(Im the guy on the left)
Pemba, Mozambiaque...19.June.2011
“Its because this is Africa. We are poor.”
The government telecom manager's explanation for the fact that his office could not give me .60$ change for a dollar (on a .40$ transaction), despite the fact that we were sitting in an air conditioned computer lab inside of a million-dollar building. I was absolutely stunned by this lame-ass rationale employed to excuse bad business practices and a simple laziness (he had change in his pocket the entire time) and was very vocal in my response.
“Life has been very hard here.”
Burundian refugee who cut my hair in Ihla de Mozambique, explaining his plight over the last 14 years, which has led him from Burundi>Rwanda>Congo>Tanzania>Malawi>Mozambique, symbolic of the plight of the victims of Central Africa's multitudes of conflicts and governmental manipulations of refugees for financial and political gain.
The day begins with a restless sleep, usually the case when I am taxed with an early-morning wakeup; and today's, at 4:03am, certainly fit the bill. For some reason here in Mozambique, the public transportation options (chapas, already explained), tend to pick an ungodly hour to depart in the morning for their daily transit runs; usually done so they can get to the destination, shop, relax, and then turn around and come back for the late afternoon run....Accidentally slamming the door to Ruby's behind me, sealing the last 9 days in a cloak of positive memory, setting out, once again, for the utter unknown of Northern Mozambique travel. The dark early hours passed in a sleepy blur; sliding in the mud, covering one knee with muck, cursing the timing, why could this not have happened in the last 9 days instead of on a day where a shower was many many hours distant?? Walking the length of the island, streetlights illuminating the way, the early morning muzzein's call to prayer, witnessing the faithful stepping out for their early-morning ritual. The first attempted extortion, 4:30am, a new personal record: the driver of the truck over the causeway, seizing his monopoly on the route at the hour and the fact that my disheveled, bag loaded self obviously had no other choice other than to walk the 1.5 mile causeway, trying to charge me at the very least 3x the going rate (I settled at 2x and some harsh words); arriving at the ramshackle coastal village, back on the African continent, a renewed taste of the roughness from which Ihla was such a refuge. Children waking up behind a tattered white tarp, on the ground, crowded on the bare concrete slab, in the early morning chill, as I stand, always trying appear non-chalant, obviously a stranger in a strange land, a role played all too often in this life. Yet another attempted extortion, by the same driver, who almost drives off with me half hanging out of the back of the truck after some shady dealing and a wrong destination to which I would have backtracked considerably and paid considerably more; jumping off the back, in the still dark morning, somehow getting my bags to follow along with some choice words for this lovely early morning compadre, and into the passenger seat of another waiting chapa, estatic at my timing, not yet knowing that I would be sitting in this lucky position for 2 hours before finally departing for a 40 minute ride, to be dumped into a pickup for another 45 minute ride, to be left on the side of the road in Nimiala, the stereotypically terrible armpit of African travel, a filthy, dusty, hot road-junction-cum-town. Heat, dust, dirt, frantic coke and banana sellers chasing down trucks and anything else that moved, the vehicles passing all outrageously overpacked with bodies, in this I stood, trying to keep composure, trying not to lose heart and car and truck passed by, not one for hours heading even in the direction that I needed to go, after being promised busses and cars would be coming in “10, maybe 15 minutes, of course!” Trying to hitch, trying to score a badly needed ride, which simply did not happen as the hours rolled past, my legs grew numb, my mind weary from being gang-laughed-at (as one writer said, every country has its assholes). Finally succumbing, sitting down on my dusty pack in the dirt, defeated, deflated, and then the smiles of some strangers, empathy for the plight of a fellow traveler, those who would only know this place, a perspective wedged into my weary mind. A young boy, quite ragged, sat down on the dirt a few feet away just to look at me; at first I looked away, but then over to him, and he gave a simple smile, which opened my heart, made me forget for a minute the hours of hard travel yet to come, the lack of coffee that was making my mind hurt, the dust that had coated every crevice of my being. And finally, right then, an absolute strike of brilliance: not an overloaded, death-trap flatbed; not a packed, cracked-windshield, stereo blaring chapa; but a Mercedes Benz mini bus, 4 passengers total in a 15 seat van, Pemba Dive Lodge logo emblazoned on the side, a vehicle that would not be stopping ever 15 ft to Pemba to drop off and pick up, a complete floating oasis...What luck...4 brilliant, fast, music-filled hours later, and im back in the dust, on the side of the road once again, in the end-of-the-road town of Pemba, Northern Mozambique's answer to Hong Kong, a city in name only, a provincial backwater of the first degree. Trying to smooth-talk my way into the government guesthouse, the governor's friend's pad, reserved for the Frelimo (the ruling party) hotshots who fly in from Maputo for the night. And here I am, ensconced in the finest 4th rate craftsmanship possible; air-con but no working water; leather armchairs and gaudy headboards but windows that dont shut; a bucket bath and a bathroom door that won't close; a manager trying to convert me to his Evangelical church, and a locked door, a bed, a book, and my pen....another day in Africa....
20.June.2011 Pemba, Mozambique's
A soft breeze breaks through the already searing, sweat inducing breeze; it is 730am, but the sun already feels like mid-day here in Northern Mozambique's provincial capital city, the sleepy backwater of Pemba, town on the sea. It took an hour to find a coffee this morning; walking the broken sidewalks, “Buen Dia” as frequently encountered as the holes in the pavement, the smiling, laid back locals exuding a great warmth, unexpected, but much welcomed. A benefit of being in such a backwater town where only one real intersection exists is that everything of note lies within a 50ft radius; the airline office (check), the pharmacy (next), the internet cafe (still closed), the Frelimo office for some free political posters (ditto, come on), and the Pao Shop (bread in Portuguese), where I just scored my first coffee in 2 days, a taste of heaven. Yesterday I was forced to resort to the only source of caffeine available universally in the world, Coke, for my caffeine kick, a barely suitable substitute that left me cranky until bedtime. The little thing, the details...like the guy who installed the window bar right in front of the window hinge, so the window will have no chance of ever closing, despite that tropical heat and the air conditioner. Two days, and then my time here in Mozambique will be up, onto Dar....
