Going a long way with the locals

After two beautiful weeks of scuba diving and Dino’s pizzas, it was time to leave the familiar comforts of our home away from home.  We woke up early to pack our bags and say our goodbyes to the remaining three group members who were heading out later in the day (Heidi, Joel, and Mike).  We dragged our bags through the sandy streets for 1 kilometer until we reached Tofino Hill, the market junction where we hoped to catch a lift into Inhambane.  Mark pulled out his seat pad in the shade of a nearby tree while I stood at the street, ready to hail a truck.  To the locals, we were a strange scene, two white people with huge luggage, sitting away from the chapas.  One kid pedaled by with his ipod blaring; midpedal, he stopped with a perplexed look on his face, turned to us, and tried to help, “Hey, the chapa and bus is just down the street at the market.”  Mark and I replied with smiles, “Obrigada (thanks), but we’re hitching, you know, for free.”  “Oh… okay.”  To the locals, it just doesn’t make sense.  White people have money.  Why would they try to hitch for free?

It didn’t take long for a white pick up truck to stop.  A gentleman in his forties motioned for us to hop in.  He drove us the 20k to Inhambane where he stopped at the bus depot, filled with chapas.  As we thanked him, he held his hand out for payment.  We gave him 30 met, but he kept one hand out for more while pointing his other hand at our luggage (which we loaded by ourselves).  I smiled and gave him another 15 met ($1.50 total).  You know how in the States the government looks at corporations like people?  In Africa, that’s how our bags are viewed, like people.  We lugged our bags through the streets to the BCI ATM and across the street to a restaurant for a cheeseburger and diet pepsi brunch.  Amusingly enough, our brunch table was positioned in such a way that we were staring at an oil painting of African breasts.  From the restaurant, we inquired about the ferry, and I verified our direction via my watch’s compass.  We were on the right track.  For $0.65 each, we boarded a full wooden boat covered by a tarp for shade (1/2 the price was pocketed by the ticket employee- I know this because we got a receipt for our bodies, but not our bags which he insisted were the same price).

From Mxaixai, the other side of the river, we dragged our bags for 2k to the main drag.  A man sitting on a bench under the shade of a tree said, “Hey, where you from?”  With delight, he exclaimed, “Oh, A-MERRR-ica!  Ari-ZON-a, Cali-FOR-nia, Vir-GIN-ia, T-Eh-xas, W-AASH-ington, Fl-O-rida.  Obama, Nice guy!  Nixon, bad guy! Reagan… Oh, A-MERRR-ica!  Newsweek, Time Magazine, not this Mozambiquan shit.  I’m a very intelligent man.  Can I have money?”  Mark and I were cracking up. 

Using a black magic marker and 8x11 piece of white paper, we constructed a sign for Chimoio and held it out for vehicles passing by.  A finger pointing down and swirling meant the driver was traveling only in town or a short distance.  Occasionally, the signal of arms up meant, “Why are you hitch-hiking?”  Several people walked by and stopped to suggest that we round the corner where we could find a chapa.  I suggested to Mark that we may be in the wrong area of town for hitching, but we continued with our sign for about an hour before we began to seek out cold refreshments.  Undeterred, but needing refreshment, we spent a half an hour under a petrol station’s umbrella sipping colas and eating chips to reboot for the non-shade we were about to stand in.  We dragged our bags into the sun where we made a new sign and adjusted our expectations.  Our new destination was closer, Vilankula.  We stood for about 30 minutes before a big bus rolled by and hit its brakes.  The eager assistant ran out and wrote in the sand, 390 met ($13 USD), the total price for us and our bags to get to Vilankula.  We looked at each other, nodded in agreement, and hopped on.  The big bus is different from the chapa in that it’s safer, and more roomy, except for those seated in the very back where falling bags are a big concern and annoyance.  We took the aisle seats, the only white people on a local bus full of happy African families.

While the bus played a variety of easy listening like Phil Collins and Celene Dion, I read further into my book, “Dark Star Safari.”  The author, Paul Theroux, is a royal pessimist, exceedingly critical, but perhaps accurate as well.  His story is about an overland trip from Cairo to Cape Town.  His take on African aid, though cynical, has been helping me sort through my views on economic aid and my long-term interests as a social entrepreneur.  His book is worth reading if you want a vivid description of what it’s like to travel through Africa, but I would caution a person that due to his negative personality, he overlooks many positive attributes of these beautiful countries we are traveling through.  In particular, he misses a human connection with people who are exceedingly kind, thoughtful, and resourceful.  He misses some of the simplistic beauty found in the sun setting behind the green trees and deep blue mountains between Mozambique and Malawi.  I know at times it’s hard not to get caught up by someone wanting your money around every corner, but some of the joy in travel can be found in knowing that your very presence is contributing to a local economy, and your attitude in it, as an unofficial ambassador, goes a long way with the locals.

Mark, hitching in the back of a local truck

Local Transport- the back is shoulder to shoulder standing room only

Travel Essentials

I was standing by the laundry line waiting for Mark the other day and these two guys I didn’t recognize walked up and asked, ”Hey, you two writing a thesis?”  What a strange question from a total stranger.  “Doing research or something?  You two were just typing away this morning.”  “Oh, we were writing blogs,” I laughed.

Over the past few days, Mark and I have been creating a mental list of travel essentials.  For us, the laptop is right up there at the top of the list.  Our mental list started a couple of days ago at the market when a guy we were haggling with suggested we sweeten the deal with everything we had on us.  “How about your sunglasses?  The shoes off your feet?   Your watch?  Your shorts?  How about electronic listening device, you know, ipod?  I know you have one where you’re staying.  You bring me; I pay cash.”  So, we started creating a list of things we wouldn’t part with: NRS straps, my cleaning towel for my glasses, cameras, our Chaco sandals, sunscreen, bug spray, and our power adapters and converters- those were gold.  The benefit to traveling in a group has been that these items are somewhat replaceable.  We purchased NRS straps from Heidi when ours were stolen, and we sold her our extra camera when hers broke down under water.  We obtained extra sunscreen and bug spray when Chad flew out.  We bought US dollars off of Joel, and we doled out medical supplies like Theraflu, Ibuprofen, hydration salts, and Cipro when everyone got sick.  Groups can work to a disadvantage, though, too.  Mike lent his power adapter to Justin, and Justin left town with it, so now Mike is without access to power for charging his electronics.  Rule of the road: don’t lend anything you might miss.  It sometimes looks like hoarding, other times it comes with a warning, “Don’t lose this.  It’s important to me.  I want it back today.  This is how much it costs if it gets broken.”  Accidents happen, but we try to minimize the upsetting results by planning ahead and letting people know what to expect if something goes wrong.

There are other things that can’t be planned for or negotiated on, like spider bites.  Nothing to be done.  I got three of them the other night which caused me to lose sleep, worrying that the spider would return for more bedtime feeding.  I tossed and turned all night under my miserably hot mosquito net.  I even took a melatonin pill, and still couldn’t sleep.  Darn spiders.  At least they weren’t poisonous.

For my fellow foodies, I had a ridiculously good salad at Tofo Scuba, so I thought I’d share the recipe, an edible bite of Tofo, Mozambique.  It was a roasted pumpkin salad, so it’s seasonal, but I think a person could get by using yams or squash in the off season.  It looks like this:   Make a bed of green lettuce.  Adorn it with thin circular slices of tomato and cucumber.  Add slivers of white onion and douse in balsamic vinegar, then top off with handfuls of feta cheese, grilled cashews, and chunks of roasted pumpkin.  Sooooo good.  It’s no pumpkin latte, but I drank it with a latte- first half extra hot, second half on ice.  Hmm, I guess that caffeine may have been what contributed to being up all night worrying about the spider.  Well, it was so good, it was worth it.  And, like all food and beverages, they tasted better because they came with great conversation.  Usually, Mark and I pay our bill and go after the check arrives, but we hung out to chat for over an hour after the meal was finished.  It’s great to have a best friend to travel with.  In fact, he’s on my travel essentials list.

Flamingo Estuary

Sunrise at Tofo Beach, 4:25am



Sunrise at Tofo Beach, 5:15am

On Mike’s recommendation, Mark and I got up at 4am to watch the sunrise.  Mark took pictures from two cameras while I kicked back and observed.  I thought about doing yoga, but I felt too settled into the wooden and blue canvas hammock chair.  Around 5:30, I went back to bed.  When the alarm went off at 6:45am, Joel peeked through the dorm door, “You guys up?  Truck’s here.”  “Ok, coming,” I whispered into the ray of light peering into the dark room.  We stumbled out to the truck, piled into the truck bed, and bumped along to our next destination, Flamingo Bay.  Upon Sean’s recommendation, we booked an expedition to a nearby estuary where flamingos can be found.  We weren’t too sure what to expect, just that it might take about 5 hours, we would have an opportunity to swim, there’d be lunch with a village chief, and we’d be sailing in a traditional Dow sail-boat.  From a distance, the wooden Dow with its patch-work sail looked romantic, but perhaps a bit small for the five of us, our skipper, and the director.  Like all things Africa, looks can be deceiving.  By the end of the day, we would easily fit 11 inside, and the heavy wooden paddle would, in fact, endure the duration of the day.

Traditional Dow Sailboat

Hiking with the Sand Between Our Toes

Crab Fishermen in the Estuary

The sun was out, the sand was squishy between my toes, and the water was deceptively clear (5 meters appeared as a mere 6 glossy inches).  We floated along from one island to the next, stopping to collect sand dollars and squish the sand between our toes, and transport crab fishermen carrying full nets on their head.  It was perfectly tranquil.  As we sailed, our guide, Johnny, sang like a song-bird at the mast.  He, too, was happy to be out sailing, and I truly enjoyed listening to his child-like falsetto.  He had a full repertoire of peaceful African songs that kept him humming all day long.  At one point, he asked if we recognized a Portugese song he was singing because he wanted it written down in English.  We listened carefully and identified it as “Silent Night” which got us humming Christmas carols.

Crab Mataba Prepared by the Chief of Survivor Island

Lunch with the Chief

Estuary Tour Lunch with the Chief of Survivor Island
LR: Annie, Mark, Chief, Mike, Heidi, Joel

We saw the occasional 10 inch jelly fish and small flocks of white flamingos, but not the full island of pink flamingos I had imagined.  How can a place like Flamingo Bay and Flamingo Island not be filled with scads of pink flamingos?  Apparently, the elusive little birds spent the day migrating away from us.  No matter, it was still a beautiful, peaceful day of sun.  In fact, I got so much sun that my legs and chest are beginning to look like their own version of a bright pink flamingo.  The African sun pays no regard to sunscreen.

Village Kids Playing Futbol (Soccer)

Flamingos

Repairing the Wooden Paddle



Lobster Feast

Yesterday, we took a trip to the market.  Mark toted his sleeping bag along, hoping to make a swap.  It turns out that around here swaps are the equivalent of throwing something in for free, a little something to sweeten existing cash price; we didn’t care because Mark had acquired a free sleeping bag that some other traveler had left behind, and he didn’t have room to carry two.  We found some stone turtle and hippo carvings, a set of wooden giraffe serving utensils, necklaces, and a wooden box with Africa emblazoned on it.  Up until this point, we haven’t purchased souvenirs because we don’t have room to carry them around, but Heidi had extra space in her travel bag and is heading back to Colorado in a few days, so we were able to work out shipping without having to physically trek to the post office.  (Thanks, Heidi, you rock!)

A ways down from the market is the point.  We had already traversed the majority of the sandy beach, so out of curiousity, we a trudged a little further, toward the curved hill with an unknown world behind it.  We discovered an exciting world of fishermen.  One man had a basket filled with fish he had caught using only a piece of line with a hook baited with tiny shrimp.  He displayed his catch in the sand, about twenty beautiful fish organized by type.  The tropical tangerine and turquoise one caught my eye- it looked too pretty to eat.  The rest were a mix of perch, white everyday fish and long shimmery light blue ones with pointy marlin-like noses.  Another man was carrying a blue plastic bag with pointy red fibers protruding from it.  We must have looked curious because he opened the bag to reveal three freshly caught lobsters.  We weren’t even hungry, but they were so beautiful that Mark started haggling.

Boiling Lobsters

Janette

Lobster Fest 2011
LR: Heidi, Annie, Mark, Joel, Mike

Cooked to Perfection

We ended up with 9 gorgeous blue-eyed, pinchless lobsters for about $45 USD (when Heidi, Joel, and Mike found out about the deal, they wanted in too).  The kitchen at Fatima’s agreed to cook them for us, then changed their mind citing health department regulations.  Having only ever cooked lobster once, we weren’t quite sure what to do, so we asked if someone from the kitchen could show us how it was done.  They sent us back to the communal kitchen with a maid named Janette.  Over the past two weeks, Janette hadn’t been particularly friendly with us.  She scowled and never responded when we said “hello,” but when her cell phone rang, we observed alternate behavior; she became chipper, talkative, and full of laughter.  So, we offered her a soda and hoped for the best.  She beamed as she showed Mark how to boil, salt, and cut the lobsters.  Meanwhile, Heidi and I went back to the market for a side of pineapple, dipping butter, and garlic for our garlic toast that we had acquired from a deaf-mute man who had tapped us on the shoulder and wrote 100m in the sand.  By the time Heidi and I returned, Janette and Mark had almost completed the meal.  We feasted while swatting at flies that appeared out of nowhere.  When we had eaten to our hearts content, we cleaned our table, washed our dishes, and left Janette a tip.  We weren’t sure, but it sounded like smiling Janette said in Portugese, “Tomorrow you buy one more lobster.”  As I walked away, I saw a security guard sifting through the garbage bin, building a plate of lobster shells, to pick for bits of overlooked meat.  It made me uncomfortable.  I felt ashamed to watch a grown man digging in the dumpster. 

Flora and Fauna Lecture

Makeshift Laundry Line Using Mosquito Net Ropes and NRS Straps

Mark and I had a full day of activity.  First, we improved our laundry skills by washing, rinsing, and drying two bags of laundry.  Usually when we travel, we use an affordable local laundry service.  My heart skips a beat just thinking about sending away dirty travel clothes and 24 hours later receiving a stack of freshly  scented, perfectly folded laundry.  The $10 per bag prices here, however, cause my heart to nearly stop beating altogether, so I’ve settled for some happy medium where I wash my own clothes, keep the cash for myself, and call “cleanish” good enough.  By the way, we’ve discovered a preference for Omo, the local suds, over our Bronner’s-type concentrated soap from home.  It’s probably toxic, but the starch seems to help the clothes dry faster and leaves them nice and easy to fold.

Second, we hitch-hiked into town for meticash.  The petrol station’s ATM was out of order, so we caught a second hike for the remaining 20k into Inhambane.  Standing in BCI’s ATM foyer was the highlight of my day.  I wanted to keep removing cash just so we could loiter in the air conditioning.  It was the first time in over a month that I had felt dry rather than muggy and sweaty.  Those few minutes were such a treat.  From the ATM, we made our way by foot back through town, toward Tofo.  Along the way, we passed Portugese-inspired concrete houses, something decidedly longer-lasting than the grass huts with thatched roofs we had been seeing in the villages.  We were tempted to pluck fresh limes from the mature trees in their fenced yards.  We made our way through the street markets, briefly stopping to purchase a 50 cent glass bottle of Pepsi from a young vender.  As we drank the soda, we conversed with the young attendant in Spanish and he spoke in Portugese.  The kids here learn about 4-5 languages in school, and yet, the Zimbabwean construction worker who gave us a ride into Inhambane had told me that he was keeping his kids in Zimbwabe for their education which, in his estimation, was stronger than here in Mozambique.  We purchased bamboo laundry clips and some more Omo detergent before patting our hands out indicating we were looking for a lift back to Tofo.  A contractor in a beautiful green Nissan 4 wheel drive pulled over to let us in.  With his remote control, he cranked up the bass on his Dire Straits CD, and we sat back and enjoyed the ride.

Road-side Beverage Stand

Chickens for Sale

Used Clothing Store

New Clothing Store



Downtown Inhambane



Local Village Kids

Thatched Roof Building on the Way to Inhambane

Water Tank

Third, we headed to Dino’s where Mike and Justin were ready to learn from Mark about how to set up a blog for their solo trips.  While I checked email on wifi, I treated myself to a second milkshake, vanilla this time.  It was like sipping angel food cake, unbelievable.  Hook me up to an IV and cut me off when I’m 800lbs.  Those $3 milkshakes are heaven in a glass.

Fourth, 6pm rolled around, time for the Flora and Fauna lecture.  I headed south along the beach to the familiar red umbrellas of Casa Barry’s, paid for the $3 ticket and headed into the classroom.  A projector screen covered the front wall of a small fanned room where about a dozen people were seated.  Chris, the young scientist, welcomed us, explained that the lecture was informal, and invited comments and questions.  He showed pictures of several things we had seen while diving like the blue spotted rays, which are different from devil rays and mantas.  Some differences were eye and mouth location, color, size, and the presence or lack of stingers.  He showed pictures of sea turtles and explained that the global temperature affects how many eggs become male or female.  He explained that the eggs hatch and the turtles book it out to sea and don’t return to their home shores for up to 30 years.  He explained how their lives are complicated by plastic bags found in the ocean.  Apparently, they’ve been finding dead sea turtles with a wad of plastic bags in their stomachs.  The bags don’t digest, can’t pass, and can’t be thrown up, so they sit in the stomach making the turtles positively buoyant to the point where they can’t dive down to feed anymore.  Also, their lives are endangered by the demand for sea turtle soup and turtle jewelry.  It broke my heart to hear about how long it takes a turtle to develop and how quickly their lives are ended.  They’re such beautiful, majestic creatures.

We also learned about the biodiversity of local sharks, dolphins, and whales who prefer the Tofo area due to its perfect temperatures and high prevalence of plankton (which was described as anything that can’t swim against the current).  We saw pictures of eels and learned about their unique double jaws.  I was comforted to find that when they open their jaws, it’s more than likely for fresh oxygen rather than eating my fingers.  We saw pictures of crocodile fish (which are difficult to pick out because they blend into the reef with their camouflage).  We saw pictures of poisonous scorpion and lion fish that reminded us of the scuba rule: Don’t touch anything that appears too pretty or too ugly because it’s probably poisonous.  I liked the pictures of the rose-type flower where nudi branchs lay their eggs.  I thought it was interesting that they only live for a few weeks to a month and have both male and female reproductive parts.

What was particularly fascinating to me was how much the scientists don’t yet know about marine life.  Why do the rays do above-water acrobatic tricks?  Where do the sea turtles disappear to for their first 30 years?  Three scientists, Andrea (an American), Simon, and Chris, along with Peri Peri Divers have been working to better understand these questions, but there’s still a lot to discover.  You can follow their work at www.marinemegafauna.org and on facebook at Marine MegaFauna Foundation.  It’s interesting stuff.

Tofo: what lies behind and ahead

At Dino’s, the local flat crust pizza joint with expensive wifi, we found the world’s best chocolate milkshake.  We’ve been sucking them down like a once-daily multi-vitamin.  At $3 per milkshake, it shouldn’t surprise us that our brunch bill comes in around $22, but it’s always a shocker to calculate the exchange rate and discover the damage.  At least the food is good and the service is reliable.  And, I appreciate that they post a disclaimer in the menu, “This is not a fast food restaurant.  It takes time to make a good meal, so sit back and enjoy your dining experience.”  Oh, expectations, sometimes you’re so helpful in preparing us for a pleasant dining experience.

Then again, there are the times that expectations can make a dining experience pure hell.  The other night, group got together for a bon voyage dinner at Casa Barry’s, the most expensive restaurant in Tofo.  Casa Barry’s hosts three lectures a week: Monday Manta Rays, Wednesday Whale Sharks, Friday Flora and Fauna.  The group had just finished one of the lectures and was ready to fork out some bucks for a nice farewell dinner.  Mark and I arrived about an hour after everyone ordered.  We had filled up on cheaper food from our favorite charcoal grill vender in the market a little earlier, so we disregarded the menu’s $12 hamburger, $7.50 french fries, and $6 millkshakes.  What we couldn’t disregard was everyone else’s irritation about the poor service.  Two hours in (still no food on the table), the waiter informed the group that the sushi was “finished.”  “Finished” in Mozambique means it’s no longer available.  The group was outraged and demanded the South African manager who apologized and offered a round of free drinks.  Thirty minutes later he offered a second round of drinks but the group informed him that the first round hadn’t even arrived yet.  Apparently, one of the three owners was in town eating with a large group at the restaurant and we were not a priority.  Three hours in, everyone ended up eating, but they were fairly unhappy about the poor service, especially considering the prices.  Chad, Mark, and I ended up chatting for quite awhile, so as the restaurant closed down, the manager joined us for drinks on the ocean-side patio.  He carried a bottle of Stroh, 80 proof Austrian liquor, and hollered to the barman to bring 4 shot glasses out.  I had already drank a glass of white wine and couldn’t finish the sugary ginger ale/vodka star gazer in front of me, but I didn’t want to be offensive, so I joined the roundtable and went bottoms up.  The rum raisin flavor burned our collective sinuses.  Oof dah.  We stayed up till 2:30am when Chad finally announced that he had go to bed.  We walked back along the beach and found Joel wide awake socializing with the ladies at Fatima’s.  Sarah, Connor, and Kenny had their bags packed and ready for the 3:30am shuttle to Maputo.

Sarah and Connor Reading At Fatima's, Kenny Chillin'

The next morning, Chad, Mark, and I jumped into a chappa bound for the Inhambane airport.  We waved goodbye from the petrol station where we withdrew cash from the ATM.  The attendant charged his usual commission (he rang up my Steak and Creamy Chili chips and Kit Kat bar, but pocketed the cash from my Coke Light), then hitch-hiked back into town to pay the tab for our PADI scuba certification.  We took the final exam and passed with flying colors.  Jay, an American scuba instructor from the East Coast, informed me that I had an ear infection that needed antibiotics.  Out here, any antibiotic is used to treat all manner of maladies.  He was presently treating a foot infection with Cipro (meant for severe stomach problems).  In my medical stash, I was carrying Cipro, Doxy (for malaria) and Diflucan (just in case).  I stopped taking the Doxy because it was giving me horrendous sunburns and a nightly episode of dry-heaving, so I decided to go with the Cipro.  We waved goodbye to our friends at Liquid Adventures.  We’d been running around with the crew for the past week and had enjoyed diving with them daily.  We never did get to see Steven, the local sea turtle, or the famed manta rays or whale sharks, but we did see some amazing spotted rays, a garden eel, several amazing octopus, a massive lobster, loads of porcupine puffer fish, angel fish, clown fish, scorpion fish, a pink leaf fish, lion fish, crocodile fish, and even a nudi branch.  To explore life from 18 meters underwater was a surreal experience.  I was excited to do it again, but was ready to be on land for a few days.  Diving takes it out of a person.  We found ourselves napping after every dive.

Octopus

Pre-dive Boat Launch

Waiting for the Boat Launch
Front LR: Connor, Sarah, Heidi, Annie, Justin
Back LR: Joel, Piere, Mike

Despite being tired and studying for the scuba course, I finally got the rest of my application packet submitted to the University of Hawaii at Manoa, Shidler College of Business.  It’s been hard to imagine being back in school while we’re having so much fun on holiday, but I know it’s part of looking further into the future.  And, knowing that school could be on the island of Hawaii is a very exciting possibility.  I envision Mark and I exchanging our car for a motorcycle, buying surf boards, inviting our families out for Christmas, meeting educated professionals from around the world, gaining KSA’s for the future… I think it’s the best fit for us.

As J term dwindles down, there are only a few of us students remaining in Tofo.  Heidi and Joel will be leaving in a few days, heading back to classes in Colorado.  Mike and Justin will continue heading north studying independently through semester.  The thought came to me yesterday that it’s like a rite of passage for both of them.  In Africa, there are traditions that men take their sons through as they become men, but Mike and Justin are going it alone which I think seems more American.  They’re both nervous, which is to be expected, but both of them are capable, more than they know, and I think they’re about to discover parts of themselves that have previously been unexplored.  As for Mark and I, we anticipate a northwest route through Malawai.  Eventually, we’ll make our way into Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, then fly to Turkey and make our way south toward Egypt.  We’re one month in, with four months yet to go.  When I look at the travel experiences behind me and the educational opportunities ahead, I feel like one of the luckiest girls in the world.

Scuba Diving in Tofo Mozambique

Mark and Annie Ok?  Ok!

Exploring Clown Fish Reef

Getting ready to scuba

“Action-figure Chad,” as our esteemed PhD of International Travel is known among the students, went into “Negotiating Chad mode” and got us a killer discount on our PADI Open Water Scuba certification.  Instead of the $600 we were quoted, he used his status as writer for Grand Valley Magazine and Outdoor Program Director at Mesa State College to get us a final price of $400 per person at Liquid Divers.  We were stoked; everyone signed up.  Heidi and Chad already had their certification out of the way, so they went on real dives while the rest of us sat through a day of videos.  After videos, the group split into two and alternated two ½ days in the confined water (pool).

The first five minutes under water were weird.  It felt like I wasn’t getting enough air, couldn’t take a full breath.  I had to mentally tell myself it was okay to have an inflated vest (BCD), heavy cylinder tank, oversized fins, and a foggy mask strapped to myself in water deeper than I could stand in.  There’s nothing natural about scuba diving in a pool for the first time, but the longer we trained, the more I felt comfortable breathing through the regulator, switching to alternate air from my buddy, clearing my mask, finding my buoyancy, and equalizing my ear pressure during the descent.

Clown Fish

My fav, a puffer fish

Blue Starfish

Angel Fish

Can't remember, but I think it's a crocodile fish- it's poisonous.

Eel

Sunday morning, January 9^th, we trained ½ the day in the pool as scheduled, then received a surprise announcement from instructor Piere (think blonde haired, blue eyed, tan and chiseled Derek Huff, Dancing with the Stars).  He announced that we were going scuba diving in the ocean.  We downed a plate of cheesy seafood pasta and ran over to kit up.  We were a mixed cocktail of nervous excitement.  The clouds had rolled in, so I grabbed a wet suit just in case.  Pulling on that glamorously thinning skin (I’m being 100% facetious) is a chore, but it seemed better than being cold under water (I didn’t account for the choking hazard crew neck).  We pushed the boat out into the waves navy seals style and gunned it toward Clown Fish Reef.  My feet were tucked into the foot straps as I clung to the black line to stay inside of the boat.  I was immediately sea-sick.  Normally, I would pop a Dramamine tablet, but we hadn’t packed for the ocean, just the pool.  Further complicating things, I was overheating in the wet suit and it was restricting my breathing.  I told myself to calm down, breathe slowly, look to the horizon.  Piere instructed us to put on our gear and as I strapped on my spitty mask, weighted belt, BCD vest, and tank, I thought about the best place to throw up.  Everything felt  too tight.  Breathe, stay calm, loosen.  “Final okay.”  “Countdown.  3…2…1…”  Clutching our weight belts with one hand and our masks/regulators with the other, we all hurled ourselves backward into the water, fins up, James Bond style.

We descended a blue line, equalizing our ears and masks all the way down.   From the top buoy, we could already see the bottom of the reef 10 meters (30 feet) below.  We waited doing fin tip exercises while everyone arrived, then took off in a loose school of humans marveling at the colorful movement of angel fish, clown fish, and puffer fish along the reef.  We kicked our fins and slowly chased after blue starfish, eels, and fluffy, pretty things I don’t have names for.  It was totally relaxed, a slow, foreign world of beautiful chill activity.  I had the distinct sensation we were dropped in an oversized aquarium- these were all of the fish that people put on display in tropical marine tanks.

About 40 minutes later, we made our ascent, dumped our gear into the boat and were handed celebratory suckers.  I was exhausted (Piere said this is normal, as is being hungry after a dive).  We filled in our dive journals, and got them stamped, like an underwater passport booklet.  Whoo hoo, my first scuba dive!

While Diving I Feel Cool... Looking At Pictures, I Feel Like A Puffer Fish

Paradise Perspective, Tofo, Mozambique

Concrete Roof Camp for Tents, Fatima's, Maputo, Mozambique

As a supplement to the Lonely Planet Guide, Mark and I gather information from fellow travelers.  “Where ya been?” “What would you recommend or avoid?”  Throughout the journey, there’s been a lot of buzz about the beaches of Tofo, Mozambique.  There was so much buzz, that our whole group decided we couldn’t miss it.  So, we booked flights from Livingstone, Zambia to Maputo, Mozambique (the capital city, supposedly six hours south of Tofo). 

Waiting for the bus

Maputo's Bus Terminal

Oven, er... Bus Interior

If you believe in bad omens, you might have been alarmed at the beginning of our trip when one of our group members woke up vomiting and had an unannounced loose stool while lying down at the airport.  Sometimes shit happens without warning.  It’s like a traveler’s right of passage: you’re not a real traveler until you’ve crapped yourself in public.  We bought him a new pair of shorts at the airport gift shop and carried on.

We arrived in Maputo, only to discover that the visa fee was $82 USD (not the $25 Lonely Planet mentioned, not the $50 we had anticipated).  We forked it over, but not without making cocked eyebrow visa pictures.  We hailed a $12 cab to Fatima’s Backpacker’s Hostel and surveyed the land on the way in.  Granted, we only saw a slice of Maputo, but the place looked like a dump, slapped together tin shacks littered with debris, stretching on into oblivion.  From our sweaty perch atop a concrete roof (otherwise known as our tent site), we could see the New Year’s band preparing to play in the open-air lobby down below, and we could see and hear the popping fireworks up above. 

We sweated through the night wearing earplugs and face masks, and when we rose at 5am for the $34 air conditioned shuttle to Tofo, the New Year’s festivities were still underway.  We waited in the lobby from 6am to 8am when the manager finally announced that the driver was MIA (ie: still drinking the New Year in).  We got a refund and a free ride to Junta, the local bus station which was covered in debris and dirty sledge pools- it looked and smelled like a landfill.  Without signage, we relied on Jimmy’s Portugese-speaking skills (Jimmy, a Pennsylvania-native, Exxon-Mobile employee, stationed in Angola, was in our same predicament).  He found us the Maputo-bound bus, and we piled in with our luggage.  Shoulder to shoulder in a swelteringly hot oven, we baked for two hours while tickets were sold to fill the bus.  Don’t be fooled, a bus in Africa is not full until the aisle seats have been folded down to fill in each remaining centimeter of space.  There we sat, shoulder to shoulder 4 across, 8 deep, bags on our laps, knees in the seats in front of us, baking in the heat and trying not to breathe in the body odor funk.

When the motor started, we were quite relieved to get air flow.  We buried ourselves in books for the next 8 hours of potholes and beer-induced outbursts from the front of the bus.  In addition to the piercing clap and cat-calls from the drunk guys at the front of the bus to two girls in the back, we were serenaded by blaring CD mixes of Portugese dance, 90’s R&B, and Justin Bieber.  Staring out the window, I let the stretches of corn-filled plains on the horizon take me away.

Dorms with Mosquito Nets



Boys selling bracelets on the beach




Building in Tofo, under construction



Market, Tofo, Mozambique

We pulled into Tofo as the sun was setting.  Traffic down the narrow sandy streets was jammed due to New Year’s parties.  The bus dumped us out and informed us that we would have to walk the remaining 2 km.  Drenched in our own sweat, we dragged our bags through the mess of vehicles and sand to Fatima’s which was already filled past capacity.  The New Year’s crowd had overwhelmed the water supply, therefore there was no running water in town.  Further, there were no available electrical outlets.  We pitched our tent in the sand for $16 each and wondered how we would sleep in the heat and humidity.  Were it not for the mosquitos, I believe we may have tried slept naked outside the tent.  Instead, we doused ourselves in deet, shoved our earplugs deep into our ears, and sweated through the night.

By 6:30am, the tent was absolutely unbearable.  Displacement and culture shock began to settle in amongst us.  This was not the Tofo everyone had raved about.  We meandered into the market for breakfast then sauntered along the beach.  There were no taxis, so we hitched a ride to the nearest ATM, 3-4 km away.  As 4 of us piled into the air-conditioned pick-up cab, Mark joked, “This is our first car-jacking.  How we doing so far?”  There was a moment of hesitation followed by a roar of laughter.  At the petrol station, we bought chocolate milk and off-brand Gatorade that tasted like the McDonald’s orange drink they served in big igloos when I was a kid at vacation Bible camp.  At one point Joel asked what time it was and we all laughed because it was irrelevant, no one cared; we were on vacation.  For the return ride, we hailed a 5 met (13cent) chappa.  It appeared full, but somehow they managed to pack us in on each other’s laps while some people hung on to handles, dangling out the mini-van’s open door.  We laughed the whole way.

Some Peace Corps volunteers recommended the bunny chow at the Bread Shack down the road, so we stopped in to enjoy a $4 ½ loaf of sour-dough bread hallowed out and filled with chicken curry.  We also tried the flat crust pizza at beach-side Dino’s, the restaurant of choice when a person is looking to hang out for ½ the day.  Between feedings, we inquired about the prices of scuba certification.  Contrary to the “cheap prices” everyone raved about, the cheapest price sounded like a discouraging $500 USD.  Early loan disbursements failed to come through, so most people were on a tight budget of food and shelter by this time.

Mark and I moved from the tents to the dorms where there are mosquito nets and a ceiling fan.  Justin spent his days in the market searching for someone to trade a hat for fishing pole hooks.  He also found a job selling excursions and internet in exchange for food and lodging for the next two weeks.  Joel, Kenny, Mark, and I jumped the ocean waves to cool down, then did our laundry by creating an NRS strap laundry line between abandoned wooden poles on a warm, windy sand hill above the ocean.  For some reason, the four of us hanging out on the hill reminded me of “Where the Wild Things Are.”  I guess I felt that we were on the loose, hanging out, lazily doing whatever suited our fancy.  We watched the surfers down below, the jet skies, the kite surfer…   we settled into canvas-covered wooden beach chairs facing the beach, letting the sounds of the crashing ocean waves lull us into relaxation.  It wasn’t the paradise people had talked it up to be, but sometimes paradise is all about perspective.