time to get the ferry across tonight.” Fair enough. We arrived in Caia, the town on the edge of the Zambezi River, that evening. Despite all of his efforts to find friends in Caia, Said couldn’t do it, so we spent the night at the river’s edge, sleeping in the truck.

The next morning we crossed the river on the first ferry and continued on to Quelimane, a small city that was huge in the slave trade. I cstayed for a few days, and I can say the best part about the city was leaving to go to the beach, about 20 miles away. The drive was beautiful – through one of the biggest coconut plantations in the world. The beach itself was a long stretch of wide beach uniquely lined with pine trees, busy with relaxing locals and fishermen. One guy put it best: “I have business. Big fishy!”

I stayed one more day, and then headed off to a town called Pebane. I found out about Pebane in an old guide book (from 2000) that had a little blurb about Pebane being an old colonial tourist destination that had a nice beach. So I thought I’d check it out. I was told that the chapa left at 4am, so I showed up about 3:45am. “Chapa” pretty much means any type of vehicle that moves, apart from a bus, which is called a machibombo. Well, this chapa was a medium-sized flatbed truck, kind of like an extra-large pickup. And the back was already full by the time I got there.

I paid my fare (the equivalent of $8), and my bag was loaded on the back, under two people already sitting; I was told to get on. As I peeked my head over the side of the truck, I could see that it was clearly full. “Go in the front!” came shouts from the crowd. “But the front is more expensive!” I stood around for a while until the driver eventually took his flashlight and found a place for me.

He took me to the other side of the truck and flashed his light on the empty space. I straddled the rail and stepped over at least three people, kicking some guy in the head while doing it, but I made it. And so I stood there. There was no more room that for my feet. They passed me my little bag, and I placed in on my feet and who knows what or who else. I eventually sat down before we left, squeezing my butt down between the legs of some woman with a child in her lap. “There you go” the guys next to me encouraged me. “Yeah,” I agreed. I wasn’t yet properly seated, but was banking on contents settling during shipping.

And so we were off. It was right then that I realized I forgot to get my fleece out of my now deeply buried bag. As soon as we got out of the city and picked up speed it got cold. A few people mumbled a few things, but it got silent once the chill set in and people buried themselves amongst each other. All I could do was lay my head between my legs, resting on my knees to keep warm. The inside was warm, the outside freezing. I tried to will myself to sleep to hopefully wake up to better, warmer, more comfortable times, but it was impossible.

As I huddled, bearing every second of the cold, I could slowly feel my left foot falling asleep. I wiggled my toes every once in a while, just to kep the blood flowing. The right foot was ok, but the left foot kept falling deeper and deeper into sleep. I tried shifting my weight a little, but nothing was helping. It was getting tingly. After a while, I couldn’t feel anything in my toes. I somehow found a way to maneuver my hand down to touch my lower leg, and I couldn’t feel the touch. I could no longer move my toes. Well, that can’t be good, I thought. “Come on, toes! Move!”

As hard as I tried, my toes would not budge. The circulation to my foot must have been completely cut off. I started to worry. What would happen if I stayed in this position the whole time? Would I lose the foot? Something like gangrene? I don’t know! Blood clots? Wasn’t there some journalist in Iraq who died of a blood clot to the brain due to being in confined spaces for long periods of time? I had to move; I had to save my foot. But I couldn’t.

There was a chain behind me. Wedged into my back, actually. What if I sat on the chain? It would be cold and uncomfortable, but if it would save my foot, it would be worth it. Somehow, don’t know how, I propped myself up onto the chain and immediately fell back down to where I was sitting. But it worked! I could feel my foot getting warm – all the blood was rushing back in. Ah…the foot would stay.

Relieved, I placed my head back in my lap and again tried to will myself to sleep with still no success. The truck stopped for a second and everyone came to life. “I’m like a rock!” one said. Everyone was expressing their discomfort. We started again, and I huddled some more. Eventually the sun peeked its head up and it get less and less cold. Comfortable in my little ball, though, I kept my head in my lap and found ways to entertain myself.

Without my own music to entertain myself, I am often prey to external influences, resulting in an interesting soundtrack in my head. Given the current tangling of human bodies, it was inevitable that Digital Underground’s Freaks of the Industry would pop into my head, namely for the line: “My head under her leg under my arm under her toe.” The rest of the lyrics are irrelevant, but the song was already in my head on repeat.

I peeked my head up from my own personal disco just in time to hear a big truck pass by. It had been raining the day before and the road was wet. With both trucks whizzing along in perfect positions, a huge splash of wet sand and mud flew up, landing on nearly all of us. I was hit in the back and sideof my head; the guy I was facing, just to the right of me got it the worst – he was covered in it.

There was a brief moment of silence as the shock of what just happened settled in. And then, a huge outburst of laughter. Everyone was laughing, the women cackling; I was in tears. Everyone was talking in their local dialect, and while I didn’t understand a single word, I knew exactly what they were saying, and I laughed along. Most of the laughter was directed at the man who had been hit the hardest; he was the only one not laughing.

As the laughter settled, everyone helped everyone else to clean themsleves up. “That’s the way the journey goes,” said one of the Muslim men next to me. I might have been sitting on his feet, actually. “That’s why I’m here,” I answered back, still laughing, wiping off my neck.

A bit later, we heard some sort of metal object fall off the truck; we eventually stopped to recover it. I could see steam coming from the bottom of the truck. Not good. It did, however, give us all a chance to stand and move around a little. Somehow, whatever fell off the truck was deemed unnecessary. We would carry on.

I fell back down into position, again waiting until we started moving to settle in. The lady with the baby next to me was extremely concerned that I was comfortable, which was very good of her. I just assumed I would be uncomfortable. That’s not to say, however, that I was ever really comfortable. I was merely uncomfortable in the most comfortable way possible.

We stopped once again, this time because the driver decided we should rearrange all of the cargo in the truck to make things more comfortable. Fat chance on that, but I took the opportunity to warm up in the sun and have some breakfast. With lots of tmie to spare, I whipped up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and shared some with others. It was the first time I actually interacted with my fellow passengers, despite our rather intimate predicament. I answered all of their questions about what I was doing in Mozambique and why I wanted to go to Pebane.

It was time to get back into the truck, although I could recognize no difference in the arrangement of things. Everyone piled on helping each other. I trademarkedly stood back, giving boosts to old men clinging on the side. I was the last one to get on and found pretty much the same spot with enough room for my feet only. I wondered if I would ever learn… I sat on my feet again, my feet pointing down between some unknown objects.

I was pretty damn uncomfortable again and the lady with the baby, who had now moved into a prime position, could see it in my face. “Are you alright?” No. I pulled one leg out, with the help of a man next to me, shifted the other leg, and I was all better. The only problem now was the chain slung across the truck – the same one that had been wedged in my back earlier on. It was now diging into either my knee or the back of my leg, depending on how I moved.

My other body parts had found their own interesting positions. I had a knee in my back, my knee in someone’s butt, someone’s crotch over my head, my arm draped over someone’s leg, some old men’s dirty bare feet with wiggly toes propped on my thigh, and I think I felt someone’s hands on my ankle every once in a while.

Another stop, and I think someone got off this time, although I couldn’t be too sure as I was buried both by people and in my thoughts. I could only surmise, as someone else tried to get on, welcomed to the screams of “It’s full! It’s full!” The driver said something like “one person off, one person on,” but the “one person on” ended up being a woman with her baby and an extra small child – not exactly an even trade.

Now, I can’t be exactly too sure, since everyone was talking in their local dialect, but it seemed as if everyone on the chapa was against this woman. As everyone seemingly screamed at her, sometimes laughing at her, she pulled out her breast and stuck it in her baby’s mouth. She looked physically disgusted as she slapped her sleeping son around to wake him up.

It appeared as if everyone in the chapa had become one, through the dark morning cold, the warmth of the sunrise, the mud, the stops, the discomfort, the intimate closeness, and they were not willing to allow another into what was now our domain. Luckily for her, she was not going very far, and did not need to endure the abuse for much longer.

I, however, was experiencing a dilemma of my own, as I woke up out of a half-sleep annoyed, hot, bothered, uncomfortable, and with the realization that my period had just begun. I had flashbacks of being in 8th grade, where I was sure I would soon have a big red stain on the seat of my pants. Now what could I do? I couldn’t very well ask the chapa to stop at the nearest reststop so I could use the toilet; such necessities were done on the side of the road and only when the vehicle stopped.

I did only what I could do. Sitting smack in the middle of everyone, I took toilet paper out of my bag (an absolute must for any traveller) and as discreetly as possible, and hopefully hidden by the bag on my lap, I shoved it down my pants. It was pretty awful, but I can’t explain the relief after the deed was done and my pants were zipped up again. I took off my long-sleeve shirt and wrapped it around my waist to hide any embarrasing stains. Whew! That was rough.

We were now eight hours on the chapa and we were getting close to Pebane. People started to get off, and those of us left on gained more and more room. “Ciao ciao!” I said to those leaving. “Ciao ciao!” they mimmicked back. As we drove into Pebane, the local people on the ground stared at me as we passed by, sometimes pointing.

I was one of two people left in the truck as we pulled up to the market – the last stop. As I hopped off the truck, a lady with a slightly deformed mouth and chin extended her hand to me and shouted: “Boa chegada!” Good arrival. Indeed it was.

Tags: Mozambique, Mozambique, Tag Index

This entry was posted on Thursday, November 9th, 2006 at 11:22 am and is filed under Mozambique. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.