You see very few regulare cars in Mozambique. Most people walk and those that do have cars need something with a little more oomph, so as to manage the pot holed highways, sandy roads and muddy terrain. Yet the country is big and goods need to be transported, so what you do see is a lot of trucks.
We have reached the end of our cycle tour of Moz. We have cycled about 300km along the coast, and after Inhassoro it was time to make the giddiyup journey inland towards Malawi. We are not cycle purists (or even cyclists for that matter), so we employ a wide definition of 'cycle tour', allowing for a progressive stance on hitch hiking, which allows for catching some lifts with our bikes. In short; we live for the journey, not the bikes.
We discovered quite quickly that the best way to get up country is by hitching lifts on trucks. Most have some extra seats or a bed in the drivers comportment, and the bikes can easily be strapped down in the section between that compartment and the container, or on top, or inside. This is common practice and once you know the hitch hiking hand signals, is really quite easy and costs nothing more than a few bob, a pack of biscuits and a good attitude.
Yet when on board a 100 ton, 20 wheel cargo truck, you are not a passenger or a pedestrian. For that ride you enter the world of the truck drivers. The cargo cowboys, the kings of the road.
Truck drivers are not especially friendly, nor are they especially rude. With a cool mystique and playful arrogance they command the traffic and demand attention as they cruise the narrow and potholed roads, drunk on horsepower and alcohol.
Benson, our first driver of the day, bounced around on his spring seat and downed the stiff drink of gin and Amarula, poured by his aspiring co-pilot. Bad R&B blasts from the distorting speakers. The volume at full blast, the track skipping, but never gets turned down or adjusted. For dropping the volume would mean admitting defeat to the speakers, and this would be against the truck driver code.
Like true motor monarchs of Africa, the truck drivers drive how they want and live by their own set of rules. The lanes are mere guidelines and the traffic is but an obstacle. A line of cars can easily be overtaken by charging full steam on the oncoming lane, over blind corners or hills, knowing with full confidence that no cars are coming their way, colliding and preventing them from delivering their cargo to its rightful destination, almost on time.
The hooter is as much part of the driving process as the breaks or second gear. It warns pedestrians to move or be flattened. It signals to fellow truck drivers in a secret and ancient language known only to those in the business. It is used to flirt with girls or pick up prostitutes late in the day when nearing their final destination.
The brotherhood of the truck driver is strong and the patriarchy and loyalty that exists within the fraternity is sacred. 'Do unto other truck drivers as you would have done unto yourself'. So when our engine suddenly overheated and boiling water and smoke began spluttering over the cracked wind sheild, Benson knew he had to only make the 50km to the next town and he could get help from friends, strangers, or the pitstop crews of truck mechanics bearing tools and welding irons, dressed in ripped t-shirts and no shoes.
But the 'big boys' of the road are still human and there is an air of sensetivity to them. Benson's truck had broken down and we were handed over to Jack to take us the rest of the way. After a big lunch and a few beers, Jack was ready to roll. Like flies on the wall of the presidential palace, we saw what happens inside the private cacooon of the drivers compartment of the 20 wheeler. The slowjams begin. Kenny G, Micheal Bolton, Avril Lavigne, Toni Braxton. The late afternoon drive session of tearing speeds, chicken competitions with oncoming cars and growling engine sounds is but a mask for the Celine Dion signalongs and complex emotions that take place within the driver lair.
This all sounds incredibly dangerous. Is it not safer inside the comfort of a minibus taxi? The minibuses (chapas) are the hyenas of the road. Their small size and unattractive arrogance makes them an annoyance, biting at the ankels of the trucks. They overload their seats, pack too many bags on the roofs and whistel out the windoes to try pull more passengers and show whose boss. They are in it for the money. The faster they can drive and the more passengers they can load, the more money they can make. Thus they drive recklessly and rudely, enjoying annoying their passengers with commercial hip-pop with no bass. And they dont share their biscuits with anyone.They try overtake trucks to show the agility that their small size offers them. But deep down inside, the truth is that all taxi drivers secretly wish they were driving trucks.
Loice was our last lift of the day. He drove a smaller truck carrying empty glass bottles to a depot in Chimmoi (our half way point to Malawi). He picked us up at the crossing at Inchope as the sun was coming down. Nugs and Jules sat on top of the crates of bottles with bikes and bags. I sat inside with Loice, a South African convict in Mozambique on the run from the cops, chewing on tooth picks and hooting at girls. Loice bounced with excitement, knowing he was almost at Chimmoi and he could find a girl for the 'boom boom'. He laughed, danced and played rhymths on his hooter as we drove through villages and passed prostitutes who he could take to his 'hotel room' in Chimmoi.
See the truck drivers are the cargo kings, the pedestrian presidents. They control when goods arrive and allow you to walk where they are not driving. They drive where they want, fuck who they want, break laws as they please and exploit the privileges of the horsepower given to them. They are like the lions in the jungles, the killer whales of the oceans and the politicians in the autocracies in which they live. For in the land of no cars, the truck drivers are kings.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Saturday, 28 May 2011
A little provio
I just finished typing out that post about fishing in Mozambique. And i must say, the joy and chilled vibes in that story could not seem further from the truth and reality of how i feel now. We just got to Blantye, Malawi, and the journey here was hectic.
We arrived late last night after two days of hitch hiking on trucks inland through Moz to get to Malawi. I will write something up tomorrow, because i need to get something to eat and put more deep heat on my aching neck. Two days of hitch hiking. Six or seven different lifts. A night in what turned out to be a whorehouse (we did not know this at the time, and it was the only place we could find to stay when we arrived in a tiny town in northern Moz at night). And a death on the road - our driver hit a drunk man who stumbeled into the road while coming through the Malawi border. His rag doll corpse flew through the air and landed in a heap on the road. He got chucked into the back of the truck next to us, and there was commotion and police and shouting and screaming as the situation unfolded. And we were caught right in the middle of it all. It was one of those times where you are telling yourself - this is not heppening - but in reality, it is happening and you have to snap out of it and deal with it. It was hectic.
We finally crossed the border and were still 180km from town, and it was now dark. At about 9pm we finally arrived in Blantyre and treated ourselves to dorm beds and a resteraunt meal.
This morning i am tired, sore and a bit shaken up by the journey. But yeah, i guess this is all part of the game when on the road. Today the sun is up, Malawi is beautiful and friendly, and things are slowing getting back into their chilled pace.
But yeah, writing up a peice about fishing on the coast felt so foreign and distant that it made me laugh.
All safe, and well. Next step in Mount Malanje - i cant wait!!!
Missing just about everyone and sending good vibes back home.
Cheers
e
We arrived late last night after two days of hitch hiking on trucks inland through Moz to get to Malawi. I will write something up tomorrow, because i need to get something to eat and put more deep heat on my aching neck. Two days of hitch hiking. Six or seven different lifts. A night in what turned out to be a whorehouse (we did not know this at the time, and it was the only place we could find to stay when we arrived in a tiny town in northern Moz at night). And a death on the road - our driver hit a drunk man who stumbeled into the road while coming through the Malawi border. His rag doll corpse flew through the air and landed in a heap on the road. He got chucked into the back of the truck next to us, and there was commotion and police and shouting and screaming as the situation unfolded. And we were caught right in the middle of it all. It was one of those times where you are telling yourself - this is not heppening - but in reality, it is happening and you have to snap out of it and deal with it. It was hectic.
We finally crossed the border and were still 180km from town, and it was now dark. At about 9pm we finally arrived in Blantyre and treated ourselves to dorm beds and a resteraunt meal.
This morning i am tired, sore and a bit shaken up by the journey. But yeah, i guess this is all part of the game when on the road. Today the sun is up, Malawi is beautiful and friendly, and things are slowing getting back into their chilled pace.
But yeah, writing up a peice about fishing on the coast felt so foreign and distant that it made me laugh.
All safe, and well. Next step in Mount Malanje - i cant wait!!!
Missing just about everyone and sending good vibes back home.
Cheers
e
When in Mozambique....
We had just finished setting up camp when we saw the fishing boats come in. I had pitched my tent on a grassy patch under a bunch of trees; enough to ensure shade throughout the whole day. - A late sleep in, plus an afternoon nap. Perfect. Inhassoro was a lazy town, and as they say: When in Rome...
We left our stuff scattered around the camp site without even a second though and walked onto the beach to see if we could buy a fish or two for dinner. We had decided that tonight we were going to braai. On the menu was garlic breads and fish. The day had started with a trip to the market. Whole garlics, fresh lemons and onions, butter, salt, warm baguettes from the bakery. With our new Mozambiquian bargaining skills we had picked it all up for a steal and a smile.
The fishermen on the beach were carrying a few big fish and their spear guns. Not a massive haul and not for sale. Unsuccessful, we turned round and headed back to the camp site. A beautiful grassy plot about 3km from the town center. Thats when we noticed the action up ahead on the beach.
Two lines of guys pulling the long ropes of fishing nets out the ocean. The system was genius. Two Dhows go out and drop a net about 3km off shore. One dhow returns with the ends of the 3km ropes. On the shore, each line is pulled by three sets of two men. Each set will take a big wooden stick, fasten it to the rope and pull the stick up the beach. Like a conveyor belt, when a set reaches the end of the line, they detach it and move back to the front, and like this, the net slowly moves closer to shore. The second dhow stays at sea to man the net.
We walked up to them and offered our help. We weren't looking for free fish or even a 'Mozambique expereince'. Rather, we just wanted to help work. It was like building the table at Lucio's house. You can sit in the hammock, read and buy your dinner. But then you are the foreigners who sit in the hammocks and buy dinner. Or you can get involved, pull your weight and do something memorable. And as they say, when in Rome...
The fishermen happily accepted our help. They grabbed us some sticks and welcomed us in. The kids hanging around laughing at the sight of us sweating and grunting as we joined the ranks of locals pulling the net on shore.
The sun was hot and the work was hard. For those at home wanted a 6-pack and ripped biceps, forget gym. Become a fisherman. Our rest day had become a day of labour. The kids laughter had long subsided and we grew tired alongside the guys, grunting war cry rythms as we watched the dhow in the distance slowly move towards the shore.
Hours later the whole village was on the beach to coordinate the arrival of the net. See this was no wholesale operation. This was dinner. I was hit by the sudden realisation that i was taking part in a netting haul - the process which indiscriminately rapes the oceans, killing everthing in its path. Yet this makeshift fishing net and man pulled line system was not exactly the global enterprise, catching tons of fish each day. Yet the irony and conflict of the situation was not ignored.
The sun was already on its way down and it was deep into magic hour when the net finally reached the beach. Mamas and kids were all out to stake their claim and do their part in the system to earn their share. Nets needed maintenance, fish needed cleaning.
The nets flapped, flopped and hissed as the catch finally revieled itself. A big catch, maybe hundreds of small fish of different sorts. But I was pleasently surprised by how small the catch actually looked. When the fish finally settled and died and those with the biggest fight in them had gasped their last attempt at sipping in water, the fish sat silent with eyes and mounts open - dead and ready for eating. Just the way you find them at Pick n Pay.
Hords of men lunged at the fish; grabbing and arguing over the biggest ones. The children ran around the sides picking up those that had fallen out of the net, threading pieces of reed through the gills and collecting a line of fish to take home or sell. Women held packets and breast milked babies, waiting to be given their share. I saw a woman pcik up a deadly poisonous puffer fish with her bare hands and put it in her bucket.
Through the chaos there was laughter and chatting and structure. Every now and again one fisherman would through a praw our way to chuck in our bucket. "Does everything get eaten?" I asked. "Yes" he laughed. "Nothing gets thrown back or wasted?". He laughed even harder. "Nothing".
This was not wholesale operation, and this was probably illegal and immoral in most first world countries. But this was not most first world countries, and this was not I&J. This was dinner. Dinner for a small village on the coast of Mozambique.
Down the pecking order they went and people moved up the beach with their buckets full. Now it was out turn. They took our bucket and loaded in about 20 small fish, telling us the names of the three species (each one had both fins and scales). :)
We thanked them graciously and in Siswati, which always causes great commotion and laughter - and returned home to get our braai on. Home made garlic bread with fresh garlic. Fresh fish covered in lemon and garlic butter and salt. A few dosh-ms. We were the only people in the cmap site so we invited to security guard to come eat with us.
As we sat licking our fingers, stuffed from dinner and exhausted from the days haul - we listen to the waves crashing 20 meters away and felt the cool sea breeze on our faces. Nugs sat back, still in his speedo and sighed. "Jusis, everyone else in the world should be kicking themselves for not being here right now".
We left our stuff scattered around the camp site without even a second though and walked onto the beach to see if we could buy a fish or two for dinner. We had decided that tonight we were going to braai. On the menu was garlic breads and fish. The day had started with a trip to the market. Whole garlics, fresh lemons and onions, butter, salt, warm baguettes from the bakery. With our new Mozambiquian bargaining skills we had picked it all up for a steal and a smile.
The fishermen on the beach were carrying a few big fish and their spear guns. Not a massive haul and not for sale. Unsuccessful, we turned round and headed back to the camp site. A beautiful grassy plot about 3km from the town center. Thats when we noticed the action up ahead on the beach.
Two lines of guys pulling the long ropes of fishing nets out the ocean. The system was genius. Two Dhows go out and drop a net about 3km off shore. One dhow returns with the ends of the 3km ropes. On the shore, each line is pulled by three sets of two men. Each set will take a big wooden stick, fasten it to the rope and pull the stick up the beach. Like a conveyor belt, when a set reaches the end of the line, they detach it and move back to the front, and like this, the net slowly moves closer to shore. The second dhow stays at sea to man the net.
We walked up to them and offered our help. We weren't looking for free fish or even a 'Mozambique expereince'. Rather, we just wanted to help work. It was like building the table at Lucio's house. You can sit in the hammock, read and buy your dinner. But then you are the foreigners who sit in the hammocks and buy dinner. Or you can get involved, pull your weight and do something memorable. And as they say, when in Rome...
The fishermen happily accepted our help. They grabbed us some sticks and welcomed us in. The kids hanging around laughing at the sight of us sweating and grunting as we joined the ranks of locals pulling the net on shore.
The sun was hot and the work was hard. For those at home wanted a 6-pack and ripped biceps, forget gym. Become a fisherman. Our rest day had become a day of labour. The kids laughter had long subsided and we grew tired alongside the guys, grunting war cry rythms as we watched the dhow in the distance slowly move towards the shore.
Hours later the whole village was on the beach to coordinate the arrival of the net. See this was no wholesale operation. This was dinner. I was hit by the sudden realisation that i was taking part in a netting haul - the process which indiscriminately rapes the oceans, killing everthing in its path. Yet this makeshift fishing net and man pulled line system was not exactly the global enterprise, catching tons of fish each day. Yet the irony and conflict of the situation was not ignored.
The sun was already on its way down and it was deep into magic hour when the net finally reached the beach. Mamas and kids were all out to stake their claim and do their part in the system to earn their share. Nets needed maintenance, fish needed cleaning.
The nets flapped, flopped and hissed as the catch finally revieled itself. A big catch, maybe hundreds of small fish of different sorts. But I was pleasently surprised by how small the catch actually looked. When the fish finally settled and died and those with the biggest fight in them had gasped their last attempt at sipping in water, the fish sat silent with eyes and mounts open - dead and ready for eating. Just the way you find them at Pick n Pay.
Hords of men lunged at the fish; grabbing and arguing over the biggest ones. The children ran around the sides picking up those that had fallen out of the net, threading pieces of reed through the gills and collecting a line of fish to take home or sell. Women held packets and breast milked babies, waiting to be given their share. I saw a woman pcik up a deadly poisonous puffer fish with her bare hands and put it in her bucket.
Through the chaos there was laughter and chatting and structure. Every now and again one fisherman would through a praw our way to chuck in our bucket. "Does everything get eaten?" I asked. "Yes" he laughed. "Nothing gets thrown back or wasted?". He laughed even harder. "Nothing".
This was not wholesale operation, and this was probably illegal and immoral in most first world countries. But this was not most first world countries, and this was not I&J. This was dinner. Dinner for a small village on the coast of Mozambique.
Down the pecking order they went and people moved up the beach with their buckets full. Now it was out turn. They took our bucket and loaded in about 20 small fish, telling us the names of the three species (each one had both fins and scales). :)
We thanked them graciously and in Siswati, which always causes great commotion and laughter - and returned home to get our braai on. Home made garlic bread with fresh garlic. Fresh fish covered in lemon and garlic butter and salt. A few dosh-ms. We were the only people in the cmap site so we invited to security guard to come eat with us.
As we sat licking our fingers, stuffed from dinner and exhausted from the days haul - we listen to the waves crashing 20 meters away and felt the cool sea breeze on our faces. Nugs sat back, still in his speedo and sighed. "Jusis, everyone else in the world should be kicking themselves for not being here right now".
Saturday, 21 May 2011
A fantasic disaster.
By a textbook definition, the trip to the Bazaruto Islands was a complete failure. An absolute disaster. But life doesn't really work on textbook definitions and sometimes even the biggest disasters can be the most memorable.
When we arrived at Vilunkulo, we immediately started to get hustled by tour operators (dodgy locals who speak in American accents) to go on their boat out to the tiny, almost deserted Islands just off the coast of Moz. However we were not looking for a day trip and a seafood lunch for R500, we wanted something cheaper and more adventurous.
I often say that my brother Alon's best travel stories start with; "i didn't want to pay the full price, so I....". So, we didn't want to pay the full price, so we found a group 8 other travelers who were organizing a no frills, cheaper and rumouredly illegal overnight trip to Bangwe Island, the smallest and most remote of the Islands.
It was a legendary team. The three of us, two other Cape Town boys, a Finish girl, a Catalan fellow, one Irish, one German and one Brit, plus our half dodgy/ half cool skipper, and his brother. The plan was to sail to the Island, spend the day snorkeling and fishing, camp out under the stars and drink tipo by moonlight. Then spend the following day snorkeling, playing soccer and having a good old time on our own private deserted beach island. Perfect. However sometimes man proposes and god disposes.
At 7am we were ready at the Dhow (a home made Mozambiquan wooden boat with one makeshift sail and several holes in the floor). Teeth brushed, bags packed, no breakfasts eaten. We waded the 100m to the Dhow and threw all our bags on board. The weather was perfect. Sun shining bright and hot, not a breath of wind in the sky. Team morale was at an all time high.
However, one thing about sail boats is that they don't sail so well on perfect days without wind. After 3 hours we had moved about 1km and were stuck on a sandbank that had risen during low tide. All 10 of us had to get out the boat and push as if it was a broken down car. An hour later the current was moving us backwards and we had to drop anchor and wait for some wind.
That day was pretty much spent in the boat; chatting, laughing, tell bad jokes, jumping overboard and playing in the blue sea around the boat. We even cooked up a pap and fish lunch with the fire that was lit in a sand heap on the deck of the boat. Team morale was at an all time high. It was 8.5 hours later (instead of the anticipated 1.5 hours) when we finally arrived at Bangwe Island, just in time for sunset. No sooner than we had set up camp did the heavens turn pink and dolphins started breaching from the sea 10m from the shoreline.
Soon the camp fire went up, freshly caught calamari on the fire and bottle of tipo cracked. It was a great dinner and good fun on the beach. Despite spending an entire day on a boat, things were going swell once again. That was until about 3am.
A couple of people were asleep in tents and a few sleeping under the stars around the fire. It was Matt who woke up first to see the gale force winds were howling flames onto Kizzy and she was almost on fire. At some point during the night, the weather had shifted and Hurricane Jenny was upon us. Wake up, we are now in code red. Tents blowing down the beach, poles breaking, stumbling around trying to throw rain sheets on. This was the first storm here in months and it was happening on the exact day which we were sleeping on the beaches of a tiny island. There were now 10 of us packed into 4 tents as we fell asleep again listening to the roar of wind beating at the tents.
It was only the next morning when the rain started. At 6am I heard a shouting; "Get up, we need to push the boat out and anchor in before the tide comes up". I got back inside and tried to go back to sleep, but was woken when the rain started to pour hard. The rain sheet was not only properly and soon my bags, sleeping bag and self were soaked. However, i was surprisingly perky, so i got up to see where the rest were.
As i got out of my tent i saw that mine was one of the two tents still standing, but barely. Nugs and Jule's tent was flattened, ripped and broken. The other tent has knee deep in water. Mark was still sleeping in his dry, comfy tent :) Most others were huddled under the sail with breakfast cooking on a fire.The sight of these cold, wet travellers under a smoke filled sail with the biggest smiles on their faces, i will never forget.
When your belongings are soaked, camp is destroyed and paradise trip ruined, you have two options. You can be upset and bitter, or you can accept and laugh. We chose the latter. Jules and Nugs were snorkeling and the rest of us were chatting and laughing under the smokey sale. Team morale was at an all time high.
However with the storm clouds that were quickly approaching, we decided it was best to pack up and set sail for the mainland. Yet our luck had more surprises in store for us. Over the waves and through the swell we could see a police boat motoring towards us. On board were three police, equipt with uniforms, bad attitudes, guns and aviator sunglasses. It turns out the rumours were true and camping on the Island was in fact illegal (or without special permits, or something to that extent), and the other tour operators, had tipped off us to the cops. Now it was jail, fines and bribery time, and we were still at high seas with a storm approaching.
They agreed to meet us on the mainland, and we sailed the next hour in the storming rain towards our Mozambiquian police reception party. Yet team morale was still at an all time high, so we sang and laughed recounting night experiences, events and shinanigans that has taken place the over the past two days.
We finally got back to shore, sorted out our business with the police, avoided the new rates that our skipper was trying to charge, got showered and dry, and went out for a pizza and beer before a well earned night in real beds.
Maybe it was a good team, or maybe 10 travelers together cant not have fun, or maybe something was just in the air. But every single thing that could have gone wrong did, the trip was an absolute failure and disaster, but was probably one of the most fun, adventurous and memorable trips i've ever done. Certainly not for the faint hearted, but if we were looking for Club Med, we have gone there.
Today is our clean up, washing and chill out day. Then tomorrow we hit the grueling 90 odd km cycle to Inhassoro. Probably last post for a while, thanks to all who are reading and for all the inspiring comments and messages. If people are liking it, i will keep writing and cycling.
Cheers,
Eitan
ETA: 345 hours on a bike to Inhassoro.
When we arrived at Vilunkulo, we immediately started to get hustled by tour operators (dodgy locals who speak in American accents) to go on their boat out to the tiny, almost deserted Islands just off the coast of Moz. However we were not looking for a day trip and a seafood lunch for R500, we wanted something cheaper and more adventurous.
I often say that my brother Alon's best travel stories start with; "i didn't want to pay the full price, so I....". So, we didn't want to pay the full price, so we found a group 8 other travelers who were organizing a no frills, cheaper and rumouredly illegal overnight trip to Bangwe Island, the smallest and most remote of the Islands.
It was a legendary team. The three of us, two other Cape Town boys, a Finish girl, a Catalan fellow, one Irish, one German and one Brit, plus our half dodgy/ half cool skipper, and his brother. The plan was to sail to the Island, spend the day snorkeling and fishing, camp out under the stars and drink tipo by moonlight. Then spend the following day snorkeling, playing soccer and having a good old time on our own private deserted beach island. Perfect. However sometimes man proposes and god disposes.
At 7am we were ready at the Dhow (a home made Mozambiquan wooden boat with one makeshift sail and several holes in the floor). Teeth brushed, bags packed, no breakfasts eaten. We waded the 100m to the Dhow and threw all our bags on board. The weather was perfect. Sun shining bright and hot, not a breath of wind in the sky. Team morale was at an all time high.
However, one thing about sail boats is that they don't sail so well on perfect days without wind. After 3 hours we had moved about 1km and were stuck on a sandbank that had risen during low tide. All 10 of us had to get out the boat and push as if it was a broken down car. An hour later the current was moving us backwards and we had to drop anchor and wait for some wind.
That day was pretty much spent in the boat; chatting, laughing, tell bad jokes, jumping overboard and playing in the blue sea around the boat. We even cooked up a pap and fish lunch with the fire that was lit in a sand heap on the deck of the boat. Team morale was at an all time high. It was 8.5 hours later (instead of the anticipated 1.5 hours) when we finally arrived at Bangwe Island, just in time for sunset. No sooner than we had set up camp did the heavens turn pink and dolphins started breaching from the sea 10m from the shoreline.
Soon the camp fire went up, freshly caught calamari on the fire and bottle of tipo cracked. It was a great dinner and good fun on the beach. Despite spending an entire day on a boat, things were going swell once again. That was until about 3am.
A couple of people were asleep in tents and a few sleeping under the stars around the fire. It was Matt who woke up first to see the gale force winds were howling flames onto Kizzy and she was almost on fire. At some point during the night, the weather had shifted and Hurricane Jenny was upon us. Wake up, we are now in code red. Tents blowing down the beach, poles breaking, stumbling around trying to throw rain sheets on. This was the first storm here in months and it was happening on the exact day which we were sleeping on the beaches of a tiny island. There were now 10 of us packed into 4 tents as we fell asleep again listening to the roar of wind beating at the tents.
It was only the next morning when the rain started. At 6am I heard a shouting; "Get up, we need to push the boat out and anchor in before the tide comes up". I got back inside and tried to go back to sleep, but was woken when the rain started to pour hard. The rain sheet was not only properly and soon my bags, sleeping bag and self were soaked. However, i was surprisingly perky, so i got up to see where the rest were.
As i got out of my tent i saw that mine was one of the two tents still standing, but barely. Nugs and Jule's tent was flattened, ripped and broken. The other tent has knee deep in water. Mark was still sleeping in his dry, comfy tent :) Most others were huddled under the sail with breakfast cooking on a fire.The sight of these cold, wet travellers under a smoke filled sail with the biggest smiles on their faces, i will never forget.
When your belongings are soaked, camp is destroyed and paradise trip ruined, you have two options. You can be upset and bitter, or you can accept and laugh. We chose the latter. Jules and Nugs were snorkeling and the rest of us were chatting and laughing under the smokey sale. Team morale was at an all time high.
However with the storm clouds that were quickly approaching, we decided it was best to pack up and set sail for the mainland. Yet our luck had more surprises in store for us. Over the waves and through the swell we could see a police boat motoring towards us. On board were three police, equipt with uniforms, bad attitudes, guns and aviator sunglasses. It turns out the rumours were true and camping on the Island was in fact illegal (or without special permits, or something to that extent), and the other tour operators, had tipped off us to the cops. Now it was jail, fines and bribery time, and we were still at high seas with a storm approaching.
They agreed to meet us on the mainland, and we sailed the next hour in the storming rain towards our Mozambiquian police reception party. Yet team morale was still at an all time high, so we sang and laughed recounting night experiences, events and shinanigans that has taken place the over the past two days.
We finally got back to shore, sorted out our business with the police, avoided the new rates that our skipper was trying to charge, got showered and dry, and went out for a pizza and beer before a well earned night in real beds.
Maybe it was a good team, or maybe 10 travelers together cant not have fun, or maybe something was just in the air. But every single thing that could have gone wrong did, the trip was an absolute failure and disaster, but was probably one of the most fun, adventurous and memorable trips i've ever done. Certainly not for the faint hearted, but if we were looking for Club Med, we have gone there.
Today is our clean up, washing and chill out day. Then tomorrow we hit the grueling 90 odd km cycle to Inhassoro. Probably last post for a while, thanks to all who are reading and for all the inspiring comments and messages. If people are liking it, i will keep writing and cycling.
Cheers,
Eitan
ETA: 345 hours on a bike to Inhassoro.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Our fanastic mazal.
I know some of you are probably picturing us rutting it out, sleeping in dirt, easting cardboard for dinner. Now that is the picture of truth most days, but not in Morungulo.
It was going to be our longest day on the road yet. 55 odd kilometers cycle to get to Morungulo campsite. Here we were going to do some serious relaxing. Zanni gave me the most incredible book - The State of Africa. Its been a treat to read while traveling Africa, and the plan was to put a serious dent in it on a hammock under a coconut tree. (Well, not properly under one. They actually do fall all the time and will kill you if you happen to be underneath at the time. They are also delicious and a great snack).
The cycle was grueling but fantastic. Up and down hills, huge trucks zoooming by, school kids running after us and pushing us up the hills, fresh bananas when you get too tired. Then we arrived at a dirt road and were too tired to push the bikes the 15km to the campsite. Luckily a bakkie drove past and we hooked a lift. More luckily however was that the driver was managing a 4 star lodge and arranged for us to stay there for next to nothing.
Beds, a pool, lush lawns, hot water, drinking water. The works! What fantastic mazal. We stayed there for a few days and while we weren't sleeping in tents, i did manage to put a serious dent in my book.
There are 3 massive reefs in the ocean just outside the lodge, so plenty of snorkeling and spearfishing. We were able to catch and cook up lunch one afternoon. Bon fires on the beach, trips on the back of the bakkie into town. Lazy evenings, drinking dosh-m and playing cards.
However when it came time to leave, we thought our luck had ended. We decided to hitch hike the next stretch of the journey to Vilunkulo (where i am now), as the distance was too far to do in one day. Also after consistent advice from locals, we have decided (for now at least) to avoid just camping out on the side of the road, or in villages which may be unwelcoming.
We had organized a ride from a neighbour in Morungolu in the back of his truck. Its a refrigerator truck that transports crabs. So it was going to be a fishy journey. And as Nugs coined it; "for the the gees". Unfortunately that fell through, so it was up to us to go into town and thumb a lift, bikes and all. After a few hours of waiting, we finally scored a lift to the Vilunkulo turn off, on the top of a cargo truck. We strapped our bikes down and sat on the roof with a few other guys, including a Mozambiquian solider who was very excited to have us up there. From there it was a short 20km cycle to Vilunkulo, a dosh-m and a big oats dinner.
Im not sure if its our good looks or dashing smiles. But so far people have been great to us. We have had doors opened, dinners cooked, rides offered. Not to get all spiritual about it, but maybe the vibes one puts out are the vibes that one gets back. And vibes are in general pretty good.
That being said, our luck and good fortune was to seriously change on our trip to Bangwe Island. Yet that is a tale for another day. So stay tuned for near death experiences, police, hurricanes and monsters...
Okay, maybe no monsters. But still, its a goodie.
Eitan
ETA: Leave Vilankulo on Sunday to cycle to Inhassoro. Probably wont have internet for a while, so im taking advantage of it and writing up a few posts while im here. Hope yall enjoying it :)
It was going to be our longest day on the road yet. 55 odd kilometers cycle to get to Morungulo campsite. Here we were going to do some serious relaxing. Zanni gave me the most incredible book - The State of Africa. Its been a treat to read while traveling Africa, and the plan was to put a serious dent in it on a hammock under a coconut tree. (Well, not properly under one. They actually do fall all the time and will kill you if you happen to be underneath at the time. They are also delicious and a great snack).
The cycle was grueling but fantastic. Up and down hills, huge trucks zoooming by, school kids running after us and pushing us up the hills, fresh bananas when you get too tired. Then we arrived at a dirt road and were too tired to push the bikes the 15km to the campsite. Luckily a bakkie drove past and we hooked a lift. More luckily however was that the driver was managing a 4 star lodge and arranged for us to stay there for next to nothing.
Beds, a pool, lush lawns, hot water, drinking water. The works! What fantastic mazal. We stayed there for a few days and while we weren't sleeping in tents, i did manage to put a serious dent in my book.
There are 3 massive reefs in the ocean just outside the lodge, so plenty of snorkeling and spearfishing. We were able to catch and cook up lunch one afternoon. Bon fires on the beach, trips on the back of the bakkie into town. Lazy evenings, drinking dosh-m and playing cards.
However when it came time to leave, we thought our luck had ended. We decided to hitch hike the next stretch of the journey to Vilunkulo (where i am now), as the distance was too far to do in one day. Also after consistent advice from locals, we have decided (for now at least) to avoid just camping out on the side of the road, or in villages which may be unwelcoming.
We had organized a ride from a neighbour in Morungolu in the back of his truck. Its a refrigerator truck that transports crabs. So it was going to be a fishy journey. And as Nugs coined it; "for the the gees". Unfortunately that fell through, so it was up to us to go into town and thumb a lift, bikes and all. After a few hours of waiting, we finally scored a lift to the Vilunkulo turn off, on the top of a cargo truck. We strapped our bikes down and sat on the roof with a few other guys, including a Mozambiquian solider who was very excited to have us up there. From there it was a short 20km cycle to Vilunkulo, a dosh-m and a big oats dinner.
Im not sure if its our good looks or dashing smiles. But so far people have been great to us. We have had doors opened, dinners cooked, rides offered. Not to get all spiritual about it, but maybe the vibes one puts out are the vibes that one gets back. And vibes are in general pretty good.
That being said, our luck and good fortune was to seriously change on our trip to Bangwe Island. Yet that is a tale for another day. So stay tuned for near death experiences, police, hurricanes and monsters...
Okay, maybe no monsters. But still, its a goodie.
Eitan
ETA: Leave Vilankulo on Sunday to cycle to Inhassoro. Probably wont have internet for a while, so im taking advantage of it and writing up a few posts while im here. Hope yall enjoying it :)
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Pointe du Linge Linge - a tale of hospitality and hatred.
One never really know what to expct when traveling, and sometimes the expereinces can take you by surprise. This is my story of Pointe du Linge Linge, Mozambique and the two characters who we met on its shores.
At about 9am we finallly left Tofu. Bags packed, fasted vas to the bikes, photos taken, peddles tightened, a high five and a 'thank you' to set us on our way. This was it. We were off. Day one we cycled for about 30kms then caught a dhow accross the bay to Maxixe, paying 200 met and 2 t-shirts. That night we slept like poor kings.
It was the next day however that we came to Pointe du Linge Linge. After another 30km cycle we finally reached the coastal village of Morombene. Here we loaded the bikes and trailor onto the Dhow and sailed upwind across the bay, shifting our weight and bodies accross the boat everytime our captain would tack throught the water to pick up speed, navigating over the bikes and mamas on board.
After three hours and a few stops we arrived 200m off the coast of Linge Linge. With bikes and bags atop our heads we waded through the water to the shore and bundubashed lost through the jungle as the sun came down, till we found what turned out to be our destination - Funky Monkeys. Knowing only what we had read in the 2 lines in the Lonley Planet - the reality was a pleasent shock to us. Rural, empty, no frills, paradise.
Almost immediately we were greated by Lucio, the first character in my story. A slightly built man, black Mozambiquan but clearly of Asian decent, missing a tooth right in the front of his mouth, old ripped shorts and his best (or only) t-shirt on, one good eye. Lucio welcomes us to his home and asked for a mere rate for us to stay with him. "Family first, money later" - as we discovered was his signiture line.
As we cooked dinner that night we talked and laughed in his broken English and our non-existent Bitonga. In the kitchen also sat his wife and wife's sister (or wives as it actually appeared to be once the sun came down). The night led to the bar and to card games and betting and buying each other one or two too many drinks.
On cheap wine Lucio was drunk, loud and more welcoming than ever. His sister-in-law sat next to him, looking embarresed and proud and ensured his cigerette was always lit. For Lucio guests really were more important than the money they brought with them.
The next day we awoke and after a swim in ocean and a walk on the beach, we began building the table we had promised him the night before. That day we worked, we rested, we ate. If Linge Linge wasn't paradise, then it was certainly the beach across the bay.
It was only the following day when we met the second characters in our story. We were looking for a lift out of Linge Linge, as the Dhow and 45km ahead of us was probably too much for one day of sunlight. From the hammocks we spotted some familar looking faces heading to Orland's Bar. South Africans - maybe they could help us out.
After a quick greeting and update on the Stomers game, we were like family to the boys from Witriver in die Lowveld. 120kg Kobus was doing construction managment for new holiday homes on the point. Jannie and Bizmark did similar work in construction and at a saw mill nearby. They were clealy excited to see white South Africans and invited us for dinner, ordering more beers and offered us a lift out on Thursday, almost without us asking.
"Kom for a lekker kuier tonight" Kobus insisted and despite out existing dinner plans with Lucio, they rocked up a few hours later to fetch us and took us from our campsite to their beachside mansions. There was something familar about the entitled tone they used with Lucio which seemed vaugely familar of a South Africa in which I grew up. Without so many words they were saying; "this is your home but when I am here, I am boss". Lucio smiled politely as his coverted guests were whisked away by Whites in Hilux 4x4s, before we had even started on cheap wine.
Nugs, Jules and myself felt guilty for leaving and caught a moment for a chat before getting to their home. Yes we had left Lucio, but we are dinner and he seemed okay, but we still felt bad. We resolved that it was okay, and we shouldn't harp on it and turn down the unashamed hospitality of our new friends.
That night we braai'd and drank brandy. We got loud, listened to bad music, arm wresteled and had a lekker kif kuier. Some other friends of theirs were over as well and it was a real South African night met die Boere and Souties. They were blown away that we were staying with one of the locals. "Ja the Chinese Kaffir, I've seen him around, Ja he's okay".
I ignored the racist comments, I made no fuss about the white dominant attitude, I enjoyed the laxurious house and expensive brandy on the door step of Mozambiquan poverty. Much like we had smiled at Lucio's drunken ramblings about his riches and ignored his blatant adultary, we ignored the racist banter. We knew it was wrong, but we were guests in both homes and we did not want to upset the currents on the calm beaches of Linge Linge.
Pointe du Linge Linge for me will be remembered as a place of great joy, real sadness and immense conflict.
When one travels (and especially so by bicycle), you put yourself at the mercy of others and you realise that many people are good people, hospitable and kind. Both Lucio and the Afrikaaners opened their homes to us and shared so much, expecting nothing but friendship in return. Knowing that strangers can treat strangers like family brings me joy.
Yet it is also sad because these two neighbours will never know each others hospitality. For Lucio, these are the white foreigners who had colonized his beach with 4x4s, five star hotels and flatscreen TVs. And for the Witriver boys, Lucio will always be the Chinese Kaffir. (And how a grossly obese, unfriendly old white man with Parkinsons disease can be racist is beyond me. Without his Hilux and gun, he is so far down the food chain that he should be trying to make all the friends he can, regardless of their colour or creed).
But Linge Linge is also a place of conflict for me. To enjoy the comfy beds, fun ocean toys, beer on-tap and the important lift out of town; we would have to endure the racism and be seen by the locals to be one of 'those Whites'. But to remain welcome guests of a local fisherman, we would have to sleep in our sandy tents, disassociate ourselves from warm, welcoming South Africans in a foreign land, (Kobus had already taken the day off work and bought a case of beer to take us spear fishing and out on his boat), and walk the 20kms out of town.
In my life in Cape Town race is not a big issue to me. My friends and family can attest to that. Yet I left Linge Linge feeling that one cannot hide from race on a continent where racial agression, segregation and murder has ruled for centuries. History always wins.
The end of Apartehid obviously was not the end of racism in South Africa. The coast of Mozambique is scattered with ex South African whites, (and definately not all the South Africans up here) destined to continue their old way of life, or at least enjoy its perks. And the lawless and poor coast of Mozambique serves as a perfect setting where money and jobs still make you 'die baas'.
However these people are shit ('these people', and certianly not Afrikaaners in general), and i feel sorry for them. Unable to accept the new era in SA, they ran for the borders and live a lonely life on the paradise beaches of Mozambique, clinging to the company of any whites who pass through, unable to overcomes the colour barrier and befriend their black neighbours. In 2011 we should be trying to find life on Mars, fight global warming and end inhumane farming practices, and not still bickering amongst ourselves about the colour of our skin. Its and old discussion and im pretty sure its unresolvable.
So how did we navigate our way through the currents of hospitality and racism? Well that was complex and hard to explain in writing. But what I will say is that we as individuals have the ability to learn from what we see and how we feel, and to base our decisions on that. The important thing is to act properly and realistically and in a manner which lets you respect your face in the mirror.
In the end the three of us fnished Lucios table, got our lift out of town with our morals intact, and left Pointe du Linge Linge with a tan, a deeper understanding of Africa, and knowing we were not visiting Witriver in die Lowveld anytime soon.
However my real conclusion of the whole story is that all people; black, white, brown, yellow, male, female or transgender are all a hellofalot nicer when they are sober than when they are drunk.
ETA: another 2 weeks or so in Moz.
At about 9am we finallly left Tofu. Bags packed, fasted vas to the bikes, photos taken, peddles tightened, a high five and a 'thank you' to set us on our way. This was it. We were off. Day one we cycled for about 30kms then caught a dhow accross the bay to Maxixe, paying 200 met and 2 t-shirts. That night we slept like poor kings.
It was the next day however that we came to Pointe du Linge Linge. After another 30km cycle we finally reached the coastal village of Morombene. Here we loaded the bikes and trailor onto the Dhow and sailed upwind across the bay, shifting our weight and bodies accross the boat everytime our captain would tack throught the water to pick up speed, navigating over the bikes and mamas on board.
After three hours and a few stops we arrived 200m off the coast of Linge Linge. With bikes and bags atop our heads we waded through the water to the shore and bundubashed lost through the jungle as the sun came down, till we found what turned out to be our destination - Funky Monkeys. Knowing only what we had read in the 2 lines in the Lonley Planet - the reality was a pleasent shock to us. Rural, empty, no frills, paradise.
Almost immediately we were greated by Lucio, the first character in my story. A slightly built man, black Mozambiquan but clearly of Asian decent, missing a tooth right in the front of his mouth, old ripped shorts and his best (or only) t-shirt on, one good eye. Lucio welcomes us to his home and asked for a mere rate for us to stay with him. "Family first, money later" - as we discovered was his signiture line.
As we cooked dinner that night we talked and laughed in his broken English and our non-existent Bitonga. In the kitchen also sat his wife and wife's sister (or wives as it actually appeared to be once the sun came down). The night led to the bar and to card games and betting and buying each other one or two too many drinks.
On cheap wine Lucio was drunk, loud and more welcoming than ever. His sister-in-law sat next to him, looking embarresed and proud and ensured his cigerette was always lit. For Lucio guests really were more important than the money they brought with them.
The next day we awoke and after a swim in ocean and a walk on the beach, we began building the table we had promised him the night before. That day we worked, we rested, we ate. If Linge Linge wasn't paradise, then it was certainly the beach across the bay.
It was only the following day when we met the second characters in our story. We were looking for a lift out of Linge Linge, as the Dhow and 45km ahead of us was probably too much for one day of sunlight. From the hammocks we spotted some familar looking faces heading to Orland's Bar. South Africans - maybe they could help us out.
After a quick greeting and update on the Stomers game, we were like family to the boys from Witriver in die Lowveld. 120kg Kobus was doing construction managment for new holiday homes on the point. Jannie and Bizmark did similar work in construction and at a saw mill nearby. They were clealy excited to see white South Africans and invited us for dinner, ordering more beers and offered us a lift out on Thursday, almost without us asking.
"Kom for a lekker kuier tonight" Kobus insisted and despite out existing dinner plans with Lucio, they rocked up a few hours later to fetch us and took us from our campsite to their beachside mansions. There was something familar about the entitled tone they used with Lucio which seemed vaugely familar of a South Africa in which I grew up. Without so many words they were saying; "this is your home but when I am here, I am boss". Lucio smiled politely as his coverted guests were whisked away by Whites in Hilux 4x4s, before we had even started on cheap wine.
Nugs, Jules and myself felt guilty for leaving and caught a moment for a chat before getting to their home. Yes we had left Lucio, but we are dinner and he seemed okay, but we still felt bad. We resolved that it was okay, and we shouldn't harp on it and turn down the unashamed hospitality of our new friends.
That night we braai'd and drank brandy. We got loud, listened to bad music, arm wresteled and had a lekker kif kuier. Some other friends of theirs were over as well and it was a real South African night met die Boere and Souties. They were blown away that we were staying with one of the locals. "Ja the Chinese Kaffir, I've seen him around, Ja he's okay".
I ignored the racist comments, I made no fuss about the white dominant attitude, I enjoyed the laxurious house and expensive brandy on the door step of Mozambiquan poverty. Much like we had smiled at Lucio's drunken ramblings about his riches and ignored his blatant adultary, we ignored the racist banter. We knew it was wrong, but we were guests in both homes and we did not want to upset the currents on the calm beaches of Linge Linge.
Pointe du Linge Linge for me will be remembered as a place of great joy, real sadness and immense conflict.
When one travels (and especially so by bicycle), you put yourself at the mercy of others and you realise that many people are good people, hospitable and kind. Both Lucio and the Afrikaaners opened their homes to us and shared so much, expecting nothing but friendship in return. Knowing that strangers can treat strangers like family brings me joy.
Yet it is also sad because these two neighbours will never know each others hospitality. For Lucio, these are the white foreigners who had colonized his beach with 4x4s, five star hotels and flatscreen TVs. And for the Witriver boys, Lucio will always be the Chinese Kaffir. (And how a grossly obese, unfriendly old white man with Parkinsons disease can be racist is beyond me. Without his Hilux and gun, he is so far down the food chain that he should be trying to make all the friends he can, regardless of their colour or creed).
But Linge Linge is also a place of conflict for me. To enjoy the comfy beds, fun ocean toys, beer on-tap and the important lift out of town; we would have to endure the racism and be seen by the locals to be one of 'those Whites'. But to remain welcome guests of a local fisherman, we would have to sleep in our sandy tents, disassociate ourselves from warm, welcoming South Africans in a foreign land, (Kobus had already taken the day off work and bought a case of beer to take us spear fishing and out on his boat), and walk the 20kms out of town.
In my life in Cape Town race is not a big issue to me. My friends and family can attest to that. Yet I left Linge Linge feeling that one cannot hide from race on a continent where racial agression, segregation and murder has ruled for centuries. History always wins.
The end of Apartehid obviously was not the end of racism in South Africa. The coast of Mozambique is scattered with ex South African whites, (and definately not all the South Africans up here) destined to continue their old way of life, or at least enjoy its perks. And the lawless and poor coast of Mozambique serves as a perfect setting where money and jobs still make you 'die baas'.
However these people are shit ('these people', and certianly not Afrikaaners in general), and i feel sorry for them. Unable to accept the new era in SA, they ran for the borders and live a lonely life on the paradise beaches of Mozambique, clinging to the company of any whites who pass through, unable to overcomes the colour barrier and befriend their black neighbours. In 2011 we should be trying to find life on Mars, fight global warming and end inhumane farming practices, and not still bickering amongst ourselves about the colour of our skin. Its and old discussion and im pretty sure its unresolvable.
So how did we navigate our way through the currents of hospitality and racism? Well that was complex and hard to explain in writing. But what I will say is that we as individuals have the ability to learn from what we see and how we feel, and to base our decisions on that. The important thing is to act properly and realistically and in a manner which lets you respect your face in the mirror.
In the end the three of us fnished Lucios table, got our lift out of town with our morals intact, and left Pointe du Linge Linge with a tan, a deeper understanding of Africa, and knowing we were not visiting Witriver in die Lowveld anytime soon.
However my real conclusion of the whole story is that all people; black, white, brown, yellow, male, female or transgender are all a hellofalot nicer when they are sober than when they are drunk.
ETA: another 2 weeks or so in Moz.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Dont get hit by a shooting star
So i believe the trick to good blogging is honesty. There is no point in me writing about an 'awesome' trip thats not happening. Thats boring - no one is interested in fluff. So here is honesty. I was nervous about this trip. Seriously nervous. For those that know me averagely well, you will know that im not exactly iron man. So cycling up Southern Africa is quite scary. Like Seriously scary.
From the moment i left Afrika Burns i had this uneasy feeling in my stomach. Nerves, fear, thoughts of regret. We spent four days driving from Cape Town to Blom, to Joberg and to the Komatipoort on the Moz border. And the feeling wasnt going away. The honest truth is that i was shit scared of what we had decided to embark on. I had spent so much time getting gear together and saving money that i hadnt actually thought about what we were setting out on. Was i in over my head?
On Wednesday morning we left SA, crossed the border (only costing us R10 for a peice of paper and 30 minutes), and drove another grueling day to Tofu. We found a backpackers, set up camp and cracked a bottle of Tipo TInto to unwind. Then over dinner for the first time, we began to speak about the route, the plans, the method to this madness. The three of us huddeled round the map book and scoured our lonely planet (which is in German for some reason), and started the make our plans.
Im not sure if it was the Rhum or the planning, but for the first time in days, my stomach began to feel like my own again. That day off started of at 6 am in Makatipoort on the South African side of the Mozambiquan border and ended at 3am in a heaving moz hut club in Tofu, doing the chicken and bumping and grinding to amazing afro house. And the journey had begun.
Since then we have been living the dream. Flying our two handed kite on the white beaches and body surfing waves in the blue blue sea. We have been cooking great rice and veggie meals for dinner and eating freshly baked bread with avos the size of my head for breakfast. We walk through markets, talk shit to locals, play with dogs in the sand.Throw a few cool British doctors and a delicious, foul mouthed traveler with a red dress and a smile that could kill a unicorn into the mix, and things are not going too badly at all.
So we start cycling on Sunday. Right now im sitting in an internet cafe in Inhambane, we are in town to pick up a few supplies which we will need for the road. Five kilos of rice. New peddles for my bike, because the ones i had didnt fit (maybe i should have stuck to Barnetts bike guy). A bucket for washing dishes. We just bought a massive Baracuda and tonight we braai for a bunch of people. Then tomorrow we pack bags, surf and sun. And Sunday we hit the wide open road towards Maxixa.
The nerves are almost gone, the vibe is good and the excitement for the journey ahead builds with the sight of every palm tree. But its a long road ahead, so we will see where this honesty thing takes us next.
I miss you all and love the messages and good words.
Big love,
Big Eazy. (we have all taken on Moz names - Big Easy, Julian Jellybean and Ricky Pots and Pans)
ETA: Fish braai in 30 mins
From the moment i left Afrika Burns i had this uneasy feeling in my stomach. Nerves, fear, thoughts of regret. We spent four days driving from Cape Town to Blom, to Joberg and to the Komatipoort on the Moz border. And the feeling wasnt going away. The honest truth is that i was shit scared of what we had decided to embark on. I had spent so much time getting gear together and saving money that i hadnt actually thought about what we were setting out on. Was i in over my head?
On Wednesday morning we left SA, crossed the border (only costing us R10 for a peice of paper and 30 minutes), and drove another grueling day to Tofu. We found a backpackers, set up camp and cracked a bottle of Tipo TInto to unwind. Then over dinner for the first time, we began to speak about the route, the plans, the method to this madness. The three of us huddeled round the map book and scoured our lonely planet (which is in German for some reason), and started the make our plans.
Im not sure if it was the Rhum or the planning, but for the first time in days, my stomach began to feel like my own again. That day off started of at 6 am in Makatipoort on the South African side of the Mozambiquan border and ended at 3am in a heaving moz hut club in Tofu, doing the chicken and bumping and grinding to amazing afro house. And the journey had begun.
Since then we have been living the dream. Flying our two handed kite on the white beaches and body surfing waves in the blue blue sea. We have been cooking great rice and veggie meals for dinner and eating freshly baked bread with avos the size of my head for breakfast. We walk through markets, talk shit to locals, play with dogs in the sand.Throw a few cool British doctors and a delicious, foul mouthed traveler with a red dress and a smile that could kill a unicorn into the mix, and things are not going too badly at all.
So we start cycling on Sunday. Right now im sitting in an internet cafe in Inhambane, we are in town to pick up a few supplies which we will need for the road. Five kilos of rice. New peddles for my bike, because the ones i had didnt fit (maybe i should have stuck to Barnetts bike guy). A bucket for washing dishes. We just bought a massive Baracuda and tonight we braai for a bunch of people. Then tomorrow we pack bags, surf and sun. And Sunday we hit the wide open road towards Maxixa.
The nerves are almost gone, the vibe is good and the excitement for the journey ahead builds with the sight of every palm tree. But its a long road ahead, so we will see where this honesty thing takes us next.
I miss you all and love the messages and good words.
Big love,
Big Eazy. (we have all taken on Moz names - Big Easy, Julian Jellybean and Ricky Pots and Pans)
ETA: Fish braai in 30 mins
Monday, 2 May 2011
The Burn!!
Afrika Burns. There isnt really much you can say about it. How do you summarize the burn experience into a blog post. Im not sure its possible. Well its obviously possible, but it will never come out right or be what you want to say. The burn is an experience, and fuck did we experience it.
I was part of a camp called The Succulents. The Succuclents rock. We built a massive dance floor that was shaped like a cactus (its because of sentences like that, that the burn is hard to write about). Our camp sight was super jacked, our crew were amazing, our parties rocked the burn.
More than that? There was the drive up in Olive the car with Louise - we got a flat and i changed the tyre. I know. There was the bike ride with Derry and Will (in their disco helmets) and their loverly friends. There was Terrance and Oz dressed as Jesus/Moses allowing dinner cooking to turn into an onion chopping competition tv show. There was partying at camp Vuvu, and painting signs on the desert floor. There was driving around the desert on a scooter with Richspice and Dan (an averagely good idea). There was Danna, Tammy, Traz and the rest of the fam. There was the drive back to the N1 with sweet Jill. There were a lot of things, people, art and places which made the burn amazing. Thank you to everyone who was there and everyone who made it what it was.
More than that? There was the drive up in Olive the car with Louise - we got a flat and i changed the tyre. I know. There was the bike ride with Derry and Will (in their disco helmets) and their loverly friends. There was Terrance and Oz dressed as Jesus/Moses allowing dinner cooking to turn into an onion chopping competition tv show. There was partying at camp Vuvu, and painting signs on the desert floor. There was driving around the desert on a scooter with Richspice and Dan (an averagely good idea). There was Danna, Tammy, Traz and the rest of the fam. There was the drive back to the N1 with sweet Jill. There were a lot of things, people, art and places which made the burn amazing. Thank you to everyone who was there and everyone who made it what it was.
Nugs and Jules picked me up in Touwsriver. There we drove a crazy 8 hours to Blom and stayed in the Greys dorms. Im happy i didnt go to a boarding school. Today we arrived in Joberg and right now im sitting on Danis bed - her and Claire are shouting at me to get off the computer and go for sushi. So i gotto sign out. Tomorrow we drive to the border and Moz the next day.
Everything good and safe. Missing yall already.
Cheers
e
ETA: Sushi and sleep.
The Burn!!
Afrika Burns. There isnt really much you can say about it. How do you summarize the burn experience into a blog post. Im not sure its possible. Well its obviously possible, but it will never come out right or be what you want to say. The burn is an experience, and fuck did we experience it.
I was part of a camp called The Succulents. The Succuclents rock. We built a massive dance floor that was shaped like a cactus (its because of sentences like that, that the burn is hard to write about). Our camp sight was super jacked, our crew were amazing, our parties rocked the burn.
More than that? There was the drive up in Olive the car with Louise - we got a flat and i changed the tyre. I know. There was the bike ride with Derry and Will (in their disco helmets) and their loverly friends. There was Terrance and Oz dressed as Jesus/Moses allowing dinner cooking to turn into an onion chopping competition tv show. There was partying at camp Vuvu, and painting signs on the desert floor. There was driving around the desert on a scooter with Richspice and Dan (an averagely good idea). There was Danna, Tammy, Traz and the rest of the fam. There was the drive back to the N1 with sweet Jill. There were a lot of things, people, art and places which made the burn amazing. Thank you to everyone who was there and everyone who made it what it was.
More than that? There was the drive up in Olive the car with Louise - we got a flat and i changed the tyre. I know. There was the bike ride with Derry and Will (in their disco helmets) and their loverly friends. There was Terrance and Oz dressed as Jesus/Moses allowing dinner cooking to turn into an onion chopping competition tv show. There was partying at camp Vuvu, and painting signs on the desert floor. There was driving around the desert on a scooter with Richspice and Dan (an averagely good idea). There was Danna, Tammy, Traz and the rest of the fam. There was the drive back to the N1 with sweet Jill. There were a lot of things, people, art and places which made the burn amazing. Thank you to everyone who was there and everyone who made it what it was.
Nugs and Jules picked me up in Touwsriver. There we drove a crazy 8 hours to Blom and stayed in the Greys dorms. Im happy i didnt go to a boarding school. Today we arrived in Joberg and right now im sitting on Danis bed - her and Claire are shouting at me to get off the computer and go for sushi. So i gotto sign out. Tomorrow we drive to the border and Moz the next day.
Everything good and safe. Missing yall already.
Cheers
e
ETA: Sushi and sleep.
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