After a stop for “refrescoes” at the side of the road (Coke, Fanta, or water), and a bathroom break (peeing between the rows of truck wheels or in ditches on the side of the road), we press onward to Tete (pronounced like “bet,” though they say it differently in Malawi). After nearly four hours of steady progress in the morning sunlight, we arrive.
An hour of the usual mysterious stops and business transactions follows. Finally ready to leave Tete, we end up on a ramp jammed with traffic. We inch forward until we merge into a neverending line of stopped cars and trucks. A bridge lies 100 meters ahead. It crosses the Zambezi river, but it has been structurally weakened and is in danger of collapse. Authorities only permit one lane of traffic to pass at a time. While we wait, the cars are coming toward us. The driver says the wait is usually 30 minutes. Color me skeptical.
I lean out the window to buy a Coke from one of the boys hawking them to the stopped cars. At that moment, a policeman approaches our driver and starts yelling at him. I pull back from the window, wondering if buying a Coke is somehow illegal in Tete. Eventually, I realize that the driver broke the law by bypassing the traffic and using a ramp to cut to the front of the long line of cars. The policeman wants to take the driver from his truck. The driver brokers a temporary truce and the policeman walks away.
This isn’t the last we’ll hear from the authorities, I realize. So I pay the driver $10 for the 20-hour ride and remain for a bit, finishing my Coke. A few more policemen return. Two on motorbikes park in front of the truck to assure it won’t go any further. The driver finally relents, gets out of the truck, and goes with the police. I say a hasty and heartfelt goodbye to my friends in the back. Still upset with the driver for kicking me out without my tent last night, I have no problem leaving him without expressing gratitude.
I march past the long queue and cross the wide Zambezi river on foot.
A stream of people carries all manner of goods across the bridge, stepping over foot-long gaps in the bridge that are the clearest evidence of structural damage. The sun beats down as I quickly sweat through my shirt, carrying my tent in one hand, a small bag of food (apples, peanut butter, bread, instant coffee) in the other, and my pack on my back. On the other side of the bridge, absolutely no cars are going in my direction due to the traffic stoppage. Determined not to be overtaken by the truck I just left, I proceed with speed and purpose, eventually coming upon a small combi stand. Drenched with sweat, I struggle to ascertain where the combis are going. I know that somewhere up ahead -- how far I do not know -- there is a junction. If I continue straight, I continue up Mozambique for several hundred kilometers, but if I turn right, I enter Malawi straight away. I have heard that the first option is quicker.
Using a map to explain my preferred dropoff point, I get a combi driver to agree (I think) to take me to that junction. When the combi fills up, we are off. Although twenty or so are crammed in the sweltering minibus, I enjoy the ride. The stereo blasts reggae music, the windows are open, and people are happy. I think of an hour-long combi ride I had a week earlier, when a church choir piled into the bus and sang beautiful songs the whole way. The combi picks up a man with one leg, possibly the victim of one of the millions of landmines dropped in Mozambique during its long civil war. I’ve heard about this, and I’ve seen it several times myself: The disabled often ride for free. Soaking wet with sweat, clutching my bag, squeezed between two strangers, and smelling worse than anyone else on the minibus, I feel very alive.
The bliss is interrupted by a lengthy stop at a gas station. All of us roast as we wait in line for our turn to fill up. We finally top up and move on. To my great surprise, the combi races onward at breakneck speeds for over 60 km. I had figured I’d be at the junction within a few kilometers. The combi stops near a sign that says “Malawi,” with an arrow pointing to the right. Not at all certain that this is the junction I wanted, I figure I’ll take a bird in the hand and proceed directly to border while there’s still daylight.
“Can I walk to the border from here?” I ask.
“Yes, you can walk,” says the driver, who slams on the gas and leaves me among roadside kiosks and villagers in a cloud of dust.
Glancing back at the sign pointing the way to Malawi, I set off on foot on the tar road at about 2:30 in the afternoon. It’s so humid I ask someone if it had just stopped raining. The bush is verdant, overgrown and teeming with banana trees and tall vegetation. A couple of children walk with me for a bit, then a young Malawian comes along, asking if I have any work for him to do. (Can he get me to Dar Es Salaam, I wonder to myself.) I ask each person I pass if the border is just ahead; some say yes, some say no. Many only speak Portuguese. All agree I am going in the right direction. Each time I summit a hill, I fully expect to see a border post on the other side; each time I am greeted by greenery and more empty road.
Eventually, a barefoot young man who speaks English joins me for a bit. “Is the border this way?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s very far.”
“How far?”
“To the next town, it is 13 kilometers. You have walked six. You must walk seven more.”
I am flabbergasted and demoralized, but I press onward. If I have to walk to the next town, so be it.
I just wish I wasn’t already out of water and Mozambiquan currency -- I don’t even have enough for a combi ride, not that any combis have passed this way. To borrow a phrase (with a wink and a nod to a dear friend of mine): If I had some meticals, I’d buy a minibus ride, if there was a minibus. Had the border been where I expected, I would have budgeted things perfectly. As it played out, I was short -- and parched.
I walk up and down another hill, and … hooray! A large pickup truck is coming my way. It’s only the third or fourth car I have seen on my hike. I wave my hand like crazy, signaling that I want a ride, and it stops just ahead. I run up to the driver, tell him I’m going to the border, and he says he’ll take me. “All you need is money,” says one of the passengers in the cab. To my great relief, the driver says he will accept U.S. dollars.
Sitting in the bed of the pickup, I watch the next few hills sail past, awash with exhaustion and triumph.
At least I get some time to relax now before the border -- except that I don’t. Before I know it, the truck has stopped and I’m surrounded by the usual crowd of money changers and other hawkers that seem to populate every border post. I muster the energy to keep them at bay and walk inside the building. Goodbye, Mozambique.
No comments:
Post a Comment