Into Mozambique I go...

Word of warning, though this post covers only two days worth, they were very interesting and busy, and so this is a long post. Sorry!

My travels in Malawi had all been relatively easy and had, though often long, gone off without a hitch. I’d almost began to suspect that all the stories one hears about difficulty of travel on this continent had been vastly over exaggerated. Until I got to Mozambique.

As soon as the minibus taking me to the border town Milange stopped, people started grabbing furiously at my backpack that was in the back of the bus. I was in the furthest back seat, so I had to bat hands away and yell a wee bit more than I wanted to get people to leave it alone. They weren’t trying to nick it, but wanted me to take their crappy little bicycle taxi the 300m to the border post and onwards into Mozambique. I guess the best way to secure a customer is to take his stuff.

At the border post I had no problems, which was a relief, though the immigration officer was very suspicious of why I had only traveled in one country, Malawi, previous to Mozambique. She kept insisting – where have you been in Africa? She showed me other people’s immigration forms – lots of foreigners had listed far more than one country. It just struck me as funny that it would seem suspicious that I’d flown into Malawi, as if no one goes there by choice for Malawi, it’s just for transit.

On the Mozambique side, I proceeded by bicycle taxi to the nearest Mozambican town. A bicycle taxi driver had stayed with me for the 30 minutes at immigration. He was pretty patient and desperate for the work. The legal procedure for the Malawians to get into Mozambique for this short term work is quite funny – they buy a scrap of paper from a vender (who literally rips a piece of paper from a notebook) write their name down, sign it and then get it stamped by both Malawian and Mozambican authorities. That’s as easy as bureaucracy gets, eh Brian? Once in the town, he tried to change the fare to double what we’d agreed, citing that the cycle was uphill. I wondered if the landscape had changed since the last time he’d done the trip. I gave him all my remaining Malawian currency (Kwacha).

Once in the Mozambican Milange town, I sought out transport onwards to Mocuba. The only transport was a Chapa (a pick-up truck) who said he’d be leaving if they got 10 passengers. I was number two. I asked what would happen if there wasn’t ten? We might leave tomorrow. ‘Might’. Ah yes – I have patience in my aresenal! We waited around until there were 8 of us, but it was getting on towards 3pm and the drive to Mocuba is cited as 4 hours in the Lonely Planet (though I sensed misinformation) and I didn’t want to get stuck in this town overnight, pay $10 for accommodation, and still not be sure if we were leaving the next day. So I offered to pay double my fare ($15 from $8) if we left right then. The driver thought it over and agreed. Woo!

The driver was awesome. He’s Mozambican, but third generation of Indian descent. He let me sit up in the front with him. He spoke a little English and smokes like he’s got nothing else to put in his lungs. It was a crazy drive, all dirt road, and lasting about 8 hours. He liked to yell passionately about things and to gesticulate as he drove – I kept my eyes on the road for the both of us. Once in Mocuba (the length of this paragraph doesn’t really represent how long the drive really was) he had to drive around town delivering the goods in the back, and making sure he got the price that had been promised by the people who’d loaded it. It was fun, and a little mad. Around 11pm we went to the bus depot where he showed me which bus I’d have to get to Nampula the next day at 3.30am and found a cheap hotel ($8 and not worth a penny of it) right next to the bus. Also, amusingly, Lonely Planet describes Mocuba as ‘Nobody’s favorite town’ but it was this chapa driver’s favorite in the world. Pretty funny.

The next ‘morning’, after barely 4 hours sleep, I got into the bus to Nampula. It was a fairly uneventful 7 hour drive along (mostly) paved roads.

I got off the bus and had my first ever experience with Police looking for a bribe! I’d read about it, heard about it… I felt kind of like a kid who’s won the raffle – Wow, this is happening to me! A little strange, I know. But because I’d learned what to do in those scenarios, and I had plenty of time so wasn’t being inconvenienced, so thought it was a very interesting experience. Here’s how it played out. I got off the bus and there were two police officers waiting. They asked to see my passport, and since I don’t yet have a notarized copy of it, I handed it over. They checked through the photo and visa pages for about 15 minutes, mulling over the gravity of the problem in my document. Then, they informed me that my visa was wrong. It had a ‘start date’ and a ‘duration amount’ but no ‘end date’. I explained, with the help of the bus driver (which makes two awesome bus drivers in a row!) that they don’t write an ‘end date’ until you leave the country. That I have 30 days from the starting date, and this was day… two. One of the officers was happy with this, the other (shorter and fatter, let’s call him ‘The Fat One’) was not and reiterated over and over that this was not allowed. After a while, the bus driver told me (I supposed my feigned ignorance of what was really going on convinced him) that the police wanted ‘soda’. ‘Soda’ or ‘Fanta’ or ‘Coke’ is the typical way of asking for a bribe. I said that I wouldn’t pay, because I don’t have very much money. Then I offered to go to the police station or immigration office with them. The Fat One eyed me up and then, in an aggressive, pompous manner, declared that yes, we would go to the police station, and turned ready to go. I, just as speedily, grabbed my bag, buckled it around my waist (to show that I was serious about going) and caught up to him very quickly. I think my eagerness and willingness put him off because The Fat One stopped, exchanged a few words with the other police man and handed me back my passport, informing me that I could go.

What fun police interactions are! As long as you have time (i.e. not in any kind of hurry) and patience, it makes for an interesting, not altogether awful experience. It’s certainly not worse than someone badgering you for money or trying to sell some huge wooden table to you as you try to walk (as if I would carry that wherever I’m going).

I was then very lucky as I got to the Nampula bus depot expecting to find out at what time the bus to Pemba was leaving the following morning (predicting 3-4am) but found there was a bus leaving in an hour! So I climbed on and an hour later, when close to sixty five thousand bags of flour and shoes had been loaded into the passenger area, we left! Twenty minutes later, a tire popped like a gun shot. The passengers groaned and, with the familiarity of high schoolers doing the monthly fire drill, exited the bus. Twenty minutes later, the wheel had been changed and we were off again.

About 3 hours later, one of the strangest things ever to happen to me on a bus… happened. We crossed into another province, the bus stopped, and we all had to get out and rinse our hands. Then we got back on and continued on our way. It was so strange. They said it’s to stop diseases from entering the province, which I suppose makes sense in ideological terms… but, as far as I know, diseases can be transmitted via other means as well. Therefore, it seems a waste of time to have everyone wash their hands (with, presumably, unfiltered water) if you’re also not going to brush everyone’s teeth, give everyone a vaccine and search your bags like Australian Immigration. Pretty funny.

Twenty kilometers from Pemba, Boom! Another flat tire. We kept driving, because it was so close. We could hear the loud flapping of the tire for 10km (during which we went a little slower, but still overtook a pick-up truck whilst going uphill). Then they stopped and cut the tire away from the wheel. It was explained to me that the flapping sound would attract police attention. Ah.

I finally arrived at my accommodation at Pemba Magic Lodge 36 hours after leaving Blantyre, with probably 30 of those hours spent on buses. Welcome to traveling in Africa.

Thanks for reading!