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