Backpack Maputo to Blantyre — 1900km in three days.
SOUTHERN AFRICA: Mozambique – Maputo to Malawi Border
“You want to do what?” barked John.
“I want to backpack from Durban to Blantyre through Mozambique and I will meet you there,” I beamed a kitty-cat grin.
John shook his head in confusion.
“Why?”
“Well for one, to show you and the other South Africans — who have been wary of African countries, since apartheid, war, carnage, whatever — that a girl on her own, geared with only a backpack and camera is totally safe. And for two, it will be a great adventure.”
John really couldn’t understand my definition of adventure and I smiled at the turmoil on his face. “Relax man… after centuries of resisting onslaughts and decades of isolation, Mozambique was declared an independent country after national liberation in June 1975 and has awakened in 1992 after the Mozambique independence war, rising as one of Africa’s tourism paradises once again. I will be among leafy green palm trees, sapphire oceans, coral reefs and shimmering pebble shores with a cocktail in my hand swinging in a hammock, watching the tanned foreigners on the beach,” my eyes sparkled from the day dream.
“Rizèl, snap out of it. You’re not even going close to the beaches if you do this. You will follow the inland roads on your way to Malawi.”
“Oh good. Then I can explore the areas not so well-known to the world. Toodles, see you in Blantyre. Make sure you’re not late. I bet you I will be there even before your plane lands. Look out for the girl in an Arab sarong and Portuguese sandals with African beads around her neck waving at you. That would be me still under the influence of the vibrant blend of Africans, Arabs and Portuguese, dancing and drinking 2M.”
“Gmff,” snorted John, “There is no 2M at Blantyre airport,” and slammed the door on his way out while I checked my packing list, mumbling, “Hmm… we shall see about that.”
Mozambique provides a refreshing contrast to the other countries in the Southern Africa region and is ranked 33rd in the world according to its size. With 10 provinces, it stretches for 2 470km along Africa’s southeast coast with a total area of 801 600sqkm. It is nearly twice the size of California with Tanzania to the north; Malawi, Zambia, and Zimbabwe to the west; with South Africa and Swaziland to the south. The country is generally a low-lying plateau broken up by 25 sizable rivers that flow into the Indian Ocean with the Zambezi as being the largest.
I closed the guidebook in my lap then looked around in the Panthera Azul bus that operates from Maputo, providing trips to Durban and back through Swaziland borders. The bus was overloaded with shopping bags, sport bags, anything that could close with a zip, carrying goods passengers bought in Durban. The woman sitting next to me, a black bandanna… no bandanna is not the right word… hmm… head gear, and tiny round glasses that rested on the bridge of her pointed nose (looking more like Cinderella’s stepmother than a Muslim), rolled a string of black beads with two red ones, between her fingers. Every now and then she kissed it nervously while looking at the bus driver who was rocking in his seat, slowly back and forth, his eyes fixed hazily on the road.
But the stewardess sitting in the front seat — calmly talking on her cell phone, her dark hair plated and oiled flat to her head — didn’t look worried at the casual driving style of the driver at all. In fact she looked like a model for an airliner advert, and with her sunglasses on, more like a fashion queen from Haiti, slim, sleek and neat. The Muslim woman relaxed after a little while, seemingly decided that she’s safe, then told me her whole history and the great wedding of her sister’s child which she just attended in Durban. Sigh.
The bus stopped at Goba, Mhlumeni border, exiting Swaziland into Mozambique. Immigration officers were buzzing and proactive so we cleared through in record time with a visa payment of only R17–00 for South Africans. The gate officials dressed in light blue shirts and maroon berets — looking communist/Cuban like — made me reflect quickly if there was anything I did wrong, any reason at all to throw me in jail. But the friendliness in their eyes and the smiles on their lips shattered my concerns and I saluted them in my mind with, ‘thank you Comrades.’
We entered the far outskirts of Maputo with the bus stopping here and there along the way, offloading passengers in the middle of nowhere, sometimes with no building or soul in sight. The informality of it struck me as being so typical Africa and I shuffled eagerly in my seat; this is going to be a great adventure.
At one of the stops, a coco coloured youngster took his chance and hopped onto the bus selling water, crisps, bananas, and Mcell starter packs (a mobile network company in Mozambique). He only accepted Metical and I made a mental note that locals don’t accept dollars or Rands. He got off the bus and walked past a blonde pony-tailed man sitting on a tree stump, no shoes, playing his guitar, a distant haze gleaming in his blue eyes and I wondered how long he had been sitting there, or what he was doing there.
I shook my head on how strange life can be and referred to my notes: Mozambique’s capital Maputo is an enchanting city of wide acacia and jacaranda lined avenues with tall buildings overlooking the bay and the Indian Ocean. It boasts with interesting colonial architecture, and is needless to say… the best place to enjoy Mozambique’s famous LM prawns. Drinking beer is what passes time here and it’s available on every corner café. No wonder then Maputo is notorious for having such a pulsating nightlife; one of the popular places being Coconut Bay Bar with its Portuguese-Jamaican influence and stylish local girls, dancing with each other in rhythm to the pumping music, hanging on the lips of foreign men, tempting them to spend their hard cash.
“Hooooooot!” I shuddered in fright from the unexpected blare. The bus driver tooted, warning people and animals walking on the side of the road, to stay out of the way. The women looked so chic in their sarongs, colourfully contrasted against the black charcoal bags for sale along the road at ‘Kafedos’, but totally in sync with the blue and white of the ‘Tudebom’ signs and yellow and sea-green of Mcell, painted on 80% of the buildings along the roads.
One can build an entire house with the brickwork operations and roof truss production lines put up along the roads and furnish it out with wares available right on the seams of the tar. But judging from the rocks spread out on the corrugated iron roofs to keep it down, they still need to perfect the art of putting it all together.
In Maputo city centre, people stormed the bus — offering all sorts of services from taxis to starter packs and lollipops — when it came to its final stop and as soon as my Hi-tech hiking boots hit the pavement, I engaged a taxi driver to take me to Fatima’s backpackers a few blocks away. The driver showed me where to exchange currencies and I bought a starter pack for my mobile phone so I could report to home that I am safe. At the hostel drop off, I organised another taxi for the next morning at 04h00 to the bus station that leaves for Tete.
With a bed secured for the night and all my arrangements intact, I straddled in Maputo city between old buildings, shops and cafés: fuzzy evidence of once posh establishments now in ruins, reeking of dried fish that’s for sale on the pavements. Later, I swayed in a hammock on the roof of Fatima’s with a 2M beer (pronounced duo chem) and Pao (Portuguese bread), with not quite the palm tree, ocean view and tanned bodies I boasted about to John — feeling more like a correspondent stranded in Sudan reporting on the war — but I still felt content that I am experiencing Maputo at its best.
I went to bed early. Despite the mosquito nets covering my bed and the Doom left there to ‘kill insects dead’, I listened to the ‘biizzzzz’ of the tiny pests all night, endured the heat that lingered like a mantle in the room and couldn’t fall asleep. So regardless of my carefully laid out plans, arranging a taxi to be there early enough to catch the busses to Tete, I still arrived late and found them already full. My heart sunk in my shoes and I slumped my backpack in the dust from disappointment.
“Where you going sissie,” came from somewhere in the dark.
“Tete.”
“Ooooh, sorry mama, too late, busses all full. But I know this guy is going to Chimoio,” pointing to a white Nissan Sunny sedan. “Maybe you can ride with him, I will ask him for you?”
I didn’t really take notice of the driver and the other two passengers already waiting in the car, I was just worried about getting to Chimoio, even though it’s not all the way to Tete, at least it’s halfway in that direction.
The driver waved at me with a smile, “Hello sister. 900 Metical and I will take you there, no problem, get in, not to worry. I will take you to the bus station in Chimoio then you can get another bus to Tete.”
I threw my backpack in the trunk, got in the back seat, clutching my camera bag on my lap, not sure how full they’re going to load this car. From what I’ve seen of how they load buses and taxis they could easily fit in another two in the back between me and the other passenger. I finally relaxed when the driver started the car, realising that it would only be the four of us. At least I could ride in comfort to my destination and I thanked the heavens. ‘See Rizel, you always have your guardian angels around to protect you, but next time don’t be late,’ criss-crossed my mind.
We turned onto the EN1 road on route to Xai-Xai going through small villages and towns like: Moveia, Maluaha, Manhica, Palmeira, Macia, Incaia, Chimonzo, Chissano, and Chipenhe. Because it was still dark and the little sleep that night, I dozed off awhile and woke just in time to watch the sunrise: a huge red-orange ball peeping through the trees. The road was better than expected and the driver jetted ahead, not moving his head, just charging forward. I tried to get a glimpse of his face, but his eyes were hidden behind huge sunglasses which marks the current fashion in Mozambique. The front passenger looked like a 23-year old Portuguese. He stared ahead while clutching the roof handle with his left hand, the knuckles white from holding on. The tall thin one sitting next to me, studying the heap of papers on his lap, saw me watching him and said, “Comesta, my name is Alfredo and yours?”
I smiled: “Rizel, pleased to meet you. Whe’re you going?”
“Maxixe for an interview. I can’t find work in Maputo and am going there to try and get something. A man must eat.”
I nodded my head in agreement, “Family?”
“No, I am alone. I lost my father in the war, he was the one looking after me. My mother passed away when I was still very young. I don’t know where my brother is, he left us when he was 16 and never saw him again. Word has it he is in South Africa trying to make his life.”
I looked through the front window, the road stretching out in a long triangle with the sharp point far in the distance. I watched the palm trees flying by and suddenly felt very glad that the bus was full. This is quite fun, driving in a car with three black strangers in a country I knew so little about, going on a typical road trip, just like they have it in the movies. No other girl I know would do something like this. But to me, this was pure adventure.
The sign board indicated Xai-Xai a few kilometres up ahead and I fiddled for my notes tacked away in my camera bag. Xai-Xai is the capital of Gaza province, located 224km north of Maputo, just above the Limpopo river mouth. The town is the commercial and political centre for the province, therefore very busy and lively, bustling with markets, shops, restaurants and bars. We passed an open air furniture factory situated under a grove of cashew trees a few blocks from the central market.
I startled when the driver spoke: “Praia do Xai Xai is approximately 12km from here. It has a long sweeping beach and coral reefs running parallel to the beach and has been a popular tourist destination since the heyday of Mozambique. At Wenela Tidal Pool, two kilometres south, is a fascinating natural treasure; a tunnel and blow-hole linking the pool to the sea. I come here often for business and relax there as much as I can. I like it there.”
We turned into the markets and fear plucked slightly in my stomach. The road through the stalls, buzzing with traders and shoppers, is only a two-wheel track over rocks and grass poles and I wondered what on earth we are doing here. The 23 year old got out when we stopped and walked over to one of the stalls packed with CD’s, cell phones and goat paws. He bought three music tapes and got back into the car, handing it to the driver with a smile and said something in Portuguese that sounded like party-ing.
When the driver switched the tapes on, upbeat tones blared from out the speakers and I could feel Mozambique rocking through my veins. A bike with rider and pillion roared passed us and I wished I could be on my own bike now, the wind blowing through my hair. Riding without helmets is legal here and I wondered how it would feel riding through the whole country without one. A scene from the movie Wild Hogs where a bird smashed into John Travolta’s face flashed through my mind and I dropped the thrilling idea with a chuckle.
30km after Xai-Xai the roads became pot-holed and dangerous. The driver didn’t seem to notice and rode like the devil was chasing him, blowing hooter all the way. People in Mozambique seem to be used to that and are actually waiting for the warning sounds coming from cars and trucks so they can get out of the way. Picking up this tip could save many lives and I jotted it down as an important safety measure when driving here.
But inside the car we were totally at the mercy of the driver. His technique was empowered by the pumping music and I clutched onto the seat in front of me, pushing my feet into the floor. We were only driving between 120 km/h and 140km/h but on this bad road it felt like 250km/h. We charged over holes and humps, heading for the huge truck that appeared in front of us all of a sudden. We passed it to the right, but then the truck driver swayed for a pothole on his left. He swayed towards us, pushing us off the road. We ran off the tar onto the side gravel strip but the driver kept the car miraculously parallel to the tar, bumping over rocks and holes, and finally brought it back onto the tar, with the right front wheel humping unbalanced. We carefully crossed the road to the left and stopped on the far strip on the left side of the road.
“What just happened?” asked Alfredo, looking up from his papers and I said, lifting my tense shoulders: “I think we might have a flat tyre.”
The driver jumped out, kicked the front right tire and said: “Yeah, a flattie. No problem, we’ll fix it quickly.”
Now very irritated because I didn’t know their names I introduced myself as, “Can I help? I am Rizel so by the way and you?” looking at the driver.
He burst out laughing and took his dark sun glasses off, wiping the sweat from his forehead and eyes, “Hie hie, I am Joseph, just like the man in the bible. And this is Danny, pointing to the youngster fixing the tyre.”
I wondered about the set-up here as the driver was supposed to change the tyre but the co-operation from Danny indicated he might be a friend or business partner.
“You two work together?” I asked while watching Danny fixing the tyre thinking; ‘my idea of travelling is always to plan for the worst and hope for the best, then all will work out fine. I hoped this trip would be one of them.’
“No, he’s a passenger, just like you. He is just eager to do something. So I just watch,” he said with a grin and took his glasses off again, rubbing the sweat away. I stared at the static glaze-white ball in his left eye socket and a chill ran down my spine. I didn’t notice that before.
With the spare wheel fitted, Joseph steered off as if nothing had happened, driving faster than a whirlwind, seemingly learned nothing from this experience. Suddenly I didn’t know which was more dangerous: driving in this car with a one-eyed madman or hitchhiking on the open road. I fumbled with my phone, dialling my son’s number just in case I never see him again.
But then Danny gave some comfort as I see him lifting his right hand now and then, indicating to Joseph to slow down at some points. I doubt if Joseph had seen it as his good eye is on the right side, but the gesture still calmed my nerves. Thank goodness we drove in the middle of the road most of the way, staying clear of who or what was straddling the sides of it.
From Xai-Xai to Maxixe we were speeding through the northern part of Gaza province — between Limpopo and Changane Rivers — and the southern part of Inhambane province, going through towns; Chidenguelle, Quissico, Inharrime, Nhacoongo and Cumbana. Of all these Quisico is the prettiest, overlooking a series of lagoons, separating the town from the ocean.
“Quisico is the capital of Zavala district, home of the Chopi People,” said Joseph, bringing me back to reality. “They are famous for playing the Timbila, a musical instrument made of wood called Nwenje (sneeze wood). The 32-piece Timbila orchestra plays every Sunday afternoon at Venâncio Mbande’s House in Zavala, 27km north of Quisico. The instrument makes happy sounds and people sing and dance the whole day.”
Throughout Mozambique, many markets with fresh, seasonal fruits and veggies are for sale with a couple of stopovers at reed-hut restaurants and bars and I think of how good a 2M will taste, just as the police officer appeared from nowhere lifting a hand, indicating for us to stop. Yip, here it is. I knew Joseph wouldn’t get away with his frenetic driving.
“Comesta,” Joseph smiled at the officer. And he got away with his speeding tactics. Don’t ask me how, as the whole conversation was in Portuguese and from the hand signals and smiles it didn’t look like he was in serious trouble at all. With no money exchanged or papers filled out we continued our road trip.
Maxixe is the ideal stopover for the traveller going to or from the north. It’s situated on the west bank of Inhambane bay, overlooking the estuary. Dhows and small motor boats operate throughout the day from Maxixe to Inhambane and back again. Many supermarkets are scattered around town and a large open market selling a bit of everything with fresh Pao bread available at each stall.
“There are many fuel stations and vehicle repair shops here so we shouldn’t have a problem fixing the tyre,” said Joseph. While he sorted out the tyre with two Mozambicans who were at the car’s side the moment it stopped, Danny and I were sitting at a pub at the bus and taxi station. We said goodbye to Alfredo here, whishing him good luck with his job hunting and I guzzled the ice cold 2M, washing the dust away. It’s the first time I saw a black waiter on the open streets of Mozambique, taking orders and bringing beer on a tray ever so politely to where we are sitting in the dust. Music blared from hidden speakers in the tree branches and I enjoyed the beat of this African town, watching people scattering to get onto the buses to Beira — chickens, pineapples, oranges, and coconuts bundled on their heads.
Danny sat with half closed eyes, a Laurentina beer clutched in his hand, “Everybody’s busy trying to make money with something, just like busy bees…” he chuckles, “and everyone has a cell phone but nobody has airtime…”
Joseph couldn’t get the tyre fixed, something to do with the size of the wheel rim. So we continued onwards with no spare. I wasn’t really worried anymore. I’ve seen now how Mozambicans operate. Nothing phases them and there are always a 100 other options to get things done… if you have the time off course.
From Maxixe we went through towns Massinga, Mapinhane, passing the turn off to Vilankulo, to Maimelane, and Chibame to Inchope. The skies are clear with plenty of pineapple and cashew plantations which mark the fertility of the area. Joseph couldn’t drive for too long at a time and had to stop every now and then, either to take a leak or to eat something. So, this time we stopped at a roadside hut-pub-and-grub, eating Gazelle and white rice. The lady running the place washed my hands in a small bowl before she brought it to me. Gazelle, or let me rather say this one, had no fat on the meat and I understood now why people here are thin but not starved. They must eat healthily considering the loads of fish, vegetables and fruits available.
When we got back into the car, a youngster climbed in next me, occupying the seat Alfredo left open, and I crinkled my nose at the strong smell of dried fish. He had one stacked in his bag, the tail end sticking out at the top. This will make the trip a bit uncomfortable I thought.
From here the road conditions became really bad and the potholes impossible to avoid. The air felt hotter and drier here and the vegetation changed from palm trees to bushveldt. All along the road were signs with little broken pieces printed over it, and I voiced my curiosity.
“It means Chinese contractors are resurfacing the road,” answered Danny.
About 30km from Inchope we hit another huge pothole and woeshhh… another flat tyre. But we didn’t have a spare this time and Danny arranged a few branches on the road about 20m from the front and rear of the car, indicating an obstruction (us) in the road, just like I saw trucks do in Mozambique. Seemingly no one carried triangles with them and placed leaves and branches on the road when they broke down. Danny took the wheel off and headed for the nearby village with Joseph tagging along, strolling with no haste, talking to each person that passed him. With no luck at the villages they returned and Danny hitched a ride to Inchope to get the tyre fixed.
The road became quieter now as the sun had set two hours before and the sounds from the bush became clearer: babies crying, mothers singing lullaby songs to calm them down, an elder’s cough, the chopping of wood with glowing coal spots clearly visible all over in the veldt. The informal rural coal factories were in full swing. It’s one of the few income generating options available in this area, destroying trees in the process, not replacing its value for future generations.
Every now and then someone rode past on a bicycle greeting, “Boa noite,” and I was amazed by their unmoved demeanour, as if it’s nothing new that people are stranded next to the road with a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere for me that is, but home for them…
I fell asleep in the car but woke by midnight with Danny’s return and the relief spread through my body: now we can continue. Now I won’t be late for the bus leaving Chimoio to Tete and I jumped out, eager to help. But the new tyre rim was too small and didn’t fit. The disappointment rose in my chest when Danny just gave up, spread out on the tar next to the car and fell asleep. I tried to contain my frustration, remembering the warning in the guidebook: “Prepare to get stuck in the middle of nowhere, even for days….” And I sighed, blowing the air slowly from my lungs, shaking my head.
Joseph reached for his cell phone, walked up the road to get better signal, made a call and came back to where I was leaning against the car. He looked up at the stars and I followed his gaze into the sky, watching the clouds rolling to the north, the bright moonlight shining through them upon the smoking landscape.
“You know,” Joseph said, “There is only one man that can save Africa.”
“Yeah,’” I answered with lifted eyebrows, “Who?”
“God.”
I chuckled that he called God a man, “An understatement indeed,” then continued, “Although they say God left Africa long ago.”
Joseph shook his head slowly from side to side, “Nah. He hasn’t. He’s here, just waiting to help the people. They must just know to ask, but they don’t get it.”
What an odd discussion for a white chick 02h00 at night, with a big racing-mad one-eyed black man, abandoned on a quiet road in the middle of Mozambique.
“The people here are all rushing to make money just like in Nigeria where I grew up.”
I zoomed at him, amazed at his statement, “You’re Nigerian?”
“Yeah, but I prefer to stay in Mozambique. I have been here for many, many years. It’s quieter here. The people don’t talk so much or so loud. In Nigeria all fathers do is teach their sons how to make money, money, money. It’s all they ever think about.”
“And you,” I asked, “How are you making money in Mozambique? What did your father teach you?”
“Hah,” he chuckled, “Me? If you want to make money in this country, get into car spare parts.”
I sniggered at the irony, “I can see that.”
He continued, “And electronics, like radio and phones.”
And then added as an afterthought, which I thought he actually could have led with that, “Don’t worry, I phoned my brother. He’s coming to fetch us just now. You will make the bus.”
For that moment while talking to Joseph, I forgot all about our dire situation and didn’t really care anymore about rushing to Tete. I will get there even if it’s going to be late.
And suddenly everything about Africa made more sense to me. You always get to where you want to go, it’s just a matter of fast or slow.
Joseph’s brother stopped next to us in a brand new smooth fancy car, “It’s my other car, I lent it to my brother,” grinned Joseph.
‘He must make a fortune’ I thought and wished I had more time getting to know more about Nigeria, Mozambique and how to survive here. But in record time we stopped next to the bus in Chimoio leaving for Tete at exactly 04h00, just like Joseph promised. I just had enough time to wave a thank-you-goodbye to Joseph and Danny, “Obrigada, Adeus, Cuidado”, (thank you, goodbye, take care) and threw my bag up to the guy standing on the roof of the midi-bus, hoping that he would fasten it properly and pushed my way to an empty seat.
Chimoio is the capital of Manica province and lies 190km west of Beira on the Corridor and the railway line to Harare that links the coast and the interior of the continent. It is the fifth-largest city in Mozambique, well organised and maintained with fertile farms, producing many different fruits and vegetables.
The bus driver turned on the music (there is always music playing at any time of the day, everywhere you go in Mozambique,) and I tapped my feet in rhythm to ‘I love you Bettie’.
We filled the tank with diesel just before leaving town and the petrol station guard with an AK47 resting in his arms looked at me through the window, war still raging in his eyes. The man sitting next to me, with tiny round glasses resting on his nose and white peppercorns in his scalp, followed my gaze and said: “In 1974, during the Mozambican War of Independence, the Frelimo launched mortar attacks against Chimoio (then known as Vila Pery). It became the first (and only) heavily populated area to be hit by the Frelimo during the entire war. This guard here must still feel it,” and he shook his head sympathetically.
I switched on my little headlamp fixed on my forehead and referred to my notes again: The name Chimoio comes from one of the sons of Ganda — chief of the totemic Moyo clan — who came from M´bire to settle here. Oral history says that Chimoio, who was a great hunter, once killed an elephant in the lands of another clan. Chaurumba, their chief, judged Chimoio’s behaviour as a crime and ordered his immediate execution. Ganda then requested permission for his son to be buried in Chaurumba’s land and for one of his relatives to settle close to the grave in order to watch over it. From then on, all descendents of the guardians of Chimoio’s tomb were called Chimoio (which in the local dialect, Citewe, means ‘little heart’).
The old man continued, oblivious of me reading, “The Mozambican Civil War began in 1975 following the War of Independence. The ruling party, Front for Liberation of Mozambique (Frelimo), was violently opposed by the Rhodesians (now Zimbabwe), and later South Africans, who funded the Mozambique Resistance Movement (Renamo). Over 900,000 people died in combat and from hunger. Five million civilians were displaced and many were injured by landmines, a legacy from the war that continues to plague Mozambique as you will see from all the holes in this road we are travelling on now.”
I looked through the front window trying to see the road up ahead but it’s still too dark outside. He continued, “In 1990 (with the end of the war and apartheid crumbling in SA) support for Renamo was drying up in South Africa and the United States, and the first direct talks between the Frelimo government and Renamo were held. In November 1990 a new constitution was adopted; Mozambique was now a multiparty state, with periodic elections and guaranteed democratic rights.”
‘He looked so frail and neglected, how did he know so much’, I thought. After a few minutes of silence I thought it okay to continue reading my notes: Hundreds of years ago, the Arabs came up the Búzi and Revué rivers heading towards The Kingdom of Mutapa Empire (Munhumutapa) in search of gold and slaves. It was a medieval kingdom (1450–1629) which stretched between the Zambezi and Limpopo rivers of Southern Africa known today as Zimbabwe and Mozambique. Gold from this empire, inspired a belief with Europeans that Munhumutapa held the legendary mines of King Solomon, referred to in the Bible as Ophir — famous for its wealth. King Solomon received cargo of gold, silver, sandalwood, precious stones, ivory, apes and peacocks from Ophir every three years. To mark their routes, Portuguese traders planted Borassus fan palms; a tall plant, capable of growing up to 30m high with long fan-shaped leaves, which can reach up to 3m in length.
The old man followed my reading awhile and said suddenly: “Some documents suggested that most of the early colonists dreamed of finding that legendary city of gold, a belief mirroring the early South American search for El Dorado and quite possibly inspired by it.”
“El Dorado?” I frowned.
“Yes El Dorado is Spanish for ‘The golden one’. It is the story of a South American tribal chief who would cover himself with gold dust and dive into a lake of pure mountain water. El Dorado became a kingdom, an empire and the city of this legendary golden king. The Zipa (the title of the King) — his body covered in gold dust — offered treasures to the Guatavita goddess in the middle of the sacred lake from his raft. This old Muisca tradition became the El Dorado legend.”
Now baffled by the knowledge he harboured, I asked with a frown, “How do you know all these things?”
He smiled humbly: “I am a teacher from Zimbabwe. Chimoio is only 95km from the Zimbabwean border. Since the Zimbabwean political and social crisis of the 2000s, Chimoio is where we all are coming to as immigrants, looking for work. Chimoio is now sometimes described as feeling more Zimbabwean than Mozambican. But I could not find anything, now I’m on my way to Tete. Maybe there is a school in need of my services. In Zimbabwe we are suffering.” He turned away, looking through the window so I could not see his tears.
I followed his gaze looking at the early morning mist dews forming on the windows and soft rain drops falling outside. I frowned: ‘Great. Now that my bag is up on the roof, it will rain and get wet. Yesterday it was tucked into the boot of the car with the sun shining brightly and today Murphy decided it will rain. The little rogue, I can’t wait to wring his neck the day I find him’. I suddenly felt guilty for thinking about something so trivial while people are suffering so much and I swallowed my annoyance at once.
The old man turned to me once again: “You can’t see the rock now, it’s not light yet, but nature has carved that rock into the shape of an old man’s head, Mount Bêngo, commonly known as Cabeça do Velho. At certain times of the year it’s of great spiritual importance to local traditionalistic communities. During the rainy season, the falling water looks like tears running down the face of the ‘Old man’. People say that the ancestors are angry, that is why he cries. That’s why Mount Bêngo is considered a sacred place.”
For a second time in two days I watched the sun came up over early morning Africa and thought ‘thank you for the beautiful sun that rose everyday, giving everyone hope, giving another day to try, giving a symbol that today might be better, shedding the bad of yesterday just as it is chasing away the rain right now’.
By now I was on the road for 24hours and had only about 2hours of sleep. I dozed off for a little while and woke from the bus hitting a pothole and the smell of burning weed from the guy in front of me who seemed not to be able to contain his craving any longer. The vegetation became lesser as we travelled further, the gravel road dotted with holes from the detonated landmines, and I wondered how many people died just on this road alone.
We continued through towns Vanduzi, Catandica, Guro and Changara to Tete. I refer to my guidebook again, reading: Tete is the capital city of Tete province in west-central Mozambique, situated on the right bank of the Zambezi River near the rich coal mines of Moatize and is the site of the one-kilometre-long Tete Suspension Bridge, built under the Portuguese rule of Mozambique designed by Edgar Cardoso. It’s a vital link on the major highway, linking not just northern and southern parts of the country, but Zimbabwe and Malawi as well. Given a town charter in 1761, it became a city in 1959, connecting the Indian Ocean by railway to the port of Beira and by the Zambezi River. A Swahili trade centre before the colonial era, Tete continues to dominate the centre-west part of the region, and is the largest city on the Zambezi.
About 125km northwest of Tete, is the Cahora Bassa dam and hydroelectric-power project on the Zambezi River. The dam impounds Lake Cahora Bassa, which is 240km long and 31km wide at its widest point. The lake has a capacity of 63,000,000,000 cubic meters, and extends to the Zambia-Mozambique border. With an installed capacity of 2,075,000 kilowatts and a planned capacity of 4 million kilowatts, it is one of Africa’s largest hydroelectric projects.
The dam was built in 1969 by a consortium of Portuguese, German, British, and South African companies, originally called Cabora Bassa Dam. The dam was completed in 1974. Mozambique became independent in 1975, and Frelimo came to power. Exports of hydroelectricity to South Africa began in 1977. The new government’s plans to use Cahora Bassa Dam to stimulate national development were frustrated by continued political upheaval and violence, some of which was directed at the project. By 1983 widespread sabotage of transmission lines had effectively cut off the supply of hydroelectricity for both domestic use and export. The civil war formally ended in 1992; rehabilitation of the 900km transmission line to South Africa began in 1993, and exporting of power resumed in 1998. By agreement, ownership of Cahora Bassa Dam was transferred gradually from Portugal to Mozambique; Mozambique assumed full control in 2007.
Finally, the bus stopped in the centre of Tete and the passengers climbed-fell out of it, just to get out into the fresh air. The blazing heat struck me full force and I looked around for the driver to untie the luggage from the roof, waiting impatiently for my backpack. I struggled to get it on my back and wondered how much it weighs, more than 30kg I’m sure and tried to think if there was anything in there I could throw away. Just then a youngster stormed me, asking if he could help.
“Where’s the chapas that go to Malawi border, the ones that go to Zobue,” I asked.
He smiled a colgate grin and indicated to follow him.
“Are you sure you know where it is?” I asked after a few hundred metres, sweating from the effort but reluctant to give up my load to the helping hands. This is all I had and not prepared to part with it.
“Yes mama, no worries,” he said and hurried ahead, escorting me through the streets. I noticed another one at my side and another behind me. Wondering where they all came from so sudden, I tapped the one leading me on the shoulder asking: “Are you all together?” pointing at the other two.
“Yes mam, we are all helping you, come.”
I then thought of Joseph’s words, “A lot of good is still happening…”
I shifted the backpack, trying to find a more comfortable position and stopped at the bank, drawing cash with my Visa card. Not sure where to exchange money and it seemed safer to get it directly from an ATM. We continued down the street. Down one block, then another, then another. The sweat ran in my ears and I dabbed it away with my shoulder. ‘Where is this chapa stop’, niggled in my brain and I asked: “Are you sure you know where it is?”
“Yes sister,” nodding, “I know, just come” and he snaked through the crowds. After three litres of sweat now lying in my boots, we stopped next to a large chunk of white steel with four wheels which could have been a mini-bus at one stage.
“Malawi border,” shouted the driver walking up and down the pavement next to the wreck.
“Olá,” and I smiled, relieved to come to a rest, tipping the three youngsters who led the way with a “Saúde!” (Cheers, God bless)
The driver took my bag and stuffed it into the back on top of the other stuff. I say stuff, because it’s plastic bags, containers, bags of maize, boxes of canned fish, sugar and folded clothing. I found a seat next to the window, sticking my nose out, sure to have fresh air for the 2 hour journey. I slapped at the sudden sting in my neck underneath my sweat-soaked ponytail. I looked at the bloodspot on my palm. Damn. Mosquitoes. And the spray-on protection was in my bag, impossible to get to now.
Finally I was travelling the last leg in Mozambique to my destination in Blantyre, but the road leading to it was a nightmare. I didn’t think it was possible to find worse potholes than the ones I’ve been through already, and grabbed the seat in front of me, just to make sure I don’t get thrown out.
Each time the chapa stopped, vendors rushed close, clouding the windows and all I could see then were white teeth, black frizz and fruit. The girl next to me popped a 2M beer and offered it to me. ‘When in Rome…’ I thought, gave her the 35MT for it and gulped the 500ml down in a flash, replacing some of the fluid I lost earlier. The refreshing coolness relaxed me a little and I looked around inside, trying to follow the conversations that were leading to laughter and good spirits.
The road followed through villages: Moatize and Kaphiridzaje to Zobue. Realising that I didn’t have Malawian Kwacha to pay for the taxi from Mwanza to Blantyre, I turned to the girl next to me: “How much is 100MT in Malawi Kwacha?”
She shook her head, not understanding what I said and pointed to the guy next to her. He understood my question and took out a piece of paper and pen, and wrote the exchange rates down.
“Obrigarda. Do you have Malawi Kwacha here with you?”
He smiled, glad to make a small profit from this informal currency exchange.
I couldn’t get out of the minibus quick enough when it stopped at the Zobue border exiting Mozambique, tired of the potholes and stuffy air. I breezed through customs and threw the backpack over my shoulders, revived from the beer, ready to walk the 2km through no-mansland to the Mwanza border entering Malawi.
After a few hundred metres I heard a car coming up behind me. It slowed down and stopped next to me.
“Need a lift?”
I glimpsed at the driver of the blue Toyota Corolla.
“How far to the border post?”
“7km.”
“Seven! The book says 2km.”
He chuckled, shaking his head, “Get in, you can sit in the front,” and let the kid sitting there shuffle to the middle so I could get in. I threw my bag in the boot and settled next to the 4-year old, who was sucking on a fried corn.
“My name is Victor, where you from?” asked the driver.
“South Africa.”
“Oh South Africa hey? Really? Do you have a job for me?”
I laughed. “It’s difficult to find a job, even for me.”
Victor shook his head, “Eish, it’s a problem all over in Africa hey.”
I gawked through the window in the distance to the many cliffs surrounding the road and asked Victor: “This land here, between the border of Mozambique and Malawi, who does it belong to?”
“No one and everyone. Here people from Mozambique and Malawi walk and work together. We live here and make money from tourists like you passing through, selling curios, fruit and vegetables.”
I frowned, “Having your own set of rules then too?”
Victor laughed as he stopped at the Malawi border, “You can say that, yeah,” sticking the fee I gave him in his pocket without giving me the change. ‘Oh, that’s how it works then’, I thought.
Continue the story on Malawi side here: