A Little Piece of Heaven

My story resumes with a taste of home. A whiskey in hand, I reflected on days past from the warmth and security of Heaven Lodge in Chimanimani, Zimbabwe. Yes, truly a piece of Heaven after some of the domiciles we had been residing in recently. Mozambique lay behind us now though. It surely was not a dream, but so many of its qualities were too surreal to be believed. The poverty, landmines, potholes and pristine beaches all mixed together with extremely overt begging and acts of remarkable friendliness. Mozambique had been a lesson in living a larger life. Our final journey, ending  in a joyous dance of celebration upon reaching a petrol station, could not be squashed by a closed border for the night a few miles down the road. We still rode the high of triumph and another night in Mozambique could not disperse our success over the road from Hell. The morning sun offered us another example of the people’s warmth, with a man pointing out a nearby hostel where we could rest our head. Gratitude aside, we pushed on to a new country.

Zimbabwe held the promise of many things. My first brush with it, in Victoria Falls months earlier on the overland tour, had captivated me and I had been anticipating my return ever since.  First though, was a stop at Ann Bruce’s (Backpacker) House. Glory be, there was HOT, running water. Almost a distant memory, I reveled in this luxury. We also took in some game viewing, espying rhinoceros, giraffes, eland and ostrich, plus a magnificent sunset to round out the day. With Brett in our mind’s eye, we pushed on though. We assumed that we had time enough for a quick detour, before heading back up to Harare to meet up with him. This detour brought us to Chimanimani and a planned epic hike into the wilds of Zimbabwe. The whiskey warmed me up for the promised trek into Chimanimani National Park. I sat scribbling down my thoughts and adventures in a journal that was thankful for a sturdy table to be laid upon. With creative juices flowing, I was primed for adventure, but the lure of cards stole my resolve. I can never turn aside an invitation to the card table, so tucked my bottle under my arm and became friends with an English bloke and Kiwi couple. This night’s adventure was in runs, pairs and euchres. Modernity lured me in, but the mountains would find their revenge.

The Worst Road in Africa

Conversation stopped. The road engulfed us all. We held our breath, scanning for the pavement to re-appear in vain. I could not help, but glance out the window watching for remnants of other vehicles that perhaps did not fare as well on this stretch of road. I did not want to see fallen remains, but my brain refused to forget the stories of rain drenched tracks that sucked overland trucks and transports deep into the mire. I could not stop replaying tales of vehicles colliding when there was no other path to avoid it. There was no where to look to avoid the images.

The ruts in the road got steadily deeper. We began to hear a scraping noise as we rolled forward over the broken terrain. My heart beat a little harder, even as my breath slipped from me in whispers. The minutes turned into hours and still the road before us lay as a scathing reminder of a country nowhere near healed from the gaping wounds forced upon it. I was horrified at the appalling state of something that I took for granted back home; a simple roadway to take me from point A to point B. This thoroughfare was the main artery to get goods from the capitol and its harbor to the rest of the country. This road linked the two biggest cities in Mozambique. This road was broken beyond any reasonable expectation of repair and yet it was still imperative and  utilized. I sat in shock, unable to truly comprehend this failure of a system. The needle on our gas gauge slowly inched its way away from the large F, as the miles dragged behind us at a painstakingly slow pace.

When we could avoid it no longer, Arnie was gently eased to a halt. Normally one would stop a vehicle, turn it off, open the gas cap, refuel, replace the gas cap, pay for the fuel, then restart the vehicle and be on your merry little way. We had a couple of very distinct issues with normal on that day. For one, Arnie pretty much refused to start by the simple action of turning the key in the ignition. No, in general our vehicle relied heavily on good old muscle power to give it a big push to get it on its way again. With enough momentum built up, Arnie’s engine would fire to life. Stopped in the still muddy rut from a rain storm that was another’s memory, we pondered what to do. We could not hope or dream of pushing a kombi on the unforgiving path. Should we then leave the van running, so that we would not be stuck, but perhaps tempt the fates by fueling a running vehicle? Driver’s ed from years ago told me “no, no!” at the thought of this tactic, but our choices were slim. We might not even be able to get moving again regardless of whether the engine was running or not. The choice was made to avoid what seemed to be the worse fate and we poured in half of our precious petrol to the still running van. No pushing was required at this pit stop, but further down the road we would not be so lucky.

Yes, the road was not kind to our van or our spirits. We clung to our prayers that our lowly van would stick to the road. At points our prayers were answered and we were required to jump out and push Arnie back into motion again. With mud-splattered clothes, we climbed back into our caked kombi and continued our journey of hell. Another road side fill-up became imminent, but again the fates were tempted and we won. And still the trek pushed on.

With the last of our jerry can emptied into Arnie’s hold, we began to search for a break in the tire tracks of mud with earnest. The light of the day was waning and we wondered if perhaps we had pushed our luck too far this day. I forced myself to not think about what would happen if we ran out of fuel in these road ruts. It just could not happen. My hands throbbed as I clenched them ever tighter. The needle on the gas gauge bobbed closer to E. Panic pushed us as a tailwind. As unspoken dread  seemed to mount beyond reasonable bounds, someone noticed something. The incessant scraping noise became quieter, then finally stopped. The ruts were getting shallower. Before we could even throw out a hope, we scraped heavily on a lip of asphalt and were suddenly back on solid land. A cheer erupted from us all, as though we had beaten a fearsome dragon. It was quickly countered by another glance at the gas gauge though. We were not out of the woods yet. We knew we had to reach the T-junction. We had been told that there was a gas station there. Speed was of the essence now and we raced towards the finish line. Would we make it in time? Adrenaline gave us the lift that we hoped we be our saving grace. The needle inched ever closer to E.

There was no denying it. E was for empty and that was where the needle sat. Not certain how long we could fly on fumes, we began to glide down hills that we came upon. Tears almost sprang to my eyes, as a little village hove into site. Again we praised aloud the end of our flight, as we pulled up to the stop sign. Too soon we realized that with salvation at hand, we were still lost. Should we turn left or right? No gas stations were in sight and no signs pointed in the direction that would get us to the closest fill up. Could we make it. A light began to slowly seep red on the dash. Right would take us towards Beira, left the border. Our discussions decided right, but after a scant few miles we suspected our error. We did a wide U-turn and raced back West again. We coasted down hills and leaned forward bodily when mounting the next. Perspiration won as stress levels reached insurmountable heights inside our battered van. With a red light blazing on the dash, we ascended another hill and were met with the beautiful sight of a neon sign announcing GAS. Luck finally smiled upon us, as the station was still open when we drifted onto its beautiful lot. We laughed, hugged  and hooted in a crazy celebration of triumph. We had battled and won the challenge of the worst road in Africa.

Where the road ends ...

With the fresh light of day, we packed up our tents and had a quick breakfast to fill our bellies. The road ahead of us lay heavy on our minds. We had already seen many rough patches of road, so  wondered how bad this new stretch of road would actually be. Little prickles of uncertainty scratched at my brain, but with another new traveler joining us to help with the driving, it seemed that the destination was onward and upward.  We had no way to reach our fallen comrade Brett, so turned to the bumpy road ahead of us and focused on getting back to him however it took.

We had already seen a fair share of potholes on our journeys through Mozambique, but now they got wider, deeper and more frequent as our little Kombi chugged along the highway. The suggestion to stop for gas had been pushed at us heavily before we had left. Stories of buses and transport trucks getting stuck on the road, falling off the road or simply running out of gas along the road  were numerous. We had listened to the stories with growing trepidation and as we saw the petrol station grow in our sites, we paid heed and pulled off to fill our tank. We had even prepared by bringing a jerry can as well. It was filled to the brim and we prayed that it would be enough to see us through to the other side. The horror stories had suggested it was a must. I for one did not want to be left stranded to the elements in the middle of nowhere. Looking at a map, it appeared that no towns or villages would meet us till we reached the end of Highway 1. By all accounts, it sounded like it would be a tight squeeze to make it that far. There were no other roads to take though.

We pulled away from the gas station with  a full tank hoping we were ready to conquer the divide. The road continued to degenerate. Soon we found ourselves swerving all over the road to avoid the ever-growing potholes. Whole sections of pavement slid deep into gullies. Our speed dropped, as we feared the unknown gaps in the road ahead. At points we crawled to a slither to bump into and through more manageable obstructions. Conversation become sparse and was relegated to sightings and suggestions of how to manoeuvre the road. Windows were cracked enough to dispel the heavy breath in the van.  Dust filled our lungs instead.

Just when we thought that the road could get no worse, we eased to a stop. We had just finagled a particularly nasty stretch that saw us careening from one side of the road to the other and scraping our exhaust pipe in the process of avoiding especially deep drops in the roadway. Now as we surveyed the road ahead of us, we began to realize why the warnings had come so thick and fast. A mere metre in front of the van the road ceased to exist. The asphalt road stopped. The path that lay in front of us was two rivets in the mud. No concrete could be seen as far as our eyes could stretch. This was the main highway. The only highway leading from the capital to Beira, the second largest city in Mozambique. We would have to descend into this trench, if we were to get to the other side. I was speechless. There was no other way, but forward. If we met another vehicle on this road, we would be in a bad way. I tried not to let my mind dwell on this fact, as we slowly inched Arnie into the tire tracks that would take us out of this country. If we made it out the other end.

Adventures off the Grid

Another day, another beach.  I wished all the goodness of my heart to the beautiful people I had met in Praia de Tofo, but it was time to move on. We headed North on the only good road in Mozambique and found shelter in Vilanculos. The road was getting progressively worse. We had weaved all over the road avoiding potholes that would have ripped axles, wheels and whatever it could have snatched, right off. We pulled into a little compound by the ocean to call home for a few days. The sight of an outdoor shower in the middle of the walled compound brought a smile to my face. As we had been camping by the sea, with no facilities to speak of in Praia de Tofo, a good scrubbing was in order. On checking in, it was suggested by the people that ran the camp to shower in the afternoon. A morning shower would be cold, as the large bucket was filled every morning. By afternoon, the water would have had a chance to warm up, therefore sun, soap and  sun-warmed water would cleanse our bodies and souls. Point noted. I luxuriated in a warm, sunlit soak later that afternoon and felt like a new woman.

First though, we stowed belongings in our quickly erected tents and went off to explore our new home. Again the locals seemed warm and friendly, with smiles offered from all we met. The charms of Mozambique were certainly working their magic on me. Unfortunately, other factors were working on Brett again though. Our first night there was a sleepless one for him, with little sleep attained by the rest of our travelling band, as we watched him writhe in pain. It was obvious that the kidney stones had not worked their way out yet. He needed to get medical attention. There was a small clinic in the village, but this would not be enough to help Brett.  The problem that we quickly discovered  was that there was not even a telephone here. The closest phone was in Inhambane, which was where we had left the day before; a full day’s drive away. We scrambled around town trying to figure out a course of action and discovered a small airstrip. Our hopes were dashed to discover a flight out, but full up. To charter a flight to Johannesburg would cost $1500 US and without a phone to call Brett’s health insurance company to get them to pay for the flight, it was a moot point. We did not have the cash between us to pay for it and that was the only method of payment they accepted. Brett could barely stand and had trouble catching a full breathe. It was decided that we would get him on the bus back down to Maputo where he could catch a flight to Johannesburg. Miki and I gave him money enough to get him there and prayed that he would be able to withstand the journey that led to salvation.

With teary eyes, we watched the bus depart headed South. In the hurried rush to get our ailing travelling companion attended to, we had made a rough plan. Brett would take the bus to Maputo, then continue on a flight to Johannesburg. We knew there that he would be able to find modern medical assistance to tend to his ills. Once recovered, he would make his way back up to Harare, Zimbabwe where we would reconnect. In the mean time, Miki and I, along with Oliver and a new Aussie travelling companion by the name of Rob, would make our way North. The dreaded highway towards Beira would be tackled and we would veer off towards Zimbabwe and eventually Brett.

Praying that Brett would be recovered soon, but knowing that we would have a stretch before we saw him again, we tried to distract ourselves by taking in the sights. We bumped into travellers that we had met back in Tofo, and they convinced us to take in a dhow excursion to Magaruque.  A dhow was described to us as a local sailboat. While it sounded enchanting, the day was not. The dhow was absolutely ancient and very tippy. The day was sunny and beautiful, but hot. We found shelter under beach umbrellas at a hotel in the middle of nowhere, but got run off by a very angry hotel manager. The next closest patch of shade did not accommodate the seven of us very well, so we moved on to snorkelling. It was magnificent, but we returned to our dhow captains dehydrated and severely scraped by coral, only to find that we had misunderstood our arranged meeting time. We had thought they had said 3pm, but were informed by the angry men that we were supposed to have returned at 13:00. Oops. With a new experience under our belts, we bid adieu to the day. A rough road lay ahead of us and we would need a good sleep to give us the strength to withstand the next leg of our journey.

Turning Lager into Water

As I sat interpreting the life of this man and his son, I sipped on the cold beer that I had just purchased at the dilapidated stand in what posed as a village square. A beautiful old hotel was the backdrop for my setting, but it had been abandoned long ago. It seemed just like so many other  aspects of Mozambique. All forgotten to the world.

The cold amber liquid poured down my hot throat, quenching the fire that simmered there. The beer was a luxury that I had allowed myself on this scorching day, as we lazed beside the ocean. I sipped at it, then returned to the writing in my journal. A shadow fell across the beach in front of me and I looked up to spy the man that was gracing the pages of my writing again. He had returned from delivering the fish we had offered him home. Now his gestures told me of another want. He had a thirst as well. I handed him the bottle expecting him to take a long pull at the contents. I was mistaken.

I sat up, perturbed at his retreating figure. He had walked away! He had taken my almost full beer and departed.   I had been willing to share, but still wanted more of the lager that had only begun to quench my thirst. With a sigh, I acquiesced that perhaps it was a luxury that he needed more. Something that he did not often get a chance to afford or enjoy. I chalked it down to a lesson learned that in this land, perhaps when you gave something to someone they kept it until they have had enough, then they too pass it on. Different lands hold different cultures.

Before I had a chance to think much beyond the incidence that had just occurred, I spied the man coming back again. To my surprise and delight, he carried with him a pail of water. It was a pail of fresh, clean drinkable water. He was returning the favor that I had offered to him, unbeknownst to myself. One good turn deserves another. As we were not camping in anything akin to a formal campground, we had to walk down to the village square to get our water at a communal tap like anyone else. It was a good sized walk and alien activity to our foreign ways. This man’s gift of water was worth much more than the humble beer that I had shared with him. My soul was uplifted by his simple act of sharing and kindness that I had not expected. I felt small in his presence of generousity, but awed by the beauty of it. Here was a spirit of sharing and community. Items were freely shared amongst the people and it was an understood thing amongst everyone. The beauty of Mozambique lifted to the top of my destinations in this simple, yet unforgettable moment. I was in love.

The Eyes of a Nation

With Brett walking, talking and breathing freely again, we had done some cursory investigations of the city of Maputo.  It lay heavy on my soul though. Maputo’s fall from grace  seemed to have left all of its inhabitants affected, including myself. I begged for a change in scenery. I felt somehow scarred by the visions of children living in such abject poverty. My station in life left me above the reminders of civil war, disease and destitution that seemed to be everywhere. I could not take it anymore and we all agreed to move on. The sad eyes watched us leave the capital city and remained in my mind’s eye for many days to come. I felt hopeless and needed to cleanse myself from the sorry state that I likened Mozambique to be in. Pushing off, we hugged the coast and battled the currents North.

We chugged into Xai Xai and set up our tents. The Indian Ocean was large as life beside us and we relaxed some to be out of the city. Little markets were plentiful with women dressed in traditional sarongs sitting behind piles of bananas and little tomatoes. A bar graced our campground that we stayed at and I managed to chat over a beer with a woman who had recently emigrated from Namibia. She found it too quiet for her liking in Xai Xai and wished for more excitement. I far preferred it to our last stop in Maputo, but understood her need for something to do. The children’s smiles bloomed large on all the little faces we saw. While I could not forget, I managed to let go of some of the horrors of Maputo and began to enjoy Mozambique and its beauty.

We spent a few nights in Xai Xai, then moved on to Praia de Tofo. Here is where the blues of the ocean in front of me stole my heart. The pure white sand beach beckoned to me and I could not resist. I battled the scorching heat coming from the silky sands to plunge into the salty waters. It was heavenly to gently paddle in the warm waves that ebbed in and out. While it was too hot to sit in the direct sunlight, I did lay my towel down to soak up the pristine beauty of Mozambique’s coastline. I wondered how there could be so much suffering in such a beautiful place. Was it the heat that made people’s demeanours turn hostile? Did my colder clime make the people more prone to huddle together  and therefore more temperate in nature?

My musings were interrupted by the appearance of a boy in front of me. He said nothing, but followed my movements with his eyes. He appeared tiny, but his eyes seemed huge. They held all that Mozambique was. I could not resist and snapped a picture of him. His silence reminded me that I did not know his language or experiences, but he was beautiful none-the-less. We did not live in the same world, but could inhabit the same moment.

The child’s father materialized and smiled shyly at us as well. While English was not his first language, we managed to understand from him that his son was four years old. Miki and I  gave them some barracuda that we had dined on the night before and their appreciation was evident. I tried not to stare, but could not get over the size of the boy. We had seen children in Xai Xai that had claimed to be between 12 and 16. To me they had looked more like between 6 and 12. I pondered  again on what it was that formed these people the way they were. Did lack of vitamins and proper nutrition stunt the children’s growth so much or did the atmosphere of war factor in as well? I was supposing and questioning, but could not truly know the answers. I had not lived here, breathed here or grown up here. I could only guess at their lives paths. I don’t know if I really wanted to know the answers.

Arnie's Carnage

White sacrifices against

a blue streak of speed; Arnie.

Fluttering wings gone,

parted on our altar.

Some up and over, but…

            A splattered windshield

            We have.

Ohh, delicate and soft

 they look from this side;

That side, fluttering

stopped on a grill of one hundred.

            Carnage.

            Repentance done.

A lifted wiper releasing

The lifeblood; body

less white than

the green smear;

             your reminder

            Remainder …demeanor

Sorry thoughts do not clean our

Windshield of splashed destruction.

Only a gas station attendant who

Tosses away the waste

To the ground;

 a return.

Wings to earth

A clean slate

ready to protect us

in faith

from gritty smiles wake

Again.

Bang. smear

Teach them to Fish

Another grubby hand snaked out in front of me.

“Five Rand sister!” his voice rang out. “1000meticals. Enough for bread. I am so hungry missus!”

I turned away mumbling, “sorry.”

While I could have produced the change the boy begged for, I could not fix the state of the nation. There were so many here that pleaded for hand-outs. I did not have the money to feed them all. It was over-whelming to see poverty on such a level. Everywhere you turned pathetic  little hands were jammed into your face. Only this morning a boy stopped in front of me in a market we were wandering through. He did not say a word, only pointing to his mouth. Perhaps he could not speak, as his mouth was a misshapen gash. Whether it was the effect of polio, which seemed to survive and thrive here, or perhaps a misadventure with a land mine, I did not know. An image of a macabre jack o’ lantern struck me, as his eyes demanded sympathy. He got the sympathy, but not in the form of money. His errant few teeth and broken lips were another example of the horrors that this country was trying to survive through. It sickened me. How could life have turned so wrong on such a scale? This deformed child screamed of a whole nation contorted by the ugliness of war, greed and misuse. How could one person, or one handful of change make a difference? It could not. Time needed to pass to help heal the wounds so prevalent everywhere. Aid organizations were there offering what they could, but at times it just seemed that they encouraged the need to beg. The people could just sit back and expect that money would be handed to them. I often felt like my white skin was akin to a beacon of riches, booming out my affluence. Just the fact of my presence there screamed of the wealth I had in comparison to the poorest of the poor amongst this shattered world. I walked with all my possessions on my back, but still I had more wealth than most of these people would ever see. My plane ticket home was equivalent to freedom, tantamount to innumerable fortunes in their world. I turned away from him and his horrors with  a sadness that could not be ignored.

While the phenomenal poverty at every turn was a struggle to process, we did try to offer some small alms. A group of children were given some rice. A man that sold Miki a batik, also got our leftover rice salad. Another group of children were offered some slightly stale bread, that we improved with the presence of jam. We tended to live on a small budget ourselves, but we knew that our wealth was more than any of these poor children could hope to have. Our small kindnesses were met with broad smiles and extreme friendliness that did something to warm my chilled heart. Skirting monstrous potholes that looked to measure 6 feet deep and wide at times, I hugged myself and offered blessings again that I had the privilege to have been born where I was. Canada might as well have been on another planet, for the comparisons I could make. I took in the tattered tarps  and scrap lumber that held together market stalls. I processed what I could and took strength from my travelling companions. Brett strode along with a smile on his face. His recent ailment was washed from his face and his countenance held his regular good-will again. I relaxed in the presence of his faith in the world and tried to see hope for this country that was ridding itself of landmines, war, and yesterday’s ugliness. We had to look to the future with faith that life would get better, life would go on.

A proverb struck me as we skimmed across a world not our own;

“Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and feed him for a lifetime”.

These people had fish, but were only just learning how to fish again. I prayed the process would be fruitful for this besotted country. 

A Grain of Sand

I went through my ablutions in preparation for bed; teeth, face, hands, eyes, check! I donned my PJs and looked forward to an early night to bed after a rocky introduction to Mozambique. Brett came into Miki and my’s room complaining of pains in his side. He was looking for anything that we might have that would take the edge off of his  throbbing woes. Miki and I dug in our packs and produced whatever we could from our personal pharmacies. He swallowed a handful of painkillers we offered him and headed to bed, hoping that they would take effect soon and allow him some sleep. The word hospital was mentioned, but he passed it off as something to look into in the morning if necessary.

In fact, the painkillers did not do a thing. Brett wiggled and flopped on his bed, but the pain just got worse. Ten minutes after I had turned the light off, Brett was knocking at our door again. He was ashen. The pain was worse. He wanted to go to the hospital; Now. We scrambled back into our clothes and hurried to the van with vague directions to the hospital. Luck was not on our side this evening though. We hustled into the van, but Arnie refused to budge. The van would not turn over at all. We pushed it half-way down the street huffing and puffing all the way, with Brett writhing in agony in the driver’s seat. Our commotion caught the interest of several passersby and Miki managed to flag down another motorist for assistance. She scooped Brett out of one vehicle and into another and they were gone. Oliver and I were left to tend to our inept vehicle. There were others that had noticed our plight though, and we soon had a gang of street kids help us push Arnie back to the motel for the night. Of course, their ministrations came with a fee and we found ourselves ripped off handing over R10 and 50 000 metical (it should have been more like 5-10 000MT). In the grand scheme of things, it equated to a pittance, but Oliver argued with the youths, as I sprinted off in the direction of the hospital.

Now as you might recall, we had just arrived in Maputo that afternoon. We had wandered around the area surrounding our Pensao a bit, but I was far from familiar with the city. A lone, white female sprinting through a run-down city after dark is probably not the smartest plan to undertake, but my vision was clouded with Brett’s tortured visage. After losing myself momentarily, I miraculously found the hospital. The next step was tracking down Brett within the walls of the hospital, but that too was achieved. When I finally came upon Brett, the doctors had hooked him up to an IV. The problem; kidney stones. The doctor explained that the hiking that he had done in Mbabane had probably served to dehydrate him, which aggravated the stones. He administered pain killers and explained to us about kidney stones. They are often fairly small and found in the urethra. They can be similar in size to a grain of sand, but their power is much more potent. The doctor explained that kidney stones are one of the most painful experiences one can go through, akin to heart attacks and giving birth. The pain comes from the crystal-like stone passing through the urinary tract system. Most times the only thing that can be done for someone suffering is to hydrate them to help the stone pass more freely. Ultimately, the only solution is for the stone to pass. That required time. It was advised that Brett spend the night in hospital to rehydrate and monitor his pain level. After watching Brett relax with the effects of medication, Miki and I headed for home. We would be back in the morning.

Crumbling at its Seams

Finally, the day came that our passports were ready to be picked up. They came back to us with brand spanking new visas for Mozambique in them. Relief at having our precious lifelines back in own little hands, had us scrambling to pack for new climes. Swaziland had been a port of call that served its purpose, but now we were done with it and on to the next country. We headed to the border and confidently handed over our passports to gain entry into this new land. Fearing reproof at the border with our faulty ignition switch, we prayed for co-operation from Arnie. It was mercifully granted. He sputtered to life and soon enough we were past the scowls inherent at so many border posts and into my fifth country in Africa; Mozambique!

Mozambique is on the South-Eastern edge of the African continent. It is bordered by Swaziland, that we had just left, the Indian Ocean, that we were headed towards, Zimbabwe, that we would head to when it was time to leave, South Africa (been there too), Malawi, Tanzania and Zambia. It had been a colony of Portugal from 1505 to 1975, so it was not surprising that the  official language was Portuguese. We hoped that we would find some people that spoke English, but expected to hear many of the local dialects as well such as Swahili, Sena, Makhuwa, Ndau and Shangaan. Whether we actually heard any of them or not, I can only conjecture, but suffice it to say that we managed to survive in English.

We drove along roads that seemed to speak of a lack of money for maintenance. Swaziland and South Africa by comparison had seemed both clean and organized. Here, potholes littered the roadway and I was reminded of the fact that we were headed towards the capital, Maputo, on the main thoroughfare from the border. As we neared the city, our progress slowed. I put the debris that we passed down to outer slums, but the further we drove, the less likely that became. I was shocked and stunned. Burnt out vehicles sat up on “blocks” with not a scrap of rubber on the tires, glass in the windows or paint on the frames. Empty lots filled with rubble were interspersed by small businesses, as well as many crumbling and abandoned buildings. The pot holes got bigger. As I stared wide-eyed out my window, I caught glimpses of the city’s former grandeur, before the Portuguese fled for their lives with their money in tow. It seemed to cry out that it had been the belle of the ball in its hey-day, when the city went by the title of Lourenço Marques. Those days had passed twenty years before though and the subsequent Civil Wars, left the capital on its knees both structurally and economically. This is where we would spend the night. I prayed that things would look better in the morning. We found the Pensao Nini, tried to ignore the cockroaches and filth, and attempted to leave our minds open to what Mozambique had to offer. A beer sipped at a local café made the world seem marginally better, as did our sustaining meal of banana sandwiches. Night encroached on our first day in Mozambique and we headed for bed.