Day 238: Lion’s Head

Things I wanted to do in Cape Town but could not justify going even more over budget than I already am included repelling off of Table Mountain, cage diving with sharks, and eating at famous (some fancy) restaurants. Instead of spending a ridiculous amount of money doing one of those things on our last afternoon in Cape Town, we climbed Lion’s Head for free. Repelling and cage diving will simply have to wait until next time.

After a quick drive to the base of Lion’s Head, we began our climb before the sun got too hot. What was cool about the climb was how it circled around Lion’s Head as you went up so you got different views of Cape Town, Table Mountain, and beautiful views of the ocean as climbed up and around. You also went in and out of the sun and shade so when you got too hot, suddenly you were walking in the shade and were able to cool off.

It turned out to be quite a lovely climb and I regretted (only slightly) not scheduling more time for the trek up. Close to the top, we were told it was another forty minutes to get to the very top. Forty minutes Andrew didn’t think we had. We cut our climb short and headed back down to have enough time to look for some street art I saw from the bus the previous day, get to the airport, return the car, and check in.

Going on a scavenger hunt for street art in a city you do not know the lay of the land for, and you left your bus route behind at the hostel turned into a little adventure. I knew roughly where the two paintings were, and Andrew pulled up Google to help navigate our way there. A few circles later, I was able to hop out and snap a few shots before we picked up our bags and headed to the airport for our first of three flights to Istanbul!

Day 237: Cape Town hop on – hop off bus tour day 2

Our friend Hanfred put us in touch with his sister, who currently lives in Cape Town. We arranged to have brunch with her in the morning (again feeling so spoiled knowing friends or friends and family of friends around the world). Ilze was so wonderful to meet and graciously fielded our questions about South Africa while we tried to fill her in on life was (is?) like in South Korea. She said it helped her understand/know more of her brother’s life in South Korea and we all exchanged hugs and love before we parted ways downtown to check out Green Market Square before jumping back on the Cape Town hop on – hop off bus tour to jump off at the Imizamo Yetho Township.

Green Market Square wasn’t my favorite market in the world. It felt pretty touristy, but it was a pretty day and I loved looking at all of the masks at this one stall. The vendor was nice to talk to, but I bit my tongue instead of telling him his masks were ridiculously overpriced and how silly it would be to buy a mask from Zambia in South Africa. I’ll just wait until I go to Zambia…

Imizamo Yetho (meaning “our combined effort” in Xhosa) Township is right in the middle it seems of the upper class suburb of Hout Bay (where we stopped yesterday at the port). When we arrived, our guide immediately pointed out where the upper class lived and told us that no white person lived in the township. It was established in the early 90’s where authorities allowed shacks to be built. Because the black residents could not afford to buy houses in Hout Bay, the only choice was to build these houses in the Township. When I point blankly asked our guide if that was strange- that there was no mixing, she shrugged and said it was just how things were done. The question of “Is it strange?” isn’t one that is necessarily asked. My eyes were wide and she laughed, nodding her head “yes” when I asked if many people ask the same question.

We learned that many of the people who live in the township either drive mini-vans (shared taxis) or work as domestic servants. The weekly wage for a domestic servant is the equivalent of $50.00. That’s right. $10.00 a day. I shook my head in disbelief. She said that it’s not enough money to do anything other than eat, and for the men: drink. a lot. over the weekends. Many women have more children so they can receive additional government stipends (per child) but this is a rather small amount, and even our guide shook her head at the disconnect.

Obviously there is a lot more to this situation, but how a country can get away with such a small minimum wage for certain fields that only seem to employ one race is beyond me. I asked what the township thinks about tourists walking through, if it was frowned upon. Our guide assured us visitors are welcomed. The township receives the entrance fee. Jobs are provided to its residents. And most importantly, our guide insisted, it creates awareness to those outside of South Africa which she hoped would help facilitate change.

Slum Tourism is disputed. (Read more about it here) I get it. We’ve been on a slum tour in Mumbai. I’ve photographed slums in South Korea. We’ll probably see more throughout the rest of our travels. It’s not easy to see. It’s not easy to share, but I think it’s necessary. With this trip, and this blog, I wanted to point out that tourism and travel is not always rainbows and unicorns. It’s an unbelievable experience. I’ve learned more about myself and my partner and our relationship than I could have ever imagined. Cape Town is beautiful, South Africa is a wonderful country, but it is not without conflict and parts that aren’t as pretty. And before you get your panties in a twist- I’m not saying that my country is any better. Because, it’s not. I know that. But I’m here now, and I’m not a big fan of inequality on any level.

We stopped in this little convenient store, our guide knew these boys and their mother. She wanted to say hello. She told me that they loved their picture being taken and sure enough, after I would take a picture, this little man in front would giggle with absolute glee seeing his photo on the LCD screen. We continued on, and I should have slowed our guide down a bit. I was having a hard time juggling photos and video at the same time. When we are in impoverished areas, we tend to only use one camera as a small attempt to not be THOSE American tourists, you know what I mean?

We were told “The Irish” built these houses for the first inhabitants of the Township. Now they are worth a crazy amount of money (I forget the exact amount now) but we were aghast at the idea of anyone else being able to buy the house and wondering why WOULD they buy it when they could live outside of the Township for so much less. We walked around the outside of the township back down to the road. I asked how often people leave the Township. Our guide told us that people simply didn’t leave the township. We waited for the bus watching a soccer game across the street. Their uniforms looked professional and the field looked immaculate. Our guide told us the field was sponsored by the government and the uniforms were sponsored buy businesses- townships played other townships. I didn’t understand the disconnect between the beautiful lawn and the set of three toilets we passed within the Township that did not use running water and looked worse than any kind of toilet I had seen throughout this trip.

The government can sponsor a field, but not toilets? Again, I know there are a lot of missing gaps for me as a visitor, but I wondered how many white South Africans have been through a Township. What would they think? Would they be ashamed of what they saw? When we went through the Apartheid Museum, it was noted that during the 1960’s, one white South African woman saw a “Free Mandela” sign painted on the side of a building. She was so naive that she thought a ‘Mandela’ was a type of food. I wonder if there is similar naivety today.

Back on the bus, we drove past unbelievably nice houses built into the sea-side cliffs. Personal funiculars for each house so residents didn’t have to walk up flights and flights of stairs to get home. Beautiful pristine windows overlooking the ocean. Whitewashed walls. Nice cars parked in private spaces. It was a bit mind-blowing after walking through the township.

Oh right, and then Andrew got mad at me for letting our pamphlet blow away (by accident of course).

The weather had turned a bit (as is often warned it does in South Africa) and clouds started rolling in, covering Table Mountain and the ‘Twelve Apostles’ as we made our way back to our hostel for one last night in Cape Town.

Day 232: Knysna

We woke up to a lovely breakfast spread and then jumped in the car to get our tire checked out at the local mechanic. After the tire was checked out, we were told the inside rim was bent. He would pound it out for us. I shook my fist at “First Car Rental” and vowed that next time I rent a car and am told “It won’t be a problem at all” I will get a written statement with a signature. Because, what if something happened?!

After our car was good to go, we went for a drive around town. We started with a lookout point that gave different views of the city, the lagoon, and the ocean below, drove through an area of fancy vacation houses and then walked around downtown. We slipped in a few thrift stores. We tasted oysters (Andrew’s first time). And we picked up some meat for the brai (South African for barbeque) at our hostel that night.

Driving into Knysna we passed a rather extensive shanty town just outside of the city. Driving through the town to look at the fancy mansions or just smaller houses along the water reenforced our perceptions that there is a continued racial divide in South Africa. The shanty houses we drove past were minimal. stacked on top of each other. cringe-worthy. Not ten (I’m guessing here) miles away were huge houses that were seemingly empty. Vacation houses, Andrew suggested. None of them even looked lived in. A few maids (black people, in uniform, of course) were seen beating dust out of a rug or taking out the trash, but it was apparent that only white people lived here.

When we walked through town, a few people stopped to ask us for money. Andrew and I have tried to avoid handing out money. If we gave everyone something, we wouldn’t be able to continue this trip. That’s why we’ve tried to volunteer along the way, or give back in a other ways. It’s not always easy. I’ve caved and bought something from a child (or remember my five minute massage?). Andrew has given some small change here and there… It has affected us differently and at different times.

Whenever someone would stop us here in Knysna, they would hone in on Andrew. I’m not sure why. Sometimes they go for me. Sometimes they go for him. Usually, we try to be as polite as we can while not slowing down. As soon as you stop, it can be so much harder to get away. We don’t always know when it’s a scam or not either. Quite simply, it can be a toss up.

Today, a man came up to us a few blocks away from the grocery store we just visited and said something very softly to Andrew. The man practically ignored me, not in a rude way, more like one man talking to another man. I kept walking, figuring Andrew would eventually get away and catch up. I waited around the corner. and waited. and waited. Eventually, Andrew caught up and told me he needed to go back to the store for more bread.

“Is that all you gave him?” I asked slightly surprised that he gave him some of our dinner, yet also slightly surprised that all he gave him was our bread. We wanted to get so much more from the store- more vegetables, more cheese, some Nandos sauce, some ice-cream- but decided we didn’t NEED any of it, and in the spirit of trying to get our budget back down, we walked away from everything extra we wanted. Andrew looked a little shook up, but I didn’t press it, and we stopped in another store to pick up a cheap bottle of wine to go with dinner.

Which again, felt a little wrong. Andrew had just given away some bread to a man who clearly (unless it was indeed a scam) needed it. And we were still able to walk into a store and get a $4.00 bottle of wine. While we were in there we overheard a white South African girl calling friends asking what they were going to drink that night, asking if she should get more bottles or not. She circled the store, spotting her uncle’s label of wine and then complained (loudly) how expensive it was. Then with her two friends in tow, she ponied up to the counter, talking (still way too loudly) on her phone the entire time about their plans for that evening, and then walked out with two boxes of various wines. I could tell Andrew was uncomfortable. I could see it written on his face how bad he felt having talked to the man on the street, having only given away some bread, buying some drinks for himself, and then having to listen to a young, rich, white, South African girl unintentionally advertise how wealthy she was in comparison to the older, poor, black man outside.

We walked back to the hostel. Andrew told me the man had come on a boat from the Sudan and he was trying to find other Sudanese people that he knew about in Knysna, but all of the truck drivers were asking him for 100 Rand (basically $10.00) and he didn’t have any money. He said he hadn’t eaten in two days and he couldn’t find any ‘familia’ around to help him. Andrew said that the man was in tears, he looked really scared. His voice started shaking and Andrew could tell he was trying not to cry, but he couldn’t help it. Andrew admitted that it could have been a scam, but if it was it was a damn good one. He had never seen someone look so scared and helpless before. I could tell Andrew was conflicted, wondering if he should have given the man more or if he should be satisfied for what he did give him or what if it WAS a scam…

Tired from a restless (slightly sleepless) night in the hostel, I had planned to take a nap. Andrew paced back and forth, clearly still upset as he thought about the man on the street.

“Do you want to lay down with me?” I asked, knowing that would make me feel better if I was him as I climbed into my bottom bunk that I couldn’t even sit up in. He nodded and climbed in after me. We’ve gotten remarkably good at squeezing into these bunks that are entirely too small for two, let alone when one of us is so tall. I wrapped my arms around him and fell asleep. I woke up to him still in my bunk looking at his computer, telling me he was going to run back to the store for more bread. When he returned, I asked if he saw the man on the street again. He didn’t, and perked up over a beer and a brai that night.

Day 231: East London to Knysna

Clear skies! Finally! We hit the road early and halfway through the morning, pulled over to see how Andrew would do behind the wheel. Aside from a few start then stall then start again moments, he did great!

I thought the houses along the way were so beautiful, dotting the landscape of green and brown with bright punches of color. We rolled into Knysna towards dusk and were given directions to Mitchell’s Brewery for a beer tasting before we called it a night.

Day 230: a rainy day in East London

Our gracious host suggested we stay another day because of the weather. We weren’t planning to, but then I woke up exhausted. That kind of exhaustion that courses through both your arms, your legs, your head, your everything. It was raining again, so I knew it would just be me driving again, and I knew I wasn’t up for it. We decided to stay another day. Also, Andrew needed to practice driving.

We headed to the mall (in the rain) to get a wire to hook up an ipod to the car stereo, eat lunch, and practice driving. Andrew very rarely gets frustrated, so when he does, I find it very entertaining. It also puts me in check on how entertaining it must be for him when I get frustrated. He kept demanding when he was supposed to change gears. I didn’t know the answer other than…

“I don’t know, you just feel it… Don’t you feel that?” I asked as the gear strained needing to change.

“No!” He responded frustrated.

“Shift!” I demanded. He grumbled. I laughed. He didn’t. But he got a little more comfortable and I told him he just needed more practice, which hopefully if the rain let up, he would get en route to Cape Town.

Day 226: Joburg to Durban

South Africa, you have some beautiful landscapes. That is the triple truth, Ruth. 
At the last minute, a couchsurfer host responded to our request, and we were elated we had a place to stay when we arrived in Durban. We were intrigued he was a restauranteur and looking forward to meeting him and trying out his restaurant. We stopped by the restaurant at night, when he was working and were happy to sit down with him and his friends and talk about our travels and the restaurant business in South Africa and what Durban was like. A few free shots later, we slipped out before it would be guaranteed that I would wake up with a headache.

Day 223: Main Street Market + I was shot in Joburg

When you plan to go on a trip around the world, you get excited about all of the new friends you’re going to make. You don’t prepare yourself for making new, wonderful friends from elsewhere in the world and then meeting up with them several months later in their home country. That’s what happened today. Even better, they came to pick us up and took us out around Joburg for the day! We headed to The Main Street Market and discovered I was shot in Joburg!

We met Tony and Raquel trekking through Northern Vietnam for three days. Tony even had seen my blog prior to the trip! (I’m sure he was just humoring me, but I felt like a celebrity nonetheless that he actually had read my blog before!) They had planned on us staying with them while we were in Joburg, but our timing was off and we arrived the very week they moved into a new place AND started a new job. To give you an idea of how sweet these two are, they told us how they kept us in mind when shopping for a pull-out couch for us to sleep on. They wanted to make sure it was not only comfortable for us, but that Andrew would fit on it. I could have kissed them. After traveling around for nearly eight months now, we’re used to taking care of each other, but when someone else jumps in to help take care of us, well, it just feels special.

They decided to take us down to Main Street Market, similar to Neighbour Goods Market, but in a different part of town. We were thrilled to have the opportunity to try foods we didn’t try the day before. Andrew found a micro-brewery. Thanks, SMACK! Republic!

I found some photography exhibitions, specifically one featuring street kids that totally rocked my socks off. (I have a thing for grids, alright?)

I was shot in Joburg (from their website) “is a brand providing a platform for street children, who’ve received photography training through the Studio_Bernard Viljoen Foundation [NGO], to apply their newly developed skills and generate an income…

Now, how can I do this in NYC when we move there next year? I was shot in Joburg people, let me know! I’ll be your American liaison! Your American counterpart! Your American fan- if nothing else. (Even though, I’m sure you probably have one of those already…)

And then, I found some street art on the way out, made everyone wait in the car for me, while I ran down the street to photograph them.

And then we went for coffee and Bloody Marys. Do you like how I made it sound like we all had both? We didn’t. Everyone else had coffee. I had a Bloody Mary. My first Bloody in at least eight months. “Once it hits your lips… It’s so good!”

Day 220: The Life of a Dress in Maputo

I wanted to do two things in Maputo (aside from not getting held up at knifepoint):

1. I wanted to see Fiel dos Santos’ sculptures.

2. I wanted to magically come across the fabric I passed up on Mozambique Island or maybe (just maybe) find some fabric that was even more beautiful.

While we didn’t exactly get to see the Santos exhibition, we did see a few pieces and even better- got to see an entirely different (yet just as fabulous of an idea) traveling workshop known as The Life of a Dress. It definitely made up for not finding the fabric I was looking for. My bag is better off without anything else stuffed inside of it anyway…

Fiel dos Santos is a Mozambican sculture artist who uses weapons from Mozambique’s 16-year civil war and welds them into the country, or a person, or a chair. The few pieces we were fortunate enough to see. According to this YouTube video I found all about him, “He is part of a group of artists practicing at a world-renowned space called Nucleo de Arte in Maputo.”

This is where we headed to see his work, but the main interior space had a jumble of activity going on inside. Enter: The Life of a Dress in Maputo. People were cutting fabric. Some were sewing. Some ironing. Some pulling clothes apart. It was chaotic and beautiful and I was jealous I wasn’t a part of it all. It was so totally different from everything else I felt in Maputo. It was collaborative. communal. open. an escape it seemed. I chatted with the Creative Director and tried to hide my disappointment that we will just miss her in NYC when she’ll be there in the Fall. Next time. In the meantime, check out her work! How much fun is it to have met another creative in Mozambique! Connecting with such fabulous artists and great projects (and Mozambique Island) has definitely been the silver lining to backpacking through this country.

The project (it’s second time in Mozambique, I think) has even fueled two local Mozambican girls to start their own line of clothing! Their pieces along with photos of them modeling their clothing was hung up throughout the space.

An excerpt from The Life of a Dress statement:

The Life of a Dress is a travelling exhibition based on the strong conviction that, where dresses are concerned, everything old may be reinvigorated into something new. The project is visiting Mozambique to share this content and learn from local projects and people about ways of how to rethink the use of materials. It is exploring how second-hand dresses found in local markets and streets may be used as a valuable asset for further transformations.

Cool, right? All I could think of walking into the workshop was how much my Mom would have loved to not only see it, but to help as well, and maybe it would be motivation for her to get her own thing going in NKY. (Do it, Momma) I also thought of how my sewing skills have deteriorated since my days in 4-H (Head, heart, hands, health, baby. I’m from Kentucky, remember? Don’t judge). I have machines at “home” now I just need to be able to squeeze in the time to reacquaint myself with the needle and thread when we get back.

After the exhibition, we wandered around in what we thought (and hoped) were the “go” areas of Maputo before gathering our things for an overnight bus to Joburg, South Africa. Have you ever flown First Class before? If yes, that’s what it’s like getting on a bus that isn’t typical to Mozambique. I had a reclining seat all to myself. We scored seats with extra legroom. There were signs that no one was allowed to stand in the aisle. There was a bathroom. WITH TISSUE. And we even had reading lights THAT WORKED.

It was the most beautiful bus we had been on since… maybe, Israel.

And then we blew a tire.

But the bus wasn’t fifty years old and our driver pulled over (safely) to the side of the road, repaired it, and an hour later, we were on our way. Oh First World, how lovely it is to see you again!

Day 219: Tofo to Maputo

Part of the reason we decided to come to Tofo was so that it would break up the journey to Maputo. Because what turned into eight hours was somewhat better than the fourteen or so it would have taken had we gone directly to Maputo from Vilanculos. When they say it’s a direct bus, it won’t be. When they say it leaves at 3 in the morning, it really leaves around 4. When they say it’s going to be comfortable, it won’t be. But going to Maputo meant going to South Africa, and by this point, it was the only thing getting me through.

We had a lovely lunch with a Dutch couple hoping to find work in Maputo. I wish them all the luck in the world because I could not do it. Over lunch, they were telling us how difficult it was simply finding an affordable place to live in Maputo! $3,500 on average for monthly rent. They were house sitting for some embassy friends living in a place that cost $8,000 a month. Can you even imagine? Not Seoul. Not New York City. Maputo.

We were staying at the number one hostel in Maputo and assumed it would have wi-fi. Being the capital city… The number one hostel and all… Of course, we were wrong. We were given a map that was so full of “no go” zones, mostly due to theft, mostly done by way of holding a knife up to your neck until you fork over your bag or phone that I didn’t even want to deal. Just walking a few blocks for dinner I couldn’t help but notice every house had electrical wire on top of the walls surrounding the building and a guard in front of the door. No thanks.

Instead, we cheated on our trip. We whipped out our external harddrives and watched American tv and ate popcorn in bed.

Day 218: The very bad, horrible, no good day in Tofo

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t THAT bad. But it fell into the category of “Seriously, Mozambique?” and was just one of those days where we had to grit our teeth and try to focus on how beautiful the beach was… or how happy we are (despite days like this) to be on this trip. I had to dig deep, because Mozambique is hard. It’s unlike any other country we’ve traveled through. Burma is easier than Mozambique. and cheaper. Yes, you heard me, BURMA. It’s not just third world difficult, it’s third world difficult on top of being ridiculously expensive on top of getting so little for the ridiculous amount of money you’re losing. And then it’s always having your guard up as to not get scammed or lose your bag to someone sneaky and quicker than you are. It simply takes so much energy out of you. Sometimes it felt like the equivalent of a bad day in India, only it was on three hours of sleep, so technically it might have been worse.

It all started with my day old “Ray Bans” breaking and the sunglasses vendors trying to scam me even further into new pair. It just went downhill from there. I told the vendors that I was going to post their pictures and inform the internet that they were full of lies. It was the meanest thing I could think of doing.

It’s just… Mozambique.

I came because I had heard from a friend of a friend how wonderful it was a couple of years ago. How cheap it was. And it being in between Tanzania and South Africa helped. This must have been before minerals were discovered and outside companies started investing in the land. It has driven prices up tenfold and it’s incredibly unfair to this beautiful country and it’s people. Outsiders and their money has completely ruined so much of what could be a wonderful (and not as expensive) experience!

It’s not for backpackers or anyone on any type of budget. It’s for those with a lot of money, or at least those with their own car and cooler full of food for a week. Because there are no grocery stores here that sell food other than the condiments you left in your South African home. And it’s definitely not for those who don’t like to wake up between two and three in the morning to catch a bus. Which is what we learned we’d have to do that night instead of sleeping until six and then catching a ride to Maputo.

Day 217: Tofo

Our day on the beach in Tofo was mostly spent making small talk with the vendors trying to sell bracelets and fresh fish. This particular vendor really (REALLY) wanted one of our carabiners on our backpacks. We tried to explain that we needed them, and all of our extras (which we really did have at one point) were stolen when we checked our other backpacks. He insisted that he could have just taken them from us, but he didn’t. He asked us first. We agreed that was polite of him, and thanked him for not stealing, but insisted we needed them and couldn’t give him one. Eventually, I took his picture and printed one off to give him instead. It was only then that he realized we really weren’t going to give him a carabiner.

Another favorite moment of the day: giving in to getting a massage from a woman who walked up to us on our front porch. Her opening line involved miming how small my chest was (fingers an inch apart) and how big hers was (juggling one breast with her hand). I admired her spirit and agreed to a half hour massage. She asked for a drink of my Fanta and then massaged my shoulders for five minutes before announcing she was finished. You can ask Andrew, I’m not even exaggerating. Five minutes. I KNEW I should have gotten Andrew’s watch or his phone to set the timer. She had twelve children. I’m guessing she needed a sip of Fanta and a hot minute off of her feet more than I needed a longer massage. I should have probably offered to give her a massage now that I think about it…

Later that night, Andrew and I stopped to buy a few bottles of beer from the women sitting off the side of the road. One of the women must have just been feeding one of her children, for one breast was hanging out of her dress. I wasn’t even phased. We’ve been in Africa long enough to not think this to be strange. Andrew didn’t even notice until one of her friends told her in Portugese to put her boob away. Embarrassment flashed across her face for a brief second, until she realized Andrew wasn’t the slightest bit uncomfortable.

Day 216: Vilanculos to Tofo

I know you’re jealous of all of this super fun transportation we’ve been taking lately… Too bad this image doesn’t even do the twenty+ people crammed into the mini-van justice en route from Vilanculos to Tofo.

We arrived towards the evening thinking that Tofo is a vacation spot for South Africans… and that there would be plenty of options for hostels and guesthouses and restaurants. Per usual, when we assumed something, we were totally wrong. One recommended place was booked. Another looked to be a forty minute walk down the beach- a walk we didn’t want to do with our bags.

We ended up getting an entire house to ourselves just off the beach. Had some fried calamari for dinner and called it a night.

Day 215: Bazaruto Archipelago

We had planned on going on a boat trip to the Bazaruto Archipelago since we set foot in Mozambique. It wasn’t doing our budget any favors, but we had to do it. We decided to snorkel and joined a group going to Magaruque Island for the afternoon. I should have gotten video footage of Andrew walking along the beach in his fins, with his snorkel mask down. He was hamming it up, much to my delight and probably much to the curiosity of others in our group who might not have realized he was being silly on purpose. We had to climb over a significant amount of coral before diving into the water. We’ve seen more fish elsewhere, and the current was quite strong, but it was a lovely afternoon snorkeling down the coast and then walking back on the white sand beach. We all relaxed in and out of the sun before lunch, took turns walking down the beach, and then climbed aboard the boat to make our way back to the mainland.

Day 214: Poker with some lawyers from London

Still feeling worn out from the bus adventure down to Vilanculos, we continued to take it easy. We slept in. We took our time drinking coffee in the morning. We walked around. We had dinner. We played poker with a some lawyers (and one teacher) from London. Not seriously, I mean, how could one take poker seriously when you’re betting grains of rice and matchsticks against one another. Needless to say, I kept going out. Our new friends kept sneaking rice over to my end of the table so I could stay in the game.

They were good fun. They even bought us a beer. This is the equivalent to buying someone who isn’t on a trip around the world (let alone trying to budget through three weeks in Mozambique) an entire night of beers.

There are good people in the world. This trip is a constant reminder of that fact.

Day 212: More of Nampula

Really, all we did was hang out. I just wanted Andrew to get better, even if that meant another boring (for you), relaxing (for us) day.

We did sneak out of the hostel to go back to the bus station to check on times and tickets for the bus out the next day. When we pulled out our original tickets and pointed to Andrew’s leg, trying to explain how we had to go to the hospital… the boys on the bus exchanged looks and one of them got on his phone. We waited.

“You have to go to manager.” The one said after he put his phone back in his pocket. Andrew was perplexed. I was hopeful, thinking that maybe we would get lucky and the tickets we paid for, but didn’t use would somehow get us a free seat on the next bus down to Vilanculos. We hopped in a taxi and headed across town to the office. I should say “office” because, it was simply another dirt parking lot with a different bus sitting in its lot.

We asked around for the manager and then handed over our tickets. Three men eyed them. One did not seem happy. I crossed my fingers that the laid back one would sway the not as happy one and again, we waited. We stood outside the bus, while they talked, got on their phones, talked some more, before eventually one of them said “Ok. Tonight. You will go. Ok.”

Andrew tried to ask where he would sit, trying again to point to his leg. This didn’t go over too well. We didn’t want to push our luck and wanted out of Nampula, even if it meant that we would possibly have to stand or perhaps sit in the aisle for the 16 (more like 20) hour ride.

Day 211: Teaching Euchre to a South African

I convinced Andrew we needed to stay an extra day to recover. I was worried (and he was too, even though he probably won’t admit it) about him being on medication with unknown side-effects, especially before an 18+hour bus ride down to Vilanculos. We stayed. We taught Eben and Annelies how to play euchre (more like reminded Eben, as he knew how to play) and relaxed for one more day before dealing with another (hopefully the last) long, uncomfortable bus ride through Mozambique.

Day 210: Andrew goes to the doctor

We let Andrew sleep in, and then called the clinic. The doctor who spoke English (and treated Eben) wouldn’t be in the office until three. Eben and Annelies warned us it would be a wait once we got there. It probably wouldn’t have been as long had someone let us know we needed to sign up to see the doctor. Instead, they directed us to the waiting room and told us “ten minutes.” Like, maybe, they thought we just wanted to hang out for a few hours for fun. When we neared our third hour of waiting, I nudged Andrew to go talk to someone. He found a German dentist. Because, isn’t that what everyone expects to find in a Mozambican health clinic?

Turns out, the German dentist could speak Portugese and he was able to help get us into see the doctor. Less than another hour of waiting later, Andrew was on the examining table, and I was sitting across the doctor’s desk like a worried mother hen. Andrew described the accident, the swelling in his one injured leg, and now the recent pain in the other leg.

“What about your toes?” The doctor immediately demanded. My eyes grew wide and I couldn’t help smiling in that ‘I WAS RIGHT!’ kinda way. Here’s the thing: Andrew’s toes are gross. They have been gross for the entire three years (THREE YEARS) we’ve been dating. He has always blamed running. He used to run 10 kilometers several mornings before work in Seoul. He’s flat-footed. He blamed the running and his flat feet for the state of his toenails. Andrew avoided eye-contact with me and brushed it off with the doctor before he further examined him and ordered a blood test.

We waited. We got the blood test. We waited for the results. We were called back into the doctor’s office to find out something was off. He had an infection and the doctor was going to give him antibiotics and ibupofen and some cream for his toe-nails.

Seven hours in a Mozambican clinic suddenly felt like a small price to pay if it meant Andrew’s toes would no longer be as gross. Oh right, and his leg would stop swelling and the pain would go away.

We got back to our hostel, Eben, and Annelies after nine o’clock. They had dinner waiting for us. Really. They sat around the kitchen table with us while we heated up our dinner and shared the events from the doctor’s office with them. We went to sleep, Andrew thinking we were going to leave the next night, me thinking I absolutely didn’t want to rush anything.

Day 208: Mozambique Island to Nampula

From Mozambique Island to Nampula, it was only supposed to take 2 1/2 to 3 hours. It took us 8. EIGHT HOURS. The owner of the guesthouse we stayed at on Moz Island told us “Don’t worrry! Take your time! Stay for breakfast, relax, you’ll be fine! Once you get to the bus station in Nampula, there will be plenty of buses to choose from to go down to Vilanculos!”

He. was. wrong.

So wrong it hurt. So wrong that it reminds me to get on TripAdvisor just to tell him how absolutely wrong he was about a. taking our time to leave in the morning. b. not taking very long to get to Nampula. c. “plenty of buses” my @#$! No. No. NO. He was all wrong. The only thing he was right about was recommending “Ruby’s” for us to stay at once we realized there was no way we were going to stay at the only other option in town with prison bars circling the entrance to what you would have to assume is where drug deals go bad, women wake up in compromising situations, and creepy crawlies reside. Yes, we’re on a budget. No, you couldn’t pay me to sleep there. No.

Let’s start with our farewell to our lovely host on the island, shall we? After our ‘thank you’s, we walked down towards the bridge to catch the chapa to Nampula. We had to wait twenty minutes or so for it to fill up. No big deal. Standard. I had a seat (on my backpack), I didn’t mind.

We crossed the bridge and unloaded/reloaded and made our way towards Nampula. Twenty minutes later, we stopped. Turned around. Headed back towards the bridge. There, we waited for twenty minutes. Drove for a few minutes back, turned around, waited back at the bridge for another twenty minutes. No explanation given. Not even in Portugese. Give me chickens. Give me babies and children sitting in between my legs while I try to maintain balance standing in the back of a pick-up truck flying over countless potholes in the road. Sure. I can do that. It’s Africa. But to drive in circles, without windows that open, to sit and wait in the midday African sun… This is when I start to agree with everyone who thinks I must be crazy for not only choosing to do this, but dragging Andrew along with me, who, by the way, at this point was getting his knees bashed in by the seat in front of him and his foot was swollen. again. for reasons we still weren’t sure of after the accident…

We stop every several hundred meters to drop someone off, pick someone up. Our driver clearly could care less that he was driving a couple dozen people around. He would get out at the mandatory police checks, chat up the officers, get a drink… have a snack… He stopped at one point, climbed out of the van, and all of the men followed him and disappeared.

“It’s prayer time.” Andrew told me. The women and children, myself, and Andrew waited for thirty minutes in the chapa.

Then we had to change chapas. The first chapa charged us for our bags, something that only happens when you don’t know any better and can’t speak Portugese to argue. I got mad at Andrew for paying. It was maybe $1.00 total. But I was furious at the thought that we were being taken advantage of because we were foreign. Maybe we weren’t. But we hadn’t been charged for our bags in any of the other chapas OR buses we had taken in Mozambique, and after the four hour drive when it should have been less than two, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Andrew was. He usually is. Half the time this infuriates me, especially in situations like this. I mean, how dare he be so calm and level-headed when the situation clearly does not deserve such a mature attitude!

I just read the previous paragraph to him. He responded, “Make sure you write that I don’t think we were being scammed.”

The next chapa pulled up and it was almost full, except for two seats- one in front and one behind the front passenger seat. Andrew climbed in front, and I got in the back. I thought we were ready to go and then our previous driver (the annoying one, from our first chapa) came up and pointed to the space in between the front seats and the row where my legs, and three other passengers’ legs were squeezed into a three seat row were. He counted in Portugese, explaining to our new driver could fit three, four more people there.

I debated springing out of my seat to tackle him down onto the pavement below. A man (medium build) and then a mother with a baby tied to her back and child (maybe six years old) climbed in. Facing us. It was tight. Eight people, technically sitting in a space designed for three.Not counting the man collecting money, standing in the row to open and close the door for those getting in and out of the chapa along the way. I cursed myself for thinking that previous bus and/or chapa rides were the worst. Because, I should have known… they can (and will) always get worse.

The chapa left the parking lot only to pull over shortly after. An older woman climbed into the front with Andrew. I thought we were in the clear, and then the chapa pulled over again. The mother (with the two young children) sitting, facing me protested. She pointed out her six year old, asking where he would go. The newest passenger would hold him. It was decided. He climbed in. He tried to put his legs in between mine. I shook my head. I had reached my limit. There was no where for my legs to go and I wasn’t about to attempt to make room for someone else’s legs to go in between them. He pointed again to my legs, stepping on my toes the entire time. I shook my head again. He gave up, but still managed to squeeze in between me and the poor girl next to me. It was the worst chapa ride for me yet.

The medium sized man got out and I heaved a sigh of relief thinking the last hour or so of the trip would lead to feeling my legs again. That thought went out the window when another mother with a baby strapped to her back got in. Ten. Ten people in a row for three. I gritted my teeth and willed my knees to work if/when I could stand again.

Around dusk, we arrived at “the station.” It was little more than a dirt parking lot littered with garbage and random buses and chapas parked or idling waiting for their journey to begin. I fell out of the chapa and immediately we tried scouting out which bus could take us to Vilanculos. We found one, it left at three in the morning. We walked across the street with our backpacks to check out the guesthouse there. We decided we simply couldn’t stay there and grabbed a taxi to take us to the hostel/guesthouse that was recommended to us. Our driver had never heard of it before. He pulled over and asked for directions. The locals had never heard of it before. We were frantic. And then I just told our driver to go in the direction we were told it was in, because surely there had to be something there, right? Luckily, I spotted it.

I ducked in. It was expensive. I mean, for a dorm bed, it was expensive. I tried to ask if we could just hang out on the porch until two in the morning, when we had planned on taking the next bus down to Vilanculos. We couldn’t. I asked if we could get a discount, as we were only going to be there for less than six hours. We couldn’t do that, either. By this time, Andrew was nervous I had been gone for so long. He started shouting outside of the bushes/gate dividing the guesthouse from the street. I ran out. It suddenly all seemed so ridiculous. We were so stressed out. I had already gotten upset with him over $1.00. A DOLLAR. His foot was swollen. I didn’t want to pay $20.00 for less than six hours in a bunk-bed… We were tired, it was going to be another 12-18 hours on a bus to Vilanculos…

“I think we should just stay the night, we’ll figure it out in the morning. None of this stress is worth it.” I told him. He agreed. readily. We checked in, put our bags down, got Andrew a beer and sat down to take a deep breath.

“You guys look like you guys have been dealing with AFRICA today…” Or something like that (I can’t remember exactly), another guest at the hostel said.

“Yea, what gave it away?” I said, quite wryly. He (Eben was his name) chuckled and we told him about our day. He shook his head knowingly and told us about fleeing Mozambique Island by way of an expensive taxi to go directly to a hospital because he was having an allergic reaction on the island.

“I think we saw you at one of the cafes on the island!”Annelies, his wife mentioned.

“Did you have braids?” I asked, remembering her, mostly for her hair. Not many white girls traveling through Africa had braids like she was sporting…

“YES!” She laughed and cracked a Predator joke and I knew we would be friends.

We ended up being in the same dorm room, just the four of us, and stayed up too late chatting (Andrew and I somewhat deliriously, I’m sure) about our travels before falling asleep happy to be in a bed for longer than six hours and to have met another wonderful couple along the way.

Day 207: The other side of Ilha

Ilha is a longer, skinny island. You could walk to the other side of Ilha from where we were staying fairly quickly, but then once you turned up or down the beach, it could turn into a longer journey. We decided to walk down along the beach to an old church. The tide was out again and a handful of people were out collecting seaweed or possibly some shellfish.

On our way back, I was stopped to take a few pictures. We think word got out on the island about me, and my camera. It probably didn’t help that I wore the same dress everyday. I stopped to take a picture of him and his friend. Then he saw his brother and wanted one with him. Then he wanted one with me. I didn’t even have my Polaroid with me, he just really wanted his picture taken and enjoyed looking at them on the LCD screen after.

Aside from our place being such a haven after the rough week, I was obsessed with the lighting at night. It was just so atmospheric! Going to the bathroom in the middle of the night felt almost romantic with the light gently bouncing around the tiles. I posted those pictures on Instagram awhile back. I’m hoping that I can find lamps similar to those at the Patio. I’ve also decided that our house in America needs to have its own hanging canoe. If our budget still wasn’t higher than we want it to be and I didn’t have such issues with shipping (especially from Africa) I’m sure I could strike up a deal with a local fisherman for an old, leaky, discarded dugout canoe! Next time… or perhaps I can find one stateside…

Day 206: More of Ilha

Our days on Ilha fell into something of a routine. We’d get up pretty early- for some reason, still unknown to us, the sun would rise around five in the morning, earlier than it did in Tanzania, which is just north! We would have breakfast on the rooftop and sometimes check email if the Internet was strong enough (had I been able to blog, we would have stayed much longer).  Then we’d go for a walk, followed by a swim, and then I would curl up in bed for a nap or to upload and/or edit photos while Andrew would sit in the lounge to read or study Spanish. Before dusk, we’d walk to one of the two local restaurants for a fresh seafood dinner and one or two 2Ms (the Mozambican brew). We would be in bed tucked under our mosquito net well before nine and fast asleep soon after.

Today’s walk took us in and around the local hospital. From the front, it looked like it had been abandoned, like many of the old Portugese buildings on the island were. I liked the laundry hanging up in the open windows and doors and we both assumed that perhaps people were now living in the hospital.

Then we meandered around the back. It was as if the entire back side of the hospital was an outdoor waiting room. At first, I was still thinking it was a makeshift (squatter) residence, and then I saw someone get sick and saw fresh posters promoting HIV tests and babies looking equally miserable as the mothers who held them. I felt ridiculous wandering through with my camera over my shoulder, but I kept it there for obvious reasons and hoped we simply looked as lost as we felt walking through.

Not far from the hospital was this rousing game of… well, I’m not quite sure you could call it basketball, but it was on that track. I kinda wanted to play, but there was already a line, and they didn’t seem too excited over the possibility of inviting me. My favorite part? The boy holding up the hoop. Obviously.

We walked through the not so touristy parts of town until we were too hot to go any further. We realized we were out later than usual and this was why we, along with everyone else went back to their rooms or their homes for a siesta. The sun was too hot to do anything other than sit and/or sleep. We bought some plastic baggies full of frozen juice (Mozambican popsicles) and made our way back “home” to the pool.