Needed to get out of….
Beira. After two weeks of scheduling and attending various meetings, frantically writing email messages to my boss and field coordinator from internet cafés and trying to set realistic goals for my time here while still having my hopes sky-high, I asked Lauren (the Dartmouth undergrad that is here with me): “if I can find us a ride to the beach this weekend, do you want to go?” Being bored out of her mind because I can’t give her anything useful to do and because we have been unsuccessful in tracking down an organization that will give her a volunteer outlet for a couple of weeks, she, of course, says “YES!”
Thursday night of last week, we are sitting around with Berto, the Portuguese sign maker, at Gaia’s house (where we are staying). Gaia is a very sharp British woman who has lived all over the world. She likes tortellini and chocolate, listening to the BBC news, and is very particular about the cold milk that goes in her tea. She also has a house full of girl magazines, sappy DVDs, and handicrafts from Bolivia, Nepal, and Africa. She works for DANIDA (the Danish government) and is the advisor to the government program here in Beira through which our field work funding is being channeled. Due to a death threat, she has largely been in Maputo (the capital), and has very graciously allowed us to stay at her house.
Back to Berto. Berto is on the phone with José, the Portuguese baker, and I hear him talking to José about the fact that he might be going to Savane for the weekend. Savane is the same beach I hit up with Frank just after arriving in Mozambique on my last trip. From the background, I pipe up: “hey, does he want some company?” Sure enough. The Portuguese baker is also a somewhat lonely man, and it helped that Berto asked him if he wanted the company of “duas bombas” (two hotties?) on his beach weekend.
José shows up at 9:30 on Saturday morning for us. I had told him that Lauren and I were planning on staying the night, but noticed right away that he didn’t have any stuff with him (sleeping bag or mat), and told him that we would be happy to find a way back on Sunday if he decided to leave at the end of the day. Little did he know that there was not a full-blown hotel at Savane—rather more fortunate for us. By the time we arrived at the end of the bumpy dirt road and had parked the bakery truck in the car park, I had learned all about José’s failed marriage, all about his daughters, and all about how his ex-wife (who he described as “uma cobra”) had ruined his life and had made him never want to return to the motherland of Portugal.
We stretched out on the beach for a few hours and soaked up some sun, and then ate a meal with José. It suffices to say that I was none too forlorn to see him head off at the end of the day. I can only bite my tongue through so much whining about mosquitoes, and through so many racist comments where non-white Africans are literally referred to as monkeys. As the last bit of daylight was escaping and I was anxiously watching the sun go down from a table in the restaurant and wishing I was on the beach…Lauren and I bid him a cheerful farewell, expressed our thanks to him for the ride, and told him that we hoped he had enjoyed his visit to Savane.
I enjoyed the last bit of orange glow alone, on the coast of the Indian Ocean. I stretched out on my back in the sand in the dark—let the lines between the water and the stars blur together. I soaked in the millions of lights with my mouth ajar and little tears in my eyes as occasional long flashes caused me to snap my head to one side or the other. I started when a crab snuck up on my foot.
The evening ended with Scotch, chocolate, and cashews with the owner of Savane, the architect of the new huts, and a Brazilian couple (yes! They made me miss Brazil).
Sunday broke, blustery and overcast. I had some breakfast with Lauren and read the Economist (like I might in Blacksburg, Brazil, or various other ‘homes’ in VA)—walked about 5K up the beach and then back through the fishing fray (quite unlike anything I have ever seen in Blacksburg, Brazil, Verona, or Grottoes). By the middle of the day, I was cold, in Africa. I guess it is wintertime!
Only one problem with the weather…our plan to find a ride out was somewhat contingent on there being people that were leaving! Thunderheads are not a big draw for daytime beach-goers in Mozambique. We asked Celso, the owner, what our best bet was, and he sent us across the river to wait on a chapa on the other side, telling us that he had reserved two seats in the front for us.
We saw a big truck pull up, and I said to Lauren, “I wonder if that’s our ride?” Grabbing our stuff, we strolled over. By the time we were there, the open bed of the truck was piled high with boxes and coolers full of fish, and many many bodies. I asked a guy whether there would be another one. He was wishy-washy, but suggested that maybe we had better wait….
Oh no. I needed to be back in Beira for a meeting today. We started handing our stuff up and got a leg up…and we were on. Well, Lauren was barely on. I reached a hand out and grabbed her backpack strap at the chest and hung on. There was a stack of...something covered...under my rear, two men pressed against my front, and I was desperately trying to hang onto my bag. A woman gently smacks me on the rear, and tells me that I cannot sit on her fish. One foot had staked out its claim to a piece of truck bed, the other toes were tenuously supporting part of my weight. The rest, well, was supported by the group of people and the stacks of fish. There were at least 25 people and many more fish on this truck.
40 km later, we make it to the main road. Muscles cramping, and smelling like fish. Icy fish water had soaked part of my skirt and had been sloshing onto my leg with every bump in the road. Fortunately, the thunderclouds held their stuff. Two more chapas, a little bit of a soggy walk, and we were home—a closed compound with hot showers looked pretty good, I’ll admit.
Three more workdays in Beira, lots to do. Sorry for the total non-communication via my blog—and thanks for your patience. Maybe some of you still check it occasionally, despite my negligence (and difficulty in finding spare time that coincides with me having an internet connection).
Abraços to all!
