Les finished her post by recalling that we were offered a lift by a 50-something South African guy and his local sidekick in a 4x4 on our way to the hostel. Having no desire to struggle with our bags, we accepted, and pretty much as soon as we got in he offered us a place to stay. "My boss owns a house on the beach here and we're up doing some work for the weekend. There's lots of extra space." Naturally we were skeptical. I'm very careful when on the road, because really if I had to choose, Africa is the last place I would want to be abducted and/or chopped to pieces.
We bought the guys a beer, and Ricky - let's call him Ricky so he doesn't get fired if his boss reads this - proceeded to talk our ears off, while his Mozambiquan sidekick, 'Bob' lurked in the background (this guy said about 10 words the whole trip). After 10 minutes we were really getting along and thought it was worth at least going to see the place. Back we hopped into the jeep and started driving... and driving... It wasn't exactly a long drive, but it was getting to be the kind of walk where we were no longer in town and the roads turned from pavement to sand.
Our skepticism was quickly obliterated when we entered the compound where about 2 dozen of these houses, built by Ricky's boss - who by the way is a billionaire - are located, all on secluded lots, the roads to each lined with conch shells every 6 inches. Seeing the house was a bit of a surprise. It was a 4 bedroom bungalow overlooking the ocean, complete with housekeeper/gardener, satellite TV, a kitchen I would kill for, air conditioning and a pool. And it looked pretty much brand new. "You can have this room," said Ricky. Les and I poked our heads in to find a giant 4 post king sized bed with white sheets, ensuite bathroom (bathtub and shower). The place was a palace, and we were going to stay the weekend for free. Didn't take us long to accept the offer.
After unpacking and changing we took a tour down the beach, taking note of some of the palaces on the cliffs, and with Les going crazy over the sheer number of conch shells strewn across the sand. Hunger soon set in and we 4 drove back to town to hit the market. We were approached by some teenagers with one of the most ridiculous sights I've seen - a gigantic potato sack full of the most gigantic crabs known to man. Obviously I'm exaggerating but this seems like a good time for a side note - did you know that there's something called a coconut crab that lives in Mozambique which is about a foot and a half across that climbs coconut trees and opens the fruit with its claws? Nature is scary.
Anyhow, the crabs were were haggling over were massive, and of course alive. Our 3 picks were hilarious to watch, squirming around in the back of the jeep. We went back home, and long story short, they were delicious. For the next few days we ate good food, drank a lot of brandy, enjoyed the weather, a few sleep-ins and may have watched Jumanji. We also got to hear some amazing stories from an extraordinary man, Ricky. In his younger years, apparently he worked driving a bulldozer in Mozambique... clearing landmines. He would drive the dozer all day, stoned, hitting an average of 4-5 mines a day.
"The little antipersonnel ones would just go pop, but every once in a while you hit an anti tank mine and the dozer gets lifted off the ground a bit. One time, I hit one of these mines and the front blade came clean off the thing. When I recovered I look around and couldn't figure out where it went. A few seconds later this giant piece of metal came flying out of the sky and drover itself into the ground just a few feet behind me." Wild.
As a South African of a certain generation, Ricky was forced to perform quite active military service. He served in the navy for 20 years, part of it on a submarine traveling the world. On ships, he told us that when the government suspected a village of harbouring or aiding insurgents, a landing party of marines would call in a ship to shore bombardment and obliterate it. "Marines walking through that village after, as teenagers, you would get sick. There would be absolutely nothing left. Nothing. Except maybe an arm here and a foot there. Not a single thing was left living." Nowadays Ricky is in a much more civilized line of work and enjoys being sent up to Vilanculo at his billionaire boss's bidding to take care of a few projects. Ricky, you're an amazing guy and we thank you for your hospitality.
After the weekend we said our goodbyes and returned to the realities of hostel living. Cold showers and drab accommodation.
This is where I curse fancy hotels and their shitty internet connections, cause I had written several more paragraphs but it crashed. Unfortunately I have to leave it here. We're in Maputo, the capital, and having a great time. Off to South Africa soon and I'll be home in about a week. Why are we in a fancy hotel, you might ask? I'll leave that for next time. Peace.
Showing posts with label vilanculo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vilanculo. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Lesley's Inaugural Post!
I've been pestering Lesley, my partner in crime, for ages now to write a guest blog. To my surprise, she actually agreed to do it today. Here is her masterpiece!!!
- Mike
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From Malawi to Mozambique
(How it took 3 days to travel 1000km)
Looking at maps of Africa, things look deceptively simple. There is a nice, big-looking road that takes you from Lilongwe (Malawi) to the border crossing at Zobue (Mozambique), and down to Tete. From there, there is yet another nice, big-looking road that takes you straight to Chimoio, which is a good 2/3rds of the way to where we are headed: a small ocean-side village called Vilanculos, where we plan to be beach bums and not much else. "We can make it to Chimoio in a day!" says Mike, eternally an optimist. "Then half a day to Vilanculos... we'll be on the beach eating crab in 2 days baby! I promise!"
No such luck. What the maps don't show you are potholes. Nor do they warn you about the reliability of African minibuses.
So, full of the aforementioned optimism, we set off bright and early. We packed ourselves onto a minibus heading from Lilongwe to some town (name forgotten), where we could transfer to another minibus that would take us to the border, where we could catch another minibus to Tete, where we could catch another minibus to Chimoio. Easy.
Minibus # 1 picked its way for hours along the 'big-looking' road, swerving perilously around the man-sized potholes (I exaggerate, but only a bit) - when suddenly there is a loud beep sound coming from the bus, and it grinds to a halt at the side of the road. This is breakdown #1. We all pile off the bus, the bus driver calls for a new minibus to come get us, and we sit in the scorching sun and wait. At long last, minibus #2 comes and rescues us, and we're on the road again. We stop and hop into Minibus #3 (where some guys tried to convince me to give them my camera... uh... no thanks) and we set our sites on the border, more than few hours behind schedule.
We cross the border without too much fuss, and hop into Minibus #4, which unexpectedly stops and transfers us to Minibus #5, which again makes slow progress along the beaten-up roads. Mike and I are dozing in the back (with someone else's children on our laps) when we are roused by that foreboding beeping sound again. Breakdown #2; we are out of petrol. A bicycle emerges out of nowhere, and someone hops on to cycle to the nearest gas station, plastic jug in hand. Sitting on the side of the road in the pitch dark, Mike and I decided that Chimoio is no longer looking like an option, so we start looking though our guidebook for places to stay in Tete. It sounds like the armpit of Africa, and so it is. We arrive eventually, and make our way through the concrete city to a place to rest for the night. The room consisted of 2 horribly uncomfortable metal cots, 1 broken sink that flooded the bathroom, one seatless toilet, and one giant giant cockroach. Mmmm.
The next morning we got up at 5 and headed to the bus station, where we discovered that the only bus to Chimoio had left 2 hours earlier. Not relishing the idea of staying in the lovely Tete for a moment longer, we opted for some hitchhiking. We lucked out and found an 18 wheeler willing to give us a lift, so we climbed up and made ourselves comfortable in the back of the cab, perching on the driver's bed. We spent the rest of the day picking our way along the road at a maximum speed of 60 mph, but at an average speed of about 5. But sitting on a bed is significantly more comfortable than sitting on a Minibus, so I'm not complaining.
Eventually we made it to Chimoio, where we slept for a few hours. At this point I am wondering, "Where is my beach?! Where are the promised crabs?! Damn you and your optimism Mr. Pietrzak!!!" We awake at 2 am to catch bus #6, which leaves at 3am for Vilanculo. Cue breakdown #3. Sitting on the side of the road, again, listening to the beeping sound, again, we watched as our bus driver disappeared under the bus to locate the problem. "We'll be sleeping here tonight" one of the passengers said to me. Looking down the stretch of highway and seeing nothing in either direction, I found myself wishing that I had brought my tent.
20 minutes later, the bus driver emerges from under the bus, oil covered, and orders everyone to return to their seats. "What happened?" I ask, to which he responds something about a broken pipe that carries the diesel. The work of potholes, I assume. He says he thinks he's got it fixed. "Will it hold?" I ask. "Let's find out." Clearly I look skeptical, so he says "Do you know how to fix a bus?" Point taken, so I sit down and shut up.
The trip continues without incident, when without warning the bus stops at the side of the road, and Mike and I are ordered off. The bus driver points at a pickup truck and informs us that it will take us the rest of the way to Vilanculo. So, we pile on in and arrive - tired, dirty, and windswept - in Vilanculo. And it only took 6 minibuses, an 18 wheeler, and a pickup truck. And 3 very long days.
Throwing our packs on our backs, we start the walk under the afternoon sun to our hostel, when a 4x4 stops and offers us a lift to our hostel. And so begins our next adventure, but I'll leave that one for Mike.
- Les
- Mike
----------------------
From Malawi to Mozambique
(How it took 3 days to travel 1000km)
Looking at maps of Africa, things look deceptively simple. There is a nice, big-looking road that takes you from Lilongwe (Malawi) to the border crossing at Zobue (Mozambique), and down to Tete. From there, there is yet another nice, big-looking road that takes you straight to Chimoio, which is a good 2/3rds of the way to where we are headed: a small ocean-side village called Vilanculos, where we plan to be beach bums and not much else. "We can make it to Chimoio in a day!" says Mike, eternally an optimist. "Then half a day to Vilanculos... we'll be on the beach eating crab in 2 days baby! I promise!"
No such luck. What the maps don't show you are potholes. Nor do they warn you about the reliability of African minibuses.
So, full of the aforementioned optimism, we set off bright and early. We packed ourselves onto a minibus heading from Lilongwe to some town (name forgotten), where we could transfer to another minibus that would take us to the border, where we could catch another minibus to Tete, where we could catch another minibus to Chimoio. Easy.
Minibus # 1 picked its way for hours along the 'big-looking' road, swerving perilously around the man-sized potholes (I exaggerate, but only a bit) - when suddenly there is a loud beep sound coming from the bus, and it grinds to a halt at the side of the road. This is breakdown #1. We all pile off the bus, the bus driver calls for a new minibus to come get us, and we sit in the scorching sun and wait. At long last, minibus #2 comes and rescues us, and we're on the road again. We stop and hop into Minibus #3 (where some guys tried to convince me to give them my camera... uh... no thanks) and we set our sites on the border, more than few hours behind schedule.
We cross the border without too much fuss, and hop into Minibus #4, which unexpectedly stops and transfers us to Minibus #5, which again makes slow progress along the beaten-up roads. Mike and I are dozing in the back (with someone else's children on our laps) when we are roused by that foreboding beeping sound again. Breakdown #2; we are out of petrol. A bicycle emerges out of nowhere, and someone hops on to cycle to the nearest gas station, plastic jug in hand. Sitting on the side of the road in the pitch dark, Mike and I decided that Chimoio is no longer looking like an option, so we start looking though our guidebook for places to stay in Tete. It sounds like the armpit of Africa, and so it is. We arrive eventually, and make our way through the concrete city to a place to rest for the night. The room consisted of 2 horribly uncomfortable metal cots, 1 broken sink that flooded the bathroom, one seatless toilet, and one giant giant cockroach. Mmmm.
The next morning we got up at 5 and headed to the bus station, where we discovered that the only bus to Chimoio had left 2 hours earlier. Not relishing the idea of staying in the lovely Tete for a moment longer, we opted for some hitchhiking. We lucked out and found an 18 wheeler willing to give us a lift, so we climbed up and made ourselves comfortable in the back of the cab, perching on the driver's bed. We spent the rest of the day picking our way along the road at a maximum speed of 60 mph, but at an average speed of about 5. But sitting on a bed is significantly more comfortable than sitting on a Minibus, so I'm not complaining.
Eventually we made it to Chimoio, where we slept for a few hours. At this point I am wondering, "Where is my beach?! Where are the promised crabs?! Damn you and your optimism Mr. Pietrzak!!!" We awake at 2 am to catch bus #6, which leaves at 3am for Vilanculo. Cue breakdown #3. Sitting on the side of the road, again, listening to the beeping sound, again, we watched as our bus driver disappeared under the bus to locate the problem. "We'll be sleeping here tonight" one of the passengers said to me. Looking down the stretch of highway and seeing nothing in either direction, I found myself wishing that I had brought my tent.
20 minutes later, the bus driver emerges from under the bus, oil covered, and orders everyone to return to their seats. "What happened?" I ask, to which he responds something about a broken pipe that carries the diesel. The work of potholes, I assume. He says he thinks he's got it fixed. "Will it hold?" I ask. "Let's find out." Clearly I look skeptical, so he says "Do you know how to fix a bus?" Point taken, so I sit down and shut up.
The trip continues without incident, when without warning the bus stops at the side of the road, and Mike and I are ordered off. The bus driver points at a pickup truck and informs us that it will take us the rest of the way to Vilanculo. So, we pile on in and arrive - tired, dirty, and windswept - in Vilanculo. And it only took 6 minibuses, an 18 wheeler, and a pickup truck. And 3 very long days.
Throwing our packs on our backs, we start the walk under the afternoon sun to our hostel, when a 4x4 stops and offers us a lift to our hostel. And so begins our next adventure, but I'll leave that one for Mike.
- Les
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