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.

Day 205: Ilha

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

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.