Annie Shoberg: Generous Spirits

The bus dropped us off at the town center, downtown Vilankula. I checked my compass and consulted the Lonely Planet Guide map. Baobab Backpacker’s hostel, which was recommended by Hannah on the Cape Town Wine Tour, was 1km down the street. Mark and I dragged our bags through the sand, sweating despite the mist, until we reached a small cabana with a 18 year old male seamstress tapping the foot pedal of his Singer-style sewing machine. Mark was elated because he was looking for an opportunity to have zippers sewn into his shorts pockets. Manito, “Little Brother,” as his family calls him, reminded me of a sweet young version of a smiling Chris Rock. He took the shorts and said we could come back in an hour.

We continued down the back streets toward the hostel and another sign caught Mark’s eye, B&B. It appeared to be getting renovations, but we inquired anyway. Mohammed, the owner of Moohaas Complex (meaning they had a pool), explained that they were in fact getting renovations; he was adding air conditioning, but if we didn’t mind the construction, we were welcome to stay, and he would be happy to have a room cleaned and a mattress delivered upstairs. He even invited us as his only guests to a private seafood supper, but said we were welcome to eat in town if we preferred. I tell you, the hospitality here is really something. We negotiated a great price for a room with a fan (400 met, $13 USD), locked up our bags in a back room, and meandered back into town. The walk seemed so easy now that we weren’t dragging bags through the sand. Mark looked for sunglasses while I marveled at the display of pineapples. On the way back to the complex, we stopped to pick up Mark’s completed shorts. As we chatted with Manito and his friend, Mark explained that he found sunglasses in town and had a scratched up pair that Manito could have if he wanted them. “Really!?!” Manito was overjoyed.

Back at the complex, we read outside in lawn chairs until it got too dark, then Mohammed informed us that supper was ready. No one makes supper like Mohammed. There was full size crab for each of us, a heaping portion of matapa (a delicious local leaf curry, a bit like creamed spinach), calamari in spiced oils, rice, bread… oh man, we were dining, and for such a good price, 150 met (just $5 each). As we filled our stomachs, Manito entered the open-air bar/restaurant. “Hey, how’d you find us?” “I asked around.” In a tourist mecca, we were shocked he could find us. In his hand, he had a black bag filled with a fruit nut from the tree I had inquired about earlier in the day. “I have a surprise for you,” he said as he handed me the bag. What a thoughtful guy. We invited him to sit with us. He ordered a Coke and we talked about his family, geography (we drew a map of the world and the locations where people speak Portugese like he did), and life in general (he was 21 and “needed out” of his parent’s home, and wanted a girlfriend but the girls in Vilankula like the money).

As Mark and I went upstairs to bed, Mohammed showed us how to lock the exterior door (because we were the only guests). We had the entire upstairs to ourselves which I liked because I could shower and use the restroom with the door wide open. The bed turned out to have little bugs all over it, probably from storing it downstairs. Rather than risk getting bitten or becoming bedbug carriers, we rolled out our Prolite campmats and slept on the floor. Mark was settled into his campsite on the floor, and I had just showered and was happily trying to find my pajamas when the thunderstorm caused the power to go out. I couldn’t remember where I had put my torch (headlamp), so I just stood there, buck naked, wet hair, stunned by the darkness. Mark later described my expression to be like a cat moaning with displeasure. It was quite comical, like a cartoon character lamenting the darkness with a sing-song voice, “Ah, Dang.” The power eventually restored in the night, three or four times. I could tell because the ceiling fan would click on again and cool me down. Our room’s light stayed off, but another one down the hall exploded. Still, after staying in the dorm accommodations for the past couple of weeks, we were simply happy to have the place to ourselves.

At breakfast, we were again overjoyed at the food: papaya, mangos, guava juice, bread with jam and butter, eggs with a peach runny yoke, tea and coffee, all included with the price of the room. Mohammed joined us at the table and we started talking economics. He provided context for Mozambique and shared his story about selling Baobab beach and building his hostel, plowing each year’s profits into renovations. He shared about his plans to develop affordable campsites on his plot in the nearby Archipelago where high end accommodations ($200/night) excluded backpackers. He shared his vision of a future where the locals take ideas from South African and Western developers and develop a desire to build their own tourist destinations. He had a knack for business and was proud of the 7-8% growth the area had been seeing each year. I was impressed by his agenda to mix locals and travelers, to help people to see that people are just people. After a couple of hours of conversation, we needed to get on the road. We inquired about a taxi for our bags but Mohammed offered to have two men from his construction crew carry our bags into town. He suggested we could tip them for cigarettes which we were more than happy to do. Mark and I watched incredulously as the two men lifted the 70 lb bags up on their heads and clipped along at a brisk pace into town. They took us directly to the main exit where we could hitch 20k to Pembara, the junction for the main vain north.

In the back of a pickup bound for Pembara, we met two brothers, 16 and 18. Enway, the older brother, had been doing carpentry with his brother and father for the past month. When we discovered that Enway was on his way home to Tete, we felt like synchronicity was happening because that’s exactly where we were heading. We put out our sign for Chimoio (on the way to Tete), while Enway and his brother looked for a bus. Kids circled, chapas stopped, and again, locals suggested we take the big bus. After about an hour of waiting, Enway’s brother told us to come quickly, to hop into the approaching semi-truck. There was a bit of confusion as the semi passed us then slowed again to a stop in the middle of the road. The driver stepped out and we began negotiations as an assistant strapped our bags to the upper deck of the outside rear cab. When we climbed into the cab, Enway was already inside. We joined Enway on the tattered sleeper bunk, our feet stretched out in front of us to make room. The truck roared forward, bumping up and down; we were elated to be hitching. We had a bird’s eye view of the road, the villages, the landscape, and for ½ the price of the crowded chapa (we paid 500 met to get to Inchope, the junction change toward Tete). Semi’s were the largest thing on the road, so it felt a lot safer, well, minus the driver’s constant texting. Mark and I put the splitter on my ipod and cranked up the tunes. We passed out snacks to the driver, assistant, and Enway. The driver eventually cranked up his own radio with the sounds of JayZ. The breeze rolled through the windows, and we were two delighted clams.

Throughout the ride, we rolled through villages where locals were selling baskets of pineapples, mangos, and cashew nuts. Women walked with well-behaved, sometimes sleeping, bouncing babies tied onto their backs. We saw women with bright red Rihanna-esque hair. Along the roadside, children walked home from school in droves. Other children were tending to oxen, herds of goats, carrying water, and carrying hoes. I loved taking it all in from the semi cab.

The driver made a stop mid-day, and I had to use the restroom. Mark stretched outside the cab while keeping an eye out for the bags. I asked Enway where my best chance of finding quick access to a restroom would be. “Here, sister,” he motioned toward a nearby restaurant. When I exited the restroom, I found that he was waiting for me like a sweet, thoughtful brother. He did this for me at every stop. As an assistant with the occasional language barrier, an explainer of my 100 questions along the way (“What are those bags they’re selling?” “Coal, for cooking. 50 met, lasts two weeks.”), and as protection for a single female traveler, he was a phenomenal asset on the journey. He was the key we needed for breaking through the “No Passenger” barrier posted on semi trucks. He showed Mark and I that the trick to hitching is to personally ask the semi driver where they are going and if they are willing to accept passengers.

Manito, Mohammed, and Enway, were key elements of our journey. These generous spirits taught us about the local economy and our impact on it as well as how to get by in a foreign environment. Being in the Mesa State group had had its advantages like group discounts and convenience, but being on our own now, I was enjoying increased opportunities for interactions with local people. I was gaining perspective, learning local economics, and watching culture unfold. It’s a wonder to think about the value I receive when simply bringing a few tourist dollars to a local economy.