Day 225: Apartheid Museum

The Apartheid Museum  tells the story of the era of Apartheid in South Africa. If you’re unfamiliar with Apartheid, the word is Afrikaans, and as you can see below (in a picture I was not supposed to take), the definition is  “the status of being apart.” It became the term for the system of racial segregation enforced in South Africa between 1948 and 1994. If you want to know more about it, check out the wikipedia page all ’bout it.

It’s intense. The museum is intense, and I’m sure very thorough, but to us, it felt a bit… poorly organized. There is so much information and some really great – REALLY GREAT – media and photographs and imagery, but multiple times, Andrew and I weren’t sure where to go next or what made sense chronologically. We might be a bit daft, but after spending over two hours in the museum, I’m still not sure of the chain of events leading up to apartheid and what led to ending it. I cannot stress enough how much information is there, and how everyone visiting Joburg should go, but maybe spring for a guide who knows the lay of land a little bit. And maybe plan for more than two hours, because that was not nearly enough time for us.

Day 224: Liliesleaf Farm

Liliesleaf Farm is probably not the first thing that one thinks of when discussing Apartheid. I knew nothing about it, until Andrew discovered it was one of the top rated things to do on TripAdvisor in the area we were staying. We went and learned that it was a farm used by the ANC (political party in South Africa that defines itself as the “disciplined force of the left” and has been the ruling party since post-Apartheid South Africa) secretly during Apartheid in the 1960s. It was here where 12 activists were arrested, leading to the Rivonia Trial where 10 of these activists, ANC leaders, including Nelson Mandela were tried for attempting to overthrow the apartheid system.

It was interesting to see that a white family in the middle of Apartheid was pretending to live on a farm while hiding members, leaders of the ANC while they met. It reminded me a little of the Underground Railroad in the States during slavery (except this house was just for meetings, not smuggling people) and it just really surprised me that this was going on not so long ago. I’m always a bit befuddled when I hear about inequality. It gets me quite ranty and those who are friends with me on Facebook have probably hid me by now from their feeds (as they should) when someone tries to justify inequality.

On the farm, there was also an old safari bus that was used to smuggle weapons into South Africa for the ANC. Unsuspecting tourists provided a believable cover for the safari bus full of weapons. They showed a video of the tourists- more recently- being told that the bus they were on was smuggling so many weapons. It warmed my heart when some of the tourists, aside from being shocked, said that it might have been the best thing they’ve ever done- and it was done unknowingly.

Apartheid is gone, technically in South Africa, but the differences between races in the country were glaring to us as outside visitors. Domestic servants not only seem to be ONLY black women, but it seems that there is some underwritten requirement that they have to wear a maid’s uniform that reminded me of the Mammy archetype in old movies. Along the streets, we would see domestic servants walking to work. The only white people walking on the street seemed to be us (the few times we were walking somewhere). Whenever we interacted with a black person, it was because they were serving us to a some degree- they were the ones behind a deli counter, at the cash register in the super-market, our waiter at a cafe… It made me (and Andrew) feel uncomfortable. One time there was a white person working behind a counter and I immediately identified that that wasn’t exactly of the norm, and again, felt strange for noticing. It just felt strange.

I’m not pointing any fingers, I know change doesn’t happen overnight, and I certainly know that life must be better than it was during Apartheid days, but the differences we noticed, perhaps as Americans with a history (and a continued battle) with inequality, and after traveling through Uganda, Tanzania, and Mozambique, where everyone was black (except for those visiting or the white Portugese in Mozambique) it felt strange.  Tony and Raquel, both Portugese (Tony being Portugese-South African) told us that they weren’t characterized by the color of their skin, they were, to other South Africans, “Portugese.”

The strangeness continues…

These books are a memorial to those who lost their lives during the days of Apartheid. I thought they were so beautiful against the bright blue sky, don’t you?

Afterwards, Tony picked us up for dinner and we arrived to an abundance of food that Raquel had prepared for us. Thank you, so much to both of you! It was so fun hanging out with friends, that we had known prior to stepping foot in the country and being able to talk about everything from annoying tourists (Anya, I’m looking at you!) to South African politics to Mozambican economics to traveling through Laos… It made me wonder what conversations would be like over dinner back in the States.

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 222: Joburg Neighbour Goods Market

There are good people in the world. And those people are couchsurfers. In this case, our hosts. If you’re unfamiliar with what couchsurfing is, just check out their website to see. We couldn’t do this trip without it and will forever be thankful for the opportunity to be a part of this crazy, yet unbelievably hospitable community. Our hosts for the night (and the following few nights) graciously picked us up from our hostel (we later found out it was roughly thirty minutes away from where they lived) and took us to the Joburg Neighbour Goods Market for the afternoon!

Niel and Resh tried to explain that they get out more when they host and appreciate where they live even more. I hope they weren’t just saying that to be nice. When Resh insisted on buying us coffee, Niel joked that she was rich and could afford it. I wanted to explain how meticulous we are with recording what we spend everyday. How not paying for coffee today could mean I could buy a beer tomorrow. On top of not spending money on accommodation for the night or a taxi to get to the market… Instead, I thanked them both profusely. for a my first latte in three months. (Because Uganda and Tanzania export all of their coffee, using the cheaper Nescafe instead. I’m assuming the same goes for Mozambique- but I don’t know if coffee is a big export for them, or they simply don’t grow it. Either way. We’ve been drinking Nescafe for awhile now.)

We walked around the market. Andrew and I were overwhelmed. It’s the same kind of reverse culture shock I get whenever I’m in an American grocery store after being in Korea for extended periods of time. (Once, an aisle of hummus and an attractive store clerk- who spoke English! – sent me running home without any groceries at all. I was so overwhelmed and didn’t know what to get or how I would ask someone for the cut of pork that goes in kimchi chiggae in English that I ran.) Now, going to any kind of grocery store is an adventure for the two of us, so an artisanal foods market was overwhelming.

Cheese. An entire stall devoted to Mexican food. Pizzas. Sushi. Homemade jams. Sausage. Beer. Mimosas. Champagne and Oysters. Bread. Sandwiches. Burgers. Quiches!

There was everything… except… black people. Being in Africa for three months, reminded me of what it was like in Korea at times. I didn’t really think I stood out until a child would touch my hair or my arm, or I would be sitting next to someone with beautiful skin that looked a bit different than my own and be so envious of how they would never be pasty white. As in Korea, in Africa, I got used to standing out from the crowd a little. In Korea, I would notice more readily when another “foreigner” was around. Now, in South Africa, here at the Neighbour Goods Market, I noticed more readily how many others looked similar to me and how few looked different. It was strange.

“There’s a lot of white people here.” Andrew stated the obvious within the first few minutes of walking in the doors.

“Yea… Weird…” I agreed. That, and the plethora of options to eat continued to befuddle us throughout the afternoon.

After the market, we headed back to their place where we sipped on Scotch and a South African cream liquor while we watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. Andrew and I could not stop saying “Thank you” and were in constant awe of how easy everything was after Mozambique.

Day 221: Joburg Hop on – Hop off bus tour

I’m cheating on this post. We didn’t actually go on the bus tour our first day in Joburg. There, I said it. (Whew! I feel better!) Instead- we arrived in town around four in the morning and crashed in our hostel until mid afternoon. It was gloomy. Thunder. Lightning. A rainy day perfect for sleeping after jumping countries. We managed a quick trip to the mall nearby to get lunch and a sim card, and then went back to bed.

A couple days later, our friends (made in the very first month of this trip trekking in Northern Vietnam), Tony and Raquel, suggested we do the Joburg Red Bus (also known as the Joburg Hop on – Hop off bus tour) while we were in town. A blogger friend of theirs wrote all about her adventure (here) and told us to check it out to see if it was something we would like to do. As we didn’t have our own car, we figured a bus to a lot of places we’d otherwise have to pay (a super overpriced taxi) to get there was probably a good idea.

Instead of showing you one minute of rain, I thought I’d take this day (this post) to show you a little of what we saw from the bus, and the fun pictures I got from the roof of the bus driving around Joburg!

We hopped on downtown right at the start and wound our way through the lively inner city. One that I would have LOVED to explore by foot with a camera in hand on my own, but safety doesn’t exactly permit one to walk around downtown Joburg by herself with a couple thousand dollars worth of camera gear in hand. I was really excited to shoot the city from the bus and maybe get some different perspectives and angles than I would have on foot.

he architecture is stunning. Despite the decay that is evident in many buildings, it becomes a beautiful juxtaposition. I could have ridden the bus around in circles just in the downtown area people watching. We drove out to the Apartheid Museum (more on that later) and around some other sites on the outskirts of town and made our way back into the city. Some old mining mills were still standing off the sides of the expressway.

When we got back downtown, my finger started twitching and I wanted desperately to get off the bus and walk around to take pictures. I spent two years shooting for Seoul Suburban walking around on my own (or with Charlie) photographing daily city life in Seoul. It was frustrating to not feel like I could do that. Except, I just had to make the decision TO do it. I told Andrew we were getting off the bus.

“Are you going to put your camera away?” He asked.

“No. I want to take pictures.” I was indignant. He sighed, knowing this was probably a battle he wasn’t going to win. I pulled my confidence pants up and we walked around until the next bus came.

We had to sprint to catch the next bus, which entertained quite a few people making their way into the park we were running through, but we made it and hopped on the next bus. Which is probably good, because Andrew later said he was a little bit nervous walking around that area of town.

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 213: Nampula to Vilanculos

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

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 209: Nampula

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

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.