Mozambique

Day 220: The Life of a Dress in Maputo

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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

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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 217: Tofo

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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

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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

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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

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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 213: Nampula to Vilanculos

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Instead of having you suffer through another bus ride like we did, the above video is of Vilanculos- once we got there…

We rolled up to the bus by one in the morning, by the time we figured out our seats, I was once again in the middle of Andrew and a Mozambican woman, this time with an adorable two year old (I’m guessing) on her lap. He had big eyes and was incredibly intrigued by my presence next to him. Whenever I wasn’t looking, his little fingers would dance across my arm. As soon as I would look down to him, even with a big smile, he would withdraw his hand, but continue looking up at me with big eyes, wondering what I was going to do next. As I couldn’t exactly move, I didn’t do much, except sometimes tickle him, which didn’t seem to phase him.

After 14 hours, they got off the bus and I got excited to share our seat with one other person, instead of two. I should have known better. A young man made his way through with a backpack three times the size of the two year old who had just left. My heart sank. By hour 18 – and no, I’m not even exaggerating – I was beyond uncomfortable. Sitting in an upright seat, with zero legroom, and maybe two bathroom breaks the entire journey puts economy seating on American Airlines into perspective.

By hour 19 – we were dropped off. It was in the middle of nowhere. We had specifically asked, even had the lady at the hostel write in Portuguese, “Will we get dropped off IN Vilanculos?” for us. They told us, “Yes. Vilanculos.” But, no. This was not Vilanculos. Instead, it was a dirt four way intersection. No lights. No waiting taxis. No cars whatsoever. Twenty minutes away from Vilanculos.

“Bus at four!” One of the men said as he retrieved our bags for us. He pointed to the opposite side of the road and told us to wait for cars. It was roughly nine in the evening. Four in the morning was seven hours away.

We started making our way to the road we needed to go down, thinking we were on the right side of the road. Three cars turned off and headed towards where we wanted to go. Andrew ran after them, trying to flay them down in the dark. It didn’t work. We went to the opposite side of the road and waited some more. And then some drunk shadows seemed to appear out of nowhere and I got nervous. So nervous, I turned off our flashlight as to not draw attention to myself being a woman. So nervous, I held onto my Nalgene just in case I would need to use it to hit someone in the head with. I figured I could take at least one skinny drunk man down if I had to. I glanced down and saw Andrew had his keys in hand and had put the can of bug spray in his pocket. I smiled. Not a bad idea, I thought!

The drunk men stood across the road from us for awhile, tried chasing down a car, and then seemed to give up on the idea of getting to Vilanculos that night. They argued about which way to go, and then slunk back to where they came from.

Andrew and I made our way under a streetlight down the street, hoping that a car passing by would see that we weren’t from here and we weren’t drunk. This didn’t work. But, it did attract the attention of a kind young mother with a baby tied to her back. She came up to us and in Portugese, told us what time the bus was coming and motioned to her house along the road to sleep in until then. While I was overwhelmed by her kindness, Andrew wasn’t keen on sleeping on a dirt floor for seven hours after our latest nineteen hour bus adventure.

We asked if she had a phone and assured her that we would pay for the time we used. She obliged and we called the hostel and had a car come. An extraordinarily overpriced car came to pick us up and we were whisked away from the dark dirt intersection towards the beach. We grabbed some bottles of water, went directly to our bunk-beds, and crashed.

Day 212: More of Nampula

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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

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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

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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 209: Nampula

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We thought we were leaving Nampula that night, so we planned our day accordingly. Andrew checked on reputable bus companies while I went out to collect eggs and bread with our new friends Eben and Annelies to prepare for breakfast. (We were all pretty elated over the kitchen at our disposal in the emptied out guesthouse that morning.) We hadn’t planned on running into the spider and had to document it en route to the bakery.

Andrew discovered that the reputable bus company we heard also had comfortable seats was closed for the month. Of course. So we went back to the bus station to see what other companies were operating. He tested out seats. We were assured there wouldn’t be anyone standing in the aisle, reserved two seats, and then took out a ridiculous amount (the most, I should add, that we’ve had to pay for any bus ride on this trip, even when we’ve crossed multiple borders) of money to pay for our seats. And finally, what was the most fun part of the day, we modeled some STD necklaces for Annelies.

Yes, as in venereal disease themed necklaces. I picked “Herpes.” How, you might be wondering did this come about? Well…

Eben had originally introduced Annelies to us as a sculptor. She had gaped at her husband.

“Sculptor? That’s a new one!” She teased him and then explained that she is a contemporary jewelry designer. I was intrigued, wondering what exactly what kind of jewelry a contemporary artist makes. (Spoiler alert: Awesome jewelry. That’s what kind of jewelry she makes.) I told her I was a photographer and that I dabble in a little contemporary art myself and we immediately exchanged images of our work. I was in heaven. I think she was too, because she bemoaned the fact that we were leaving in the middle of the night and we wouldn’t get to talk some more.

She asked us if we would model some pieces for her before we left and we agreed. We shrugged when we found out what exactly the pieces were. I try to help other artists with their work as often as I can. I know what it’s like trying to get models or participants for a project. It can be hard. So I think of it as artist karma or something like that… I also think I’ve rubbed off on Andrew, because he generally plays along.

Unfortunately getting money for our bus tickets took forever, and we were losing light by the time we got back to model. We tried nonetheless, and then slipped into our bunk beds to try to get an hour or two of sleep before our taxi came to collect us around one in the morning.

I tried to edit photos below Andrew tossing and turning on the bunk above, until eventually he climbed down, worried about his leg. He hadn’t told me it had been hurting that afternoon. Immediately, I began to worry and insisted we stay and go to the doctor. He worried. Not about his leg, but about the expensive bus tickets we wouldn’t be able to use. I asked him what he would do if it were me. He assured me that was different. I rolled my eyes and waited. Eventually, he acquiesced and we agreed to stay in Nampula and go to the clinic tomorrow.

Annelies was overjoyed.

(I wasn’t overjoyed Andrew’s leg was now hurting, but I was glad we were going to a doctor, and yea, ok, I would get to hang out with Annelies and Eben some more!)

Day 208: Mozambique Island to Nampula

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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

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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

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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.

Day 205: Ilha

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Mozambique Island is known as Ilha de Moçambique in Portugese and is often referred to as Ilha (the ‘h’ sounds like a ‘y’ in Portugese) for short. I was in love. Our room opened up to the guesthouse’s sunken pool. We ate breakfast on the rooftop overlooking the shore and the thatched roofs covering the rest of the island. It was safe. It was quiet. It was the perfect respite after the hectic journey it took to get here. We decided to extend our stay from the start, because it was so calming, but also because Andrew’s foot and ankle continued to swell every time after every long bus ride. We thought a few days off of the public transport would help the healing process.

It had stormed the night before. Little did we know, it would be our best night of sleep on the island thanks to the temperature drop and cool gusts of wind that blew in our room all night. In the morning, puddles were everywhere.

I was going for an empty shot of this intersection, and then these two girls stopped at the end of the street to pose. I gave them the thumbs up sign after I took the image above and they waved and continued walking home from school. I couldn’t decide which picture I liked more, so I’m putting them both up.

Still elated we could walk around Africa freely, we continued to do just that and whenever I was asked to take a picture, I pulled out my Polaroid and surprised them with a print of the picture they had just posed for.

Sometimes I drew quite the crowd, so I started drawing the line at giving out two (maaaybe, sometimes three) prints at a time. Two young men saw the second crowd I had made and probably got the wrong impression of us because of it. They thought we had money, and they thought we would be interested in going on one of their boat tours that they offered to any and all tourists they met on the island. We politely declined, and told them we were satisfied walking around the island. They asked the usual questions, but did not give the usual response:

“You don’t have a home?” They were incredulous.

“No… our home was in South Korea… but then we quit our jobs and now we are traveling before we move back to the United States… So… for right now, no, we don’t have a home.” Andrew tried to explain.

“How can you not have a home? You must have a home!” The one said in complete disbelief. Andrew and I laughed.

“But if we had a home… how could we afford to travel to so many places…” I tried to reason with him.

“Your family, do they have a home?” He asked.

“Of course, they have a home… but it’s not our home…” I replied, and tried to explain further, “We have backpacks, so right now, our backpacks are our home.” I smiled. He gaped. But with this explanation, he seemed to come to the conclusion that he probably wasn’t going to get any business out of us and him and his friend said goodbye, assuring us that they would see us again later.

They did, right after we bought a big bag of popcorn from a vendor on the street. I’m assuming no one buys the amount of popcorn we did, for she was completely surprised when we held up four fingers, hoping to get four (not the requisite one) cups of popcorn each. Her son was upset, crying on the sidewalk next to us. We tried to offer him some popcorn to console him, but he wasn’t having it. She picked him up and he immediately calmed down. I whipped out my Polaroid. She was speechless when I produced a print of her with her son after.

We found the restaurant the cleaning lady at our guesthouse recommended. Somehow, in Portugese, we managed to order shrimp, grilled fish, something unidentifiable (we later learned was grilled banana leaves and cashews) and a huge bowl of coconut rice. It was delicious. While Andrew settled our bill, two girls were dancing just outside of the restaurant, and asked for a picture when they spotted my camera. As you might be able to predict, I pulled out the Polaroid, and made them wait while I pressed print. As soon as one of the girls figured out what was happening, she began jumping up and down and shrieking with absolute glee. Like Shinee just walked into my former middle school or maybe Justin Bieber walked into an American (or Canadian?) middle school. She was so. excited.

As soon as I handed one print over to her, she raced into the restaurant to show her mother. I tugged on her best friend’s shirt to show her that I was printing another one for her. As soon as it slid out of the camera and I handed it over, she was jumping up and down with it and raced after her friend still screaming inside the restaurant. Aside from the giraffes and multiple zebra encounters, it was the happiest moment I’ve had in Africa.

I’ve tried emailing and even tweeting Polaroid about the effect their camera has had on those who I’ve photographed along this trip, thinking surely they would be interested to hear about it, or maybe use it for some marketing maybe? But, they don’t seem to be too interested because I’ve yielded no response.

Day 204: Mozambique Island

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We were let off of the bus at a junction in what felt like the middle of nowhere in Mozambique. Basically, the only way to get to Mozambique Island by way of public transport is to find a chappa (shared vehicle, possibly a van with seats, possibly a truck without seats), climb in and hang on(to someone). That’s exactly what we did. After a little less than a mile down the road, we were pointed towards a white pick-up truck off to the side of the road with at least twenty men, women, children, and babies in the back. We weren’t even phased.

“Is this our ride?” I asked Andrew. He nodded, and we smiled at our fellow passengers and climbed on board. At one point, an older woman had both arms wrapped around me with her head nuzzled under my arm. Another woman was sitting behind me and would sometimes push my bum to whichever way she chose. A little girl sat between my legs. I held onto Andrew with one hand and another man’s back with the other. At one point the truck came to an abrupt stop and I went flying. Everyone laughed and the man collecting money from passengers yelled at the driver to take it easy.

“Transportation is… very big problem…” One man sighed. I smiled back to him, assuring him I was ok… in my head thinking… I was ok as long as we didn’t crash.

In a tiny town, we had to climb off of one truck-bed and onto another. Andrew quickly ordered me to sit down, and sure enough, as time passed, our new empty truck-bed filled over capacity only this time, I was somewhat comfortable sitting on my backpack, grateful I didn’t have to worry about whether or not I was stepping on any little toes and fingers underneath me.

We stopped for twenty minutes for reasons unknown to us. A man bought his child a Styrofoam tube (much like what you would float on in someone’s backyard pool) and they started eating it for a snack. Breasts were repeatedly let free to feed babies that were balanced on their mothers’ laps. One woman who didn’t quite seem altogether there climbed on the truck and then climbed off. I didn’t realize she was talking to herself until other passengers started laughing at her. When they saw my inquisitive face, they pointed to their heads (much like we would do at home, as kids, making fun of other kids being crazy) informing me that she wasn’t exactly sane. I smiled. They smiled. One older woman got on the truck at one point and accepted my hand when I held it out to help her into the truck bed. She didn’t let go of my hand for nearly the entire ride. Holding her hand was my favorite part of the journey.

As we crossed the long bridge over to the island, we passed a car full of Asian tourists.

“Ne ha!” the man who was collecting money from passengers yelled out to the passing car. I sighed. I was tired. I was ready to not be on a moving vehicle. I was a little frustrated with his lack of… I don’t know, respect towards a different ethnicity after the great deal of patience both Andrew and I tried to maintain throughout our second 12 hour+ bus/chappa adventure. Especially since he was the one cramming so many people into the back of the truck! My mouth was quicker than my brain (as it often is).

“It’s not ‘ne ha’ it’s ‘nee-how’ and you don’t even know if they are Chinese. What if they are Korean? Then it would be ‘ann-yeong-ha-say-yo’ or what if they are Japanese…” I shouted diplomatically over the wind whipping around us on the bridge.

All of the remaining (four) men in the back of the pick-up truck burst out laughing and started making fun of their friend. Andrew rolled his eyes.

“What? You know it’s not ‘ne-ha.” I said to him. He shook his head wearily. (He was tired, too.)

We checked into our room shortly thereafter and asked for directions to a good place to eat. I promptly forgot all of the directions. I was just happy to wander through what felt like a deserted town, feeling inspired and comfortable enough to take my camera out to take some pictures of the picturesque former capital.

I also felt comfortable enough to have my Polaroid ready to whip out whenever some children asked for their picture taken. This was the first time that I was able to give the replacement Andrew got for me a spin and it was so much fun! Quite the crowd pleaser as well!

This mother rushed over to me with her child and requested a picture. The baby wasn’t having it. at. all. We took one, it wasn’t good. She started laughing and pushed her baby in front of the camera. The poor thing started crying even louder. While we waited for it to print out, she started feeding her and I snapped this one really quickly. I wanted to take more mother/child shots… I was so impressed with these women. Nearly all women of childbearing age had a baby tied to her back and they went everywhere and did everything. The fabrics of their dresses and wraps were always so beautiful as well.

And, this is what happens when I’m free to take my camera out after nearly two months of not feeling comfortable doing so... lots and lots of pictures.

“Ohmigod, I’m just so happy right now. I never really realized how HAPPY I am when I get to take pictures… I mean, I knew I liked it and enjoyed doing so… But this just feels so good!” I went on… and on…. and, Andrew listened. Or at least, he pretended to… sometimes I can’t always tell.

It was like walking through a ghost town. A beautiful Portugese ghost town with an unbelievable view. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like when the town was thriving. Abandoned buildings featured grand columns, paved walkways lined the beach, and walls had built in benches. It also made me wonder what it would have been like had there not been a war and the Portugese had not fled the island.

Even though the island was largely abandoned, it was hard not to notice the opulence, even when in ruins compared to the obvious poverty on display through those inhabiting the island today. Sure, there were nice hotels and a handful of restaurants that catered to tourists… But there was no way the locals could have afforded to eat at them. They seemed almost surprised when we would stop to buy snacks from local vendors on the street. Andrew, a big fan of pastries in any form, stopped sometimes twice a day to get a handful of fried bread bits. I wondered how many tourists stopped to pick out ten pieces of fried bread/dough and carry them off (no to-go bags here) for a late night snack like we did. Even when the kids would try to scam us (the equivalent of charging two cents instead of one per piece of bread) we’d smile and give them the eye until their mother would holler at them and they would smile back and charge us the correct price.

On our way back home (our home for the night, that is) we walked past this child who was really, very upset about something. What it was, we had no idea. But his little friend (possibly sister?) was perplexed as to what to do about it. No one else seemed phased by the commotion. I’m guessing it happens quite often with one child or another. I slowed down to watch how things were going to play out. If a mother would come and pick him up, if he would eventually stop crying, or at least stop laying in the middle of the walkway… Neither happened. Instead, the little girl just plopped down directly in front of him, watching him cry.

Sometimes, I take pictures for the colors or the symmetry or something I want to remember. Sometimes, I get caught taking a picture that might make a local think I’m strange. This was one of them. A little girl looked up wondering what I was photographing, and then I showed her and she smiled and trotted off. It’s just an example of the beautiful decay that surrounded us on the island. Beautiful colors and crumbling buildings and being able to not only take a picture, but show it to a child passing by without worrying if she or he was going to grab my camera and run. Have I mentioned that I’m in heaven on this island yet? Because I am.

Day 203: Pemba

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We woke up not nearly as rested as we wanted to be, but then we were assured the buffet breakfast was included and we thought ok… maaaybe Russell’s Place isn’t so bad… Turned out, “included” meant that Yes, they could include it in our bill. Wasn’t that sweet of them? Andrew held his ground and we didn’t end up paying for the breakfast that almost (but not quite) made up for the smell of garbage all night.

We walked down to the beach, but it was too hot to stay out in the sun, let alone swim, so we played cards at a café there, and made our way back when the sun started going down. We had planned on staying at the lodge until two in the morning, but that was before we discovered Russell’s Place’s recommended taxi driver was going to charge us nearly four times the amount we paid during the day to drive us to the station at night. When one of the managers suggested we leave around eleven and go home with the wait-staff, we were told it would be free. We showed up to the bus “station” and crawled in between two other young men who were trying to sleep on the tarp covering the concrete stoop.

Again, around two thirty, we were able to board the bus before driving around town for two hours collecting passengers until it was over capacity and there was a sufficient amount of people standing in the aisle.

Day 202: The day our bus got stuck in mud

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3 AM. Seriously. That’s what time our bus was scheduled to leave Mocimboa da Praia. When we rolled up to the bus around quarter to, we weren’t exactly surprised to see many passengers had shown up even before we did and were fast asleep. By the time the bus left the “station” it was going on four in the morning. Because it seemed to be less than half full, we picked a row of three seats with hopes of being the only two sitting in the row so Andrew would have enough leg-room. Big Mistake. HUGE. Because we spent the next hour driving around town picking up more… and more… and more passengers. By five o’clock in the morning, a woman who defied every stereotype of hunger and famine that all of the commercials about Africa had represented when I was younger had taken over half of our row. Andrew’s legs were in the aisle amid the standing passengers and I was trying to will my squished self back to sleep.

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And then, not twenty minutes later, we woke up to our bus slipping, gears grinding, and then the engine giving up. This day was now going to be known as the day our bus got stuck in mud. Apparently the buses leave so early to avoid the heat. Not quite dawn, we were told we would have to wait for the sun to come up and dry the mud.

So, we waited. Half of the bus unloaded and Andrew and I climbed into some vacant rows and fell asleep for an hour or so. The sun came up. There was a pile of trucks behind us. One bus was stuck ahead of us. Barefoot men pushing bikes loaded down with coal cruised past us all.

At one point a group of men, some in their late thirties, (I’m guessing) some in their early teens came down the road holding shovels and machetes above their heads. They were riled up, shouting, waving their weapons of choice around, circling the bus. The few others who had stayed on the bus didn’t seem to be phased, one older gentleman even rolled his eyes over the spectacle. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure what to make of it at all. I did what anyone else (clearly out of her comfort zone) would do: I slipped my backpack under my legs and leaned back against my seat pretending I was bored out of my mind.

I’d like to think this tactic worked, for there was no harm done, but really, I kinda doubt they were going to harm anyone. I think they were just all worked up thinking they could dig an enormous bus out of the mud. Once they realized they couldn’t, they slinked back to wherever they came from.

We were eventually pulled out by a Caterpillar tractor and made our way down to Pemba. It was crowded. There were at least twenty people (probably more) standing in the aisle of the bus. A random group of six men appeared out of nowhere asking for a ride on our bus. The men, we guessed a mix of North African, possibly Arabic, and Indian said that they lost all of their things and were having trouble bartering with the driver getting onto the bus. At one point, they asked Andrew for $50.00 to get on the bus and said they would pay him back when we got to Pemba. Andrew relayed this to me, thinking we didn’t have enough cash on hand.

“I have it.” I told Andrew, and then added with a slight smirk, “That’s what they get when they don’t think to ask a woman…” But then, I started feeling badly, wondering how others would help us if we were in the same predicament. I even slipped my fifty dollar bill into my hand… but then the bus stopped and the men were let on. Twenty minutes later at a standard “safety” check, an officer climbed on the bus, ignored the twenty other men standing in the aisle and pulled all six of the foreign men off of the bus.

I guess it was probably a good idea I didn’t hand over my $50 after all.

Fourteen hours after we first boarded the bus, we arrived in Pemba. We were exhausted, sore, and hungry. The owner of Ten Degrees in Tanzania recommended a place to us in Pemba. She said it was a great place to hang out and had dorms that would fit our budget. We headed there.

Unfortunately, Russell’s Place was nothing to write home about, except in the form of complaints. We were given dubious looks when we asked for beds in the dorm, then not only charged a ridiculous fee, but led to an open air loft above a barn that seemed to house a generator for the entire lodge, and didn’t notice the wafting smell of garbage until after we had checked in and showered. After the past few days, I didn’t have any energy to complain, let alone walk around to find another bed to sleep in, so we sat down for dinner, and then crawled back into our respective bunks immediately after.

Day 201: Kilambo border crossing

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We were outside, bags packed by five in the morning, waiting for our tuk-tuk (in Mozambique this is called a bajaj) to pick us up to take us to the earliest dala-dala to the border. He was late. The ferry left at eight. There was only one ferry per day for the Kilambo border crossing. If we missed it, we would have to take our chances taking a dug-out canoe across the river and hope that the canoe ‘captain’ wouldn’t try to extort money from us – or the canoe would tip over in the middle of the crocodile infested waters.

By twenty after five, he arrived, and we were cruising down the highway into Mtwara. Once in town, we passed a group of forty or so high school boys running together. It was barely dawn and they consumed the road. Some, not even wearing any shoes, but all maintaining a decent speed that made me envy their willpower to get up so early and athleticism that I’ve forgotten once this trip started. Andrew and I exchanged smiles and I cursed the fact that my camera was buried in my daypack.

The dala-dala ride wasn’t terribly long and we arrived at the Tanzanian customs around seven. We started standing in line for passport control by quarter after. At first we thought it was perfect timing, and then we realized the line was not moving. By quarter till eight, I started mentally preparing how I would fight off a crocodile simultaneous to negotiating a lower fee across the rest of the river. Luckily, our entire dala-dala was heading across the river as well, and the ferry waited for one last load before crossing.

I heaved a sigh of relief as we scooted past the dugout canoes and onto the sturdy looking ferry. I sighed again when one of the men shouted something out, pointing to the water.

“Crocodile?” I asked slapping my arms together, in my best croc impression. He nodded yes and we exchanged big, scary eyes at each other. A young man came up to chat halfway across the river. He kept telling me about his ‘husband.’

“You mean wife. Wife is for a woman. Husband is for a man.” I said, pointing back and forth between me and Andrew to try to distinguish the difference.

“Yes.” He seemed to agree, and then…

“My husband’s name is…” He started to tell me. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up for me to see, asking:

“Do you like this?” It was a picture of a girl, topless on his phone. I started laughing, wondering why on earth he would think it a good idea to show a nudie picture to a stranger, let alone a ‘mizungu.’

“Is that your husband?” I asked thinking there was no sense confusing him with the term ‘wife’.

“No… My friend.” He replied.

“Ohhh really? Does your husband know about your friend?” I teased. He shook his head and then asked if he could help me with my bags to the bus. I declined, insisting I was very strong and could do it myself. This didn’t make him very happy, and he seemed genuinely worried about not being able to help me get to the bus, let alone a seat on the bus.

“Really, I am ok, I can do it.” I assured him as Andrew stood a little ways away with our other bigger backpacks.

Then I was told to hold on, as the ferry was going to simply crash into the riverbank. I saw only one dala-dala and two pickup trucks standing by. There were at least fifty, probably more on the ferry. Everyone was inching forward, ready, as if preparing for a race. The ferry shook as it bumped into the riverbank and then everyone was running.

I ran. With the two smaller backpacks, I ran straight to the dala-dala, ignoring the men calling me to the pick-up.

“No thank you! I want to sit down!” I yelled back towards the pick-up truck as I pushed my way onto the dala-dala, no clue where Andrew was in the shuffle. The money collector on the dala-dala saw me and started yelling at a young male passenger to move for the ‘mizungu.’ I had stopped to see if there was room for two, not to steal someone else’s seat because I was a white girl. I shook my head and told him to stay while I went further back in the van to find an empty seat. Another passenger told me to sit down in an empty seat by a window just as I saw Andrew hoist our big backpacks onto the top of the van. He climbed in and after helping lift an older tribal (face tattoos and all) woman up over one seat, we were able to score seats next to each other and were soon dropped off outside of the Mozambique passport control.

After washing our hands with a chemical/water mixture to prevent cholera, we stood in line outside of the building for what felt like days. The tribal woman clapped me on the back and smiled at me several times as we waited. When we got inside and I handed my passport over to the Mozambican authority, I saw what the wait was all about. It must have been his first day in front of a computer. It took roughly ten minutes for him to process my passport.

Once we were both cleared, two guards at the next counter inspected our bags. Everything was unzipped and examined.

“What?” One of the officers held up my unmarked box of vitamins.

“Vitamins.” I declared.

“For what?” He asked, pointing to his head, his stomach…”

“Um, just… vitamins… for…” I replied making a circle around my whole body. The officers exchanged dubious looks. They asked again what the pills were and why I had them. Both Andrew and I repeated “vitamins” several times, trying to explain “for general health” to them. Finally, they gave up and handed them back.

Thank God they didn’t dig deep enough and unzip my First Aid kit. That would have been a nightmare!

We waited for another hour for everyone else to get through customs before the dala-dala honked its horn signaling it was time to load up and go. Only we didn’t go. We waited another hour in the running van, in the sun, before we started the four-hour drive to Mocimboa da Praia.

We arrived in town an hour before dusk, and asked to be dropped off at the bus to Pemba. It was then we discovered that Andrew’s leg was swollen, but also that the bus to Pemba left at three o’clock in the morning.

“In nine hours?” I tried to verify.

The driver agreed. We sat down on the side of the dirt road and I busted out my First Aid kit. Andrew scraped away what now looked like an infection over the cut on his leg (he stopped me from doing it because he said I was too gentle) and I cleaned it out with an alcohol wipe and bandaged it up in front of a young audience of elementary school boys curious what we were up to.

We walked through town – two dirt roads that were lined with little shops. Eventually, we found a guesthouse of sorts, in the form of several private huts that offered electricity and a mosquito net, but no running water. I balked at the price. $20.00 for this? I thought surely there was a misunderstanding, but it was better than sleeping on the bus before an eight hour bus ride leaving at three in the morning. We tried to get a discount, but we were challenged for the first time on this trip dealing with a language barrier so great that numbers of time were confused with numbers of days that were confused with numbers of money… We gave up and dropped our bags before going into town to try to exchange money and find something to eat.

Dinner consisted of an order ofchips mayai (French fries cooked in an omlet and then slid into a plastic bag) for me, bread rolls for Andrew, and strawberry soft serve ice-cream for us both. That is all we could find on the street to eat. This two-dirt-road town offered no restaurants, no grocery stores, and no sign of other travelers having ever walked through town. We were quite the spectacle.

Sometimes I worry that I’m one of those girls who thinks she is low-maintenance, but really is super high-maintenance. (They are the worst, am I right?) It was tonight, as I attempted to shower by way of sloshing brown water from a bucket over me, that I realized I cannot high-maintenance at all. Despite all of my dreams of my clothes, shoes, scented lotion and even expensive make-up waiting patiently for my return, one could not take a shower in the conditions I have on this trip and still be considered high-maintenance.

“That was refreshing!” I said, climbing under the mosquito net into bed. Andrew eyed me suspiciously.

“Well, it was brown, but there was soap and it was better than nothing…” I said. Soon after, he picked the damp scarf I used to dry off and went in pursuit of cleanliness.