A dummies guide to Mozambican transport

It would take us four days of traveling north to get to Pemba in Northern Mozambique. The road less traveled, backpackers and holiday makers mostly clung to the facilities of Southern Mozambique, and while we had heard that the beaches were more spectacular in the north, we hadn't met many traveler's keen to suffer the long, hot and uncomfortable journey through Mozambique's central region, once dubbed as "hell" by the missionaries. It was Dave, from Bunalunga in South Africa who had first injected the idea of traveling the whole country into my head, and as it played on my mind, I convinced Jon with the rewards of adventure and the "real backpacking" we had avoided so easily among the established tourist infrastructure of South Africa.

At 3am Jon and i crawled through our dorm and said goodbye to Joel as he slept. We were at the bus half an hour early, at 4am, and already a massive amount of luggage had accumulated next to the trailer. Having done a few African bus trips, i was beginning to see how these things worked, but that didn't mean i understood them. Today we would travel from Vilankoulous, a small costal holiday town, with no rural agriculture, to Mozambique's second largest city. As they struggled to fit all the luggage in the trailer i wanted to ask some of the women, "We are traveling on a very small bus, do you think we could sort out the 50kgs of rice when we get there?" But i kept my mouth shut.

After much Portuguese conversation and input from passengers, the trailer was taken off the bus. Some passengers got off. They began to push start the bus. I sat on the dusty sidewalk with a group of old women. Sleep deprived and confused all i could do was laugh. At first they were shocked that i made a noise, but then they laughed too, looking and pointing and laughing with me. They spoke in Portuguese, made gestures that suggested that these guys had no idea what they were doing, and i nodded and laughed back. It didn't matter than we could talk in the same language, we all knew what we were on about!

The bus finally left at 6:30, two hours late, and many push start attempts later. I immediately fell asleep, only to wake up again everything the bus stopped. Then we went throughout the same routine; unload the trailer, push the bus, start the bus, run back and get the trailer. Eventually the bus stopped, wouldn't start again and we all just sat in the bus for an hour or longer.

But because this is Africa, something always happens, and sure enough a tractor soon wandered down the road behind us, to lead a tow. The bus trip was meant to be 10 hours long, but at this point i had to relax and had to accept that i could have no expectations of when we would eventually get there. I tired to ignore the cramped conditions, and focus on my book. I could hear the chickens, but i couldn't see them yet. Im kept checking it was in fact a pineapple my feet were resting on.

We paused in every town along the way, giving the boys and women along the road time to sell us oranges, bananas, cashews, softdrinks and phone cards. The great majority of sellers seemed to want to hang around at our windows. I wasn't sure if they were there because they thought we had lots of money, or just because they wanted to look. Whenever we walked down the street Jon would point out how people looked at us. They see your face and stare, then there eyes look down at all of you and back up. It didn't bother me, when it comes down to it, i was only here to look at them too.

The road got worse towards the middle of the day. Dust bellowed through every crack of the bus. All the windows were open, a feeble attempt to clear it, it may have made it worse, but the heat would have been to stiflingly to close them anyway. The dust was accumulating at such a rate that i couldn't finish a page of my book without wiping the brown dirt from the pages. Jon woke up, his white t-shirt now brown, laughing at the dust that bellowed from his jeans when he slapped them. Dust covered his face, beard and sunglasses. He took them off and inspected them, laughing with surprise. "Sorry" i said. "We tried to bury you alive whilst you slept" i reasoned.
"Yeah, no shit" he laughed.

That night in a cheap motel in Beria. I scrubbed my skin furiously, trying to release the dust and sweat caked over my body. My ears and nose were full of dust. When i stepped out of the shower, i was a completely different colour. I went to bed at 9 pm, and realized that it was probably the first day in about 7 years that i hadn't had a single cup of coffee. I fell asleep almost immediately.

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When the alarm went off at 5am, my first thoughts were again of coffee, and most distressingly, the reality that it would probably be late evening before i came across any. We caught a taxi to the bus station and our driver was amazing. We had no idea when the direct bus to Quailamane left, but as it turned out, we had missed it. He was armed with options, took us to another bus station and found a bus that would take half way, to the Zambezi river, where we should be able to find another bus once we crossed it.

I asked the guy filling the bus about coffee. "Cafe?" I asked, id learnt the important words in Portuguese, he didn't speak much English. But he laughed, and told me it was too early!!!! Too early for coffee?? Now I was confused. Major culture shock. I wasn't sure how a Melbournite was meant to deal with a country which could declare a time to early for coffee!

When we asked how much for the bus they said 200, but after they had a few moments to think about it, they decided the price was 700. We'd been ripped off on buses before, but at least they had done it subtlety . These guys were just being obvious. No, we said, argued and eventually one of the guys got on our side, said it wasn't fair, and told us 150.

The conductor started to collect fares when we neared the river. The price shot up again to 350. I was so mad. In Aussie dollars it was nothing, but i didn't appreciate being deceived. He had our 200 each in his hand and wanted more. I snatched the money off the non English speaking conductor, sat back in my seat and threatened to pay him nothing. He was furious, he climbed back into the front seat. He was a big guy. I began to think it hadn't been a good idea to make him that mad. "We will have to pay 350" i said to Jon quietly. He nodded.
"There gonna give us a hard time now" he said. I reached into my bag, and made sure i had the correct change to throw at him before he broke my knee caps.

Soon after we drove past a bus on the side of the road. Our bus pulled over and our conductor ran over to it. As expected, an English speaking guy soon appeared. We told him what had happened.
"Yeah, i don't know" said the guy "Maybe these guys are trying to cheat you, but i cant help you and they want there money". We understood, but he negotiate it to 300 for us, which felt like a small victory.

Later we both agreed that we forth over nothing, but we weren't going to be Neff tourist who blindly pay more for everything, we weren't idiots.

We got to the Zambezi River crossing around 3 pm. I was still annoyed and fuming from the bus. I didn't want to talk to anyone. One guy tried to help us, in the usual over helpful Mozambiqan fashion. "Yes, the ferry" he explained "It is across the water at this moment, but once full it shall return, you can get on it and it will take you to the other side." I raised an eyebrow,
"As is the nature of all ferries I suppose" I said sarcastically. Jon laughed. I instantly felt bad for my unnecessary snap and thanked the guy. We found a cool spot to wait in the shade.

Across the river we found a chappa going to Queilamane, but it wouldn't leave yet. We loaded our bags and hung out among the fisherman and shop owners. I lay back and read my book, watching all the commotion as people, animals are cargo passed across the river, sometimes by ferry, other times by the less stable traditional dugout cannons. A group of guys surrounded Jon, listening to his MP3 player and taking photos of each other with his camera. At first we saw this as a delay, but as the sunset over the Zambezi river, we watched with our new friends, and we were pretty glad for our delay.

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The next day we had planned a break from travel, and spent the day in Queilamane. We got to sleep in, and had breakfast in a cafe around the corner. At the markets we found a chappa to Zalala beach, which was actually just a ute. A first with only a few people in the back, the truck speed off at a ridiculous speed, and i closed my eyes and held on for dear life. Eventually, the fuller the ute got, the slower the driver went. Within about 20 minutes were were packed in. In Africa they tell you that "The bus is never full, there is always room for another person and their chicken". Fair enough, but i did wonder if there was really room for 2 more people, a bag of rice, a kid and a bicycle, but somehow they managed to fit and prove me wrong.

The ride was a lot of fun. Everyone on the chappa seemed really happy to have Jon and myself along. They shook our hands and spoke to us in Portuguese, and even though we had no idea what they were saying, all the atmosphere of a good time was in the air. The road left the city and traveled though little towns made of grass huts and fields of palm trees. When they dropped us at the beach, they drove us onto the sand, and cheered us goodbye as they drove off into the distance.

The beach wasn't nearly as nice as the beaches we had seen in the South. The sand was black with silver bits through it. There are lots of smelly factories in Africa, I wondered if it was pollution. I went swimming first and reported back to Jon that the water was "murky and funny tasting". He laughed and didn't bother testing it out for himself.

Back in Queilamane we went to the markets. That morning i had noticed the faint toilet smell that lingered around the markets, but when i stepped inside the stalls, i was overcome with it.
"Oh god, it really stinks in here" I said to Jon.
"Smells like toilet hey?" he said. Running thorough the markets were drains of thick brown slime. We came to the realization at the same time.
"Oh god, i think it really is shit" i said.
"Are we really going to buy bread here?" asked Jon.
"No were leaving" I made my way out of the markets.

Quelimane was not a rural town. It had apartment blocks, electricity, running water and too many mobile phone towers. In my mind there was no excuse for an open sewer to be running through a market selling vegetables, meat and fish. I was really disgusted, annoyed and perplexed.

The next morning i stood outside at 4am waiting at the bus stop. I chatted with a well spoken English teacher. "Do you mind if i smoke?" he asked. Sure, i though, people shit in your streets, why could i care about a little smoke? The smell is probably an improvement....