Maputo re-bound (or my journey home)

I’ve been putting off writing this last leg of my journey for two reasons.
         One: I didn’t want to sound like a whiner.
         And two: It was so traumatic... I’d mostly blocked it out.

It all started innocently enough.

I had arranged to stay at the Maputo guest house throughout the day, even though I was checked out. I drank coffee, caught up on some correspondence, and traipsed off to the artisanal market down the road to see if I could find some treasures.

I did.

However, the most important trip that morning was getting (all the way across town) to purchase my bus ticket home. I’d done it so often, it’d become routine.

Depending on traffic and the competition stuffing themselves into the public transportation (aka: chapas), the trip can take 40 minutes... or 2 hours.

That morning it took 2 hours, a near knock-down-drag-out with an overly aggressive woman in tight jeans and even tighter braids, and about 45 cents.
    -- Yeah. Public transport is pretty cheap here!

The bus depot sits just outside the city limits on a round-about. It’s gated and always crawling with travelers, ticket masters, and merchants. The buses wait under small overhangs until departure. Small panels indicating their final destination are perched on the dashboard.

The bus for Chimoio sat in its usual spot. As I approached, the ticket master and driver both smiled. In Chimoio, I have to buy the tickets directly from them. But in Maputo there is an official stall. I know this... but avoided the stall until I could get a better look at the bus and drivers.

I had already decided that if it was the last crew I’d hang out in Maputo a day or two longer and spare myself the heartburn.

Fortunately, they were not the last crew. In fact, I knew them and they knew me.
-- “Hola!” the ticket master said in greeting, “Your going to Chimoio, right?”
-- “Yes." I smiled in greeting. "How are you?”
-- “Fine. Thanks,” he smiled back and reached out his hand. “It’s been a while. How are things at the clinic?”
I reached back to shake his hand. This was Joseph. I’d traveled with his crew many times before, and he was always interested to hear any updates on the clinic.

I tried not to grimace as I explained things were still not open and updated him on the latest paperwork saga. He shook his head knowingly at my reports of delays, frustration, and general difficulty.
-- “E-pah!” he said sympathetically. “These officials are a mess!”
I agreed with him, but didn’t trust myself to say more. Instead, I turned the conversation back the trip home.

-- “I’m so glad it’s you guys,” I started, “You would not believe the trouble we had coming down earlier this week.” I complained to him briefly about the endless delays and he nodded knowingly.
I continued on. “I’m so glad to see this is an express bus. Will we be arriving on time?”
-- “Oh, yes. It’s an express bus....” I could see he had more to say, but didn’t. So I picked up the string of conversation and said, “Okay then. I’ll go buy my ticket and see you guys tonight.”
He waved goodbye and I promised to fill him in on more of the details when I returned.

I bought my ticket then hurried back to the guest house for my things.

When the day was done and dinner at the guesthouse was winding down, I gathered my bag and made my way back to catch another chapa. Two ladies who work at the guesthouse kindly walked me to the chapa stop, prayed for safe travels, and waved goodbye through the tinted glass.
    -- What dears! Little did I know how much I needed those prayers.

But even at 9 p.m., the chapas are quite full. Men in wrinkled suits and woman in 2 inch heels doze on the commute home. Those unfortunates who have to stand in the aisles, dive and dip each time the bus screeches to a halt or revs off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

I stood most of the way, clutching my bag in one hand and a metal rail in the other. People pushed and elbowed their way past as they loaded and unloaded, but eventually a seat opened up. I sat in relief and tried not to doze. It was past my bedtime and my stop was just a few minutes away.

This time when I got off the bus, the fruit stands and street vendors were packed away for the night. Only the road was choked with commuters; the sidewalks were clear. Weary travelers, carting bundles on their heads and suitcases under their arms, zigzagged past.

I joined the march and soon found my way back to the bus. I was not the first to arrive. One man was already asleep opposite my seat. He leaned over his bags protectively, snoring lightly.

I settled in for the night and tried to doze as well. The flood lamps were not making it easy --nor did the chatter from the vendors just outside my window.

Piles of water bottles, soda cans, and bread rolls were for sale. Woman stacking oranges in bundles of three, adjusted their babies on their backs and called to passers-by to come buy from them. Men smoked, joked, and watched the steady flow of travelers come and go.

Somewhere between the noisy mother of two bumping her way in to the bus at 10 p.m. and the raucous laughter of the smokers below my window, I slept. But I didn’t sleep long.

At 3:30 a.m. exactly we drove off. By then anyone who was not on the bus was left behind. Comforted that the journey had officially began, I finally slept deeply.

I didn’t wake again until about 8, when the screeching brakes informed me we had stopped. I lifted the blanket off my head and noticed sunlight. Lots of it.

A dozen men were already outside relieving themselves. Women and children were further down. The colors of cloth tied in their hair made them look like flowers in the yellowing grass below.

I closed my eyes again and slept.

Hunger woke me up the next time. I munched on snacks and asked the man next to me how far we’d come. He didn’t seem to know... or care.

Rested by this time, I decided to read a bit and watch the coconut trees pass. Hours flew by in a blur of villages and brightly colored kids playing on the road.

By 11 am, we’d made it to Xai-Xai where the mainline buses always stop for food.

I remember thinking we were late in arriving... but not overly concerned. I was hungry and exited in the mass of flesh. I was one of the first to order a chicken to-go plate and a juice.

I stretched a bit before making my way back on the bus. Ten minutes later we were on the road again.

The afternoon light beat down on me as we rode north. A new man had taken the seat beside me after the first reached his destination. This man was headed to Chimoio too and asked me questions... but didn’t flirt.
        --Whew!

I knew from previous trips that we were running late. The convoy (or police escort through rebel territory) took off between 2 and 3 pm when heading North. I started worrying my lip at the thought of missing it. Why didn’t anyone else seem concerned?

When 2 o-clock arrived and we were still miles off, I considered asking the driver for an update. But I hesitated. Pressuring them never worked. So I waited, read, and prayed.

We didn’t arrive to Rio Save (aka: the start of the Convoy) until after 4 pm. We’d missed it by hours. Why?

I waited until the bus completely unloaded before I approached the driver.
-- “Did we miss the convoy?” I asked confused.
-- “Yes,” he admitted.
-- “But why didn’t we drive faster? Couldn’t we have made it in time?”
He laughed at my confusion then explain that things had changed since the last time I had traveled with them. There was only one convoy a day... and it was at 11 am. We would have never made it in time. This is why he didn’t bother rushing. Then he explained that the afternoon convoy was no longer available.

As he spoke, it finally occurred to me that I’d be sleeping on the bus again and there’d be no North-bound progress until well into the following morning.
-- “How long has it been like this,” I asked, finally understanding.
-- “Oh... about two months. Since the last attacks.”
I did the mental math and realized that my last trip to Maputo was right before the attacks. I had no way of knowing it’d changed. It was probably best that way... as I wouldn’t have bothered to come if I’d known.

At this point I decided the best thing to do was to eat, charge my electronics in the nearby restaurant, and settle in for another night on the bus. Little did I know what that night would be like.

Sadly, I have nothing good to say about the things I was forced to listen to that night. Let me just say, it involved loud, drunk men, boisterous and calloused woman, and demanding children trying to make themselves heard over the raunchy repartee. They were unsuccessful, albeit persistent.

By 11 pm I was ready to start knocking heads but could think of no way to get them to quite down. I briefly contemplated stealing one of the soldiers AK-47s and marching them off the cluttered bus. Would I have to blind fold them before I subjected them to the firing squad?

By midnight, I was exhausted but 95% of the bus had settled by then. Only the most determined flirts and raunchiest drunkards bellowed on. At this point, I turned to the guy next to me and asked, “How do we get them to be quiet?” He was Mozambican. He had to know how.
-- “I’m sorry... I don’t know what to do,” he confessed. “Perhaps when the bus driver comes back....”
Unfortunately, I knew that the bus driver had rented a room for the night and was not coming back until the morning. That was a no-go.
-- “Humph!” I complained. There was nothing else I could do. I could yell at them but what would that solve? Nothing. They’d probably just yell back.

I don’t know when they finally shut up. But I can say that when they did, the relief in the bus was deep. I settled in for the second night, but slept fitfully.

By dawn, street vendors were heating water for coffee and selling bolos (fried donut holes). I desperately wanted to brush me teeth but no one was selling water at that early hour. I’d have to wait.

And wait I did.

Dozens waited with me.

Semi-trucks and mainline buses littered the roadway. Trash from the evening before was piled randomly about. A herd of goats sauntered up to investigate but they were startled soon after by a child, and ran off.

Not a dog was in sight.
          --Odd.

Everyone seemed to clump together, milling about. Some smoked. Some ate. Some talked on cell phones. All waited.

That morning's wait was the hardest for me. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep the night before, or the massive migraine jabbing the back of my eyes. Either way, I was tired.

What made it worse is I had no way to get any decent food. The buses would take off by 11 am and the restaurants wouldn’t open before then. It’d be hours before I would be able to find anything but a tangerine to eat.
        -- Not good.

By 10:30, the buses revved and everyone piled back on. The passengers were subdued --probably due to lack of sleep-- and the bus driver took us over the bridge. We had to wait another hour on the other side of the bridge for the military convoy to arrive, turn around, and escort us North again.

The trouble was... with all the added precautions, by the time we took off we were made to crawl along at a snail’s pace.

At one point, in the middle of the attack zone, we were forced to park for over an hour and wait. I can only assume it was so the military could patrol a troubled spot. But this is just a guess.

A trip that usually takes about and hour, took three.

Eventually we made it to the end of the convoy. We made a quick stop to load up on water (which I needed desperately by then) and more tangerines. Fortunately, I found a cashew seller who determinedly ran alongside the bus until I could get the right change to pay him. I slipped him the money through the window quickly grabbing a bag of nuts, as the bus drove off.

I ate nuts for lunch.

From there, the trip was more or less typical. We drove quickly in an effort to make up the lost time. And I arrived home by around 6 pm.

Sigh.

When I walked in my front door, I realized that I didn’t have water or electricity due to power failures that day; a shower was out. So instead, I loved on my animals, brushed my fuzzy teeth, and fell into bed.

The next morning, I was finally able to do the mental math. A journey that usually takes about 17 hours had morphed into roughly 46 hours.

It has taken me most of this week to recover.

The up side, of course, was that I got there and back safely. Nothing was stolen and no one was harmed... unless you count that aggressive woman in Maputo who tried to steal my seat. She still might have bruises.

And now... as this particular saga has come to an end. Let me just thank you for praying for me. Please know that I love you all dearly and need those precious prayers desperately.

Please keep praying that my papers in Maputo come through! Pray also for renewed strength, joy, and peace as I tackle the next paperwork obstacles. And pray that I would not lose heart. Thanks.

***Pictures to follow once I figure out how to download them onto my computer.

Caterpillars?

Months and months ago... yes, it's been impossible to blog about it before now because the internet would NEVER allow me to load the pictures... I went to Zimbabwe for my long-term visa. While I was there, I took advantage of the opportunity to shop for things that are just not found in Moz.

Bag of bugs! Yum!

The aisles and aisles of goodies in the local supermarket were startlingly cheap and I confess I went all out.

The thing is... they had things I'd never seen before. The most surprising of these options were caterpillars.

Hard.    Spiky.    Crusty.    Dried up caterpillars in a bag.

I picked it up to make sure my eyes were not playing games with my mind. Peering through the plastic, I inspected one black creepy crawly after the other until I was convinced.

The crawlers before they were cooked

A black man stocking the shelf beside me caught my eye and I turned to him for help.
-- "Is this really what I think it is?" I asked innocently. "Are these caterpillars?"
He smiled, nodded his head, then said, "Yes. They are really tasty."
-- "Tasty huh?" I said with a smile. "But how do you eat them? Do you just eat them like chips... out of the bag?"
-- "No, no, no," he laughed, taking the bag of critters from my hands, "You cook them first. They are delicious. I always have a bag full in my car for snacks."
-- "Really?" I said with excitement (I'm always looking for new, crazy foods), "Can you tell me how?"
He smiled wider, assuring me it was simple and taking me through the steps one by one.

Caterpillar Recipe: 

Step One~
Soak, then boil the caterpillars until they are soft.

Step Two~
Boil them so they get cleaned out and turn rubbery. 

Step Three~
Dice onions and tomatoes and whatever else you think will be tasty. 

Step Four~
Strain the softened caterpillars and toss out the water.

Step Five~
Sautee onions and caterpillars in a saucepan, seasoning with salt and pepper. 

Step Six~
Add the tomatoes, keeping heat low so it does not burn.

Step Seven~
Dish them up and enjoy! 

Fun note: I found them to be wetter (and chewier) than I expected from the store clerks recipe. So I asked a Zimbabwean friend what I did wrong. His reply was that it was perfect, but if I wanted snacks for the road, I'd have to fry them longer.

(Optional) Step Eight~
Fry in more oil, until crispy.














Note: So I did what I was told... but I fried them too long and got this.

Step Nine~
Enjoy with gusto! 

Side Note: As I'm sure you can see... they look exactly like they did out of the bag. So I can only assume that I overcooked them.

However, my Zimbabwean friends didn't mind at all. Nor did I. Honestly, I found them better when crispy. They are easier to chew.

So there you have it. Once again, I'm convinced that any bug is yummy if deep fried long enough!       

Moral of the story: Some people eat chicken. Some people eat steak. And some people eat... caterpillars?  
             ---Yum!

Traveling Lessons: Part Two

(If you have not read the first part of this story... please read this post first.) 

When I pulled up next to the man in blue, (who conveniently stood in the middle of the street), he showed me my speed and told me I was 20 km over the limit.

“But... we are out of the village...” I protested. “I can go 110 km here. I’m under the limit.”

He did not seem amused and just shook his head in response. “Pull over.”

I obeyed but did not feel any guilt. How could they expect me to obey signs that did not exist?

The man handed ‘my case’ over to a woman in a neatly pressed blue suit and a clip board. She sauntered up to the truck and told me in no uncertain terms that there would be a fine.

“You must pay $20.00 dollars,” she informed me flatly in melodic Zimbabwean English.

I tried to plead my innocence saying, “But there are no signs..... and the village has ended.” She seemed unimpressed and politely insisted I pay.

When that did not work, I asked her to forgive the debt. “Can’t you just forgive me? I promise I won’t do it again.”

“I’ll forgive you tomorrow,” she quipped. “Today you pay.”

She was polite about it, but not very lenient.

“But tomorrow I will know where the village ends,” I explained, “And I won’t go over the limit.”

Perhaps I pushed longer than I should have, but I did not want to pay a fine for something so trivial. 

Lesson Five: Even if the rules are not posted, you can still get fined for breaking them.

When my third attempt at forgiveness fell flat, I gave up and said, “Okay... but I’ll need a receipt for this fine.”

Only then did she look at me in surprise. Up to this point, she hadn’t even asked for my license or registration.

“A receipt?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

“Yes,” I said while pointing to the official looking papers on her clip board. Then I searched through my purse for the twenty.

When I handed over the bill I hesitated before letting go and said, “I must have a receipt. (Slight pause.) This is God’s money... and I must show how it is spent (hard serious stare).”

Once I finally let go of the bill, she looked at it, then at me and said, “You are a person. I am a person...” I nodded in agreement thinking to myself, ‘Sure. We are humans. Okay. What are you getting at?’

She continued on with her convoluted sentences, adding some nonsense about us being ‘people’ and I agreed with her again. But I did not get her point and just stared at her blankly.

Then I repeated kindly but with resolve: “I need my receipt.”

With time she stopped talking about ‘people’ and offered to split my twenty if I didn’t insist on a receipt. Her precise words were, “How about you go with ten, I go with ten... and we are done.”

I smiled, but only to soften the ‘No’ that was soon to follow. The look of surprise on her face was priceless. She fully expected her offer to be received. When she did not move, I spoke up again. “Sorry Ma’am, but no. This is God’s money. Since you insist I pay... I must insist it be used for the fine.”

She was not impressed.

But seeing that I was not willing to permit the bribe, she grudgingly filled out the form, asking for the spelling of my name (as she had still not asked for my ID or driver’s license!). I could have told her I was named “Ferdinanda Finklespunker” and she would have jotted it down in the same irritated way.

Lesson Six: Always get receipts, if only to irritate the less-than-honest!

Eventually she finished the form, handed me my receipt, and then walked off in a huff.

No goodbyes. No safe travels. No farewells.

I didn’t mind the brush off and was soon on my way... but as African roads would have it I didn’t get far.

Potholes led to flat tires, and flat tires led to bent rims, and bent rims... well they got sorted out in the end. It just ate a chunk out of our travel time.

Lesson Seven: ALWAYS travel with a spare tire, car jack, and bike pump!

Not surprisingly after my speeding ticket and flat tire, Roy decided to drive again. Who could blame him? I had shown myself to be inept at talking myself out of fines, and even worse at avoiding road hazards!

Subsequently, we did not make it back to Mozambique that night. (It was unlikely, anyway.) Instead, we stayed at a friend’s house in Matare where they fed and watered us, then tucked us in for the night.

The next morning, we woke early and were quickly on our way as we had one final border to cross.

Getting out of Zimbabwe was a cinch. However, we gnawed our nails wondering what Mozambique would bring. Burdened low with motor engines, donated clothes, various electronics, and the general splendor of three pack rats, we couldn’t say whether they’d let us through.

Would we have to declare everything? Only time would tell.

So we prayed. And... I know you prayed as well.

And upon entering Mozambique God blinded the custom officials to all our stuff and shimmied us through in no time!

Lesson Eight: Prayer works!

From the border we were just an hours drive back to Maforga.... where ecstatic, bouncing children waited for their hugs.

In the end, our two day trip took three... but it was fun and insightful all the same. Thank you for covering us in prayer. The more I think about it the more I realize the favor and grace we received each step of the way. 

What a blessing!

Traveling Lessons: Part One

I’m told we are in early autumn, but it’s hard to believe. Everything is growing. Everything is green. In fact, my first two days here it rained almost non-stop. We unloaded our vehicle amid warm, steady showers.

But we were so happy to arrive, no one cared about the mud or the soaked bags.

In fact, our welcoming party was one of shrieking joy and the bouncing ecstasy of children. Dozens of them. Running. Clapping. Shouting for attention. Calling for Papa Roy or Mama Trish to wrap them up in a hug and a kiss.

The party was not for me... but I enjoyed it all the same. I stole a few hugs from the younger ones and slapped hands with those ‘too cool’ for hugging. The older girls remembered me well, and greeted me by name.

As I stood there taking it all in, one by one their cherub faces morphed into memories for me.

I was back.

I was really back.

The army of children unloaded the truck and trailer in no time, carrying each packet on their heads despite the downpour.

But I get ahead of myself a bit. I intended to write about my journey here. But so much has happened this week, my thoughts are crowded out by more urgent and pressing ones.

Nevertheless, my trip here was noteworthy... so I will write it. Please bare with me.

Achem... let’s see. Where to begin.

After the end of my three-week delay in South Africa, Roy picked me up bright and early Thursday morning. The plan was to leave directly, picking up some car parts on the way to our final destination that night --Zimbabwe.

But when I saw that Roy arrived without the truck packed and Trish was nowhere in sight, I knew we had a long day ahead. Smiling wryly, I loaded my bags and prayed that my American affinity for schedules would not get in the way. 

Lesson One: Schedules are not important... but people are.

We were supposed to pick up a phone card on the way back to Trish, but the directions were not good so we steamed on ahead without them. This proved to be the wrong choice as once we packed up the truck and trailer (which took several hours), we had to go back for them (adding an hour to our delay).

By one in the afternoon we were on the road to Pretoria where a friend’s car parts were waiting. But we were so heavy loaded, no one expected to find room for them.

Miraculously, there was.

It took three strong men to lift the engine block into the back of the trailer, rearranging the donated clothes as they went. But to everyone’s relief and surprise, it worked!

Lesson Two: In Africa, there is always room for one more.

Now with an engine block, massive donations for the orphans, my heaping bags, and three adults we set out for our journey. It was well past two in the afternoon at this point and we no longer hoped to reach Zimbabwe that night.

We’d have to stay at a guesthouse in South Africa.

Plus once we started calling around, it became clear there was trouble at the border and no one was getting through. Friends had been waiting for hours in line with little progress. 

A few more phone calls and we secured ourselves a room in a small guesthouse in ???. But we only pulled in to our destination by 9 p.m.

We got settled quickly, found a restaurant that was still open that late, and had a quick bite before we turned in for the night. We could not be sure of what the border would bring the next morning and wanted to be rested before we got there.

The next morning started at dawn. The guesthouse gave us a breakfast of champions. Eggs. Bacon. Fried tomatoes. Yogurt. Fruit bowl. Biscuits. Toast. Cereal. Meat spreads. Cheeses. And more!

Apparently this is a common English Breakfast, but my eyes could not take it all in. There was more food than I could eat in a week --all for just three people! But no doubt, this home-made luxury put a smile on my face as we headed out the door.

It took us another two hours before we reached the border.



I’m not sure what I expected... but it was certainly not what I saw. Large warehouse-like buildings in various stages of ruin (or repair depending on your view in life) peppered a flat open space hemmed in with chain-link fences and green-clad guards in berets.

I did not see any guns... if they were there at all. But I did see a long line --which was getting longer while we watched.

Trish was hesitant to leave the truck for fear our stuff would up and walk off. And even when we finally joined the line, she watched it like a naughty child hell-bent on finding its way into trouble.

Fortunately our wait in line was not as long as expected and we were through the South African side in under an hour. But once we had our passports stamped, we then had to be granted access into Zimbabwe.

This meant more lines, more officials, and (for me at least) more money. I won’t bore you with the number of lines and stamps needed. Suffice to know, it was more than a few.

Lesson Three: Even with all the right papers, Africa can still take hours and hours.

By lunch we were finally through and on our way to Matare. But a few hours into the drive, Roy got sleepy and offered me the wheel.

I was happy to take it (as I love to drive), but I wanted to do it right. Since no speed limits were posted, I constantly kept asking Trish, “How fast can I go here?” and “Is this the right speed?”

It got so bad that Trish began to chuckle and repeat in slow, articulated English, “It’s 60 km in the village... and a 110 on the highway.”

“But how do you know where the village begins... or ends?” I asked in desperation. The highway was nothing but a narrow two lane paved road with tuffs of dirt on either side. I could see no houses and just a few people from the road.

“The best rule of thumb,” she began “is to look for crossroads.”

“Crossroads? What do you mean ‘crossroads’?” I complained, “It all looks the same to me.” 

She laughed again, then pointed out a tiny dirt path shooting off to one side.

“That!” I exclaimed in indignation. “That could barely fit a large motorcycle!”

“Precisely!” she continued, “If it could fit a motorcycle, then it’s a crossroad.”

I just shook my head in confusion and carried on.

Lesson Four: Even if the rules are not posted, you still have to know them.



It did not take long for a ‘village’ to appear. But the only thing I could see that made this village a ‘village’ was the large tree shading a handful of traffic police with speed guns pointing right at me.

But I had anticipated them and had been able to slow to the proper speed in time.

The dilemma was... I could not tell where the village ended. Once I passed them, I didn’t see any more footpaths and naturally started to speed up. The heavyly loaded trailer and truck did not allow this to happen quickly, and thus I was only at 81 km when the next pile of traffic police waved me down.

The scoundrels!

(Read the rest of the story in Traveling Lessons: Part Two by clicking here....)