Remembering Africa pt. 4

Maputo, Mozambique 2011         

There were 14 of us. 14 rucksacks. Two trunks. One guitar. And believe it or not, one van. It was the kind of travel I had become used to. It was bumpy, cramped, hot, and exciting. It was Africa.

We had been in Mozambique a little over two weeks. The trip had been a dream come true. Two years earlier I had spent two and a half weeks in Kenya. That trip had awakened within me a love for Africa I couldn’t seem to shake. There was something about the people, their smiles, and their hope that was contagious. I had never experienced anything like it. I was thankful to be back. Our three-week trip was culminating with an expedition to an island community. We had been told there was no electricity and no running water. I was itching with excitement as the boyhood adventurer was awakened. I felt like Bilbo, in Tolkien’s classic—“Then something…woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear sword instead of a walking-stick”.

I was sure we looked foolish piling into our transportation for the first leg of the trip— like circus clowns in a toy-sized car. After a few minutes of Tetris-like packing, we were off. We drove for maybe an hour. Uncomfortable though it was, I felt as if every part of my being was fully alive. We made a brief stop at a roadside market—the color of our skin attracted the merchants like a swarm of bees to a brightly colored flower. They were peddling wares ubiquitous on the continent: brightly colored flip flops, multicolored plastic bowls, cups and containers, toys, cigarettes, and fruit—lots of fruit. I felt like an animal on display as a thousand pairs of eyes gazed into the window in excitement at the arrival of the pale skinned foreigners. Perhaps they felt the same as we aimed our camera lenses back at them.

The drive was beautiful. It was a perfect winter day in southern Africa. The air was crisp and clean feeling. The sun was shining but it wasn’t too hot, it felt good on my skin. We finally stopped. The van had taken us as far as it could go. Our second leg of the journey would be on a ferry.

           

Practically falling out of the van, our arrival was a sensory overload. The riverbank was bustling with activity. Hawkers touted their merchandise while older men reclined on the shore, their bobbers attached to cane poles, rose and fell with the breathe of the river. Children ran in circles around their mothers who were leading a few cattle with twine loosely tied around their necks. I wondered what compelled the cattle to follow when their restraint could be broken by the turn of their head. The light breeze brought to our noses the salty smell of the Indian Ocean that lay only a few miles to the East.

             

I was delighted to be greeted by children selling cashews that had been roasted and salted. After a breakfast of only sweetened hot tea and bread I was hungry. I took the opportunity to buy a few bags not knowing when we would eat again. They were delicious and unlike anything I had ever eaten in the States. They tasted earthy and rich. My fingers shined with their natural oil. We fought through the crowd and stepped onto the ferry.

             

The time it took the operators to get the ferry going lasted longer than the ride itself. We were standing on the opposite shore within minutes of the ferry starting. I am certain we looked ridiculous. In fact, there is simply no way to avoid looking ridiculous when you are the only white people for hundreds of miles and are at the mercy of the Portuguese-speaking Africans around you. Out of place was an understatement. Mozambicans hoping to sell us something again encircled us testing our patience. We waited for our translator to secure transport to take us to the interior of the island.

            

 Our translator came back to me in a few minutes proudly reporting he had found a truck big enough to take our team into the island. I stared in disbelief at the size of truck he had found. It was small, S-10 small— the smallest pickup back in the States. It would have been fine it we didn’t have 17 pieces of luggage and if there weren’t 7 Mozambicans, two goats, and a chicken already in the back. The life-sized Tetris game began again as we struggled to pack our gear and our bodies onto the truck. The Mozambicans laughed and pointed. It was funny, I guess. Half and hour later we were off. That drive was something I’ll never forget.

             

The drive certainly had its chaotic moments—we got stuck in a ditch about ten minutes in and half the team almost flew out of the back on more than one occasion. That was all part of the adventure though. What made it memorable for me was that it was just one of those rare moments in life where I was genuinely thankful for what I was seeing, smelling, and feeling. It was the type of moment you recall years down the road, as you’re sitting in your office on some idle Monday, and it still brings a smile to your face. I was on the continent I love, with people I love, doing what I love. It doesn’t get much better.