Sticking around

Those of you who have followed my adventures thus far are quite aware that I am nomadic. Over the last year, my record for the longest time without packing up and moving stands at 8 weeks. Having said that, packing and moving everything I own takes less than half an hour. In any case, this is a brief account of my latest adventure - Mozambique on a budget, without planning, and only passable communication.

On Wednesday of last week (8/24), I received word that my skills would be needed at the hospital this week (8/29 - 9/2). A sense of importance - super! However, because my visa was scheduled to expire on 9/5, I needed to immediately exit Malawi. Basically, it meant that my passport and its owner had to leave bright and early the next morning. 18 hours later, a stuffed bag and a couple books escorted me to Thyolo and right onto a minibus. Mozambique, here I come! - uh no! The 60 km from Thyolo to the border required three hours of minibus frustration to traverse. At the border, the Malawian immigration hassled me for having 25,000 kwacha ($130) because people are only allowed to take 3,000 kwacha out of the country. After finally clearing that hurdle, a bike taxi argued with me, asserting my need to pay for a ride to the Mozambique immigration office. I refused him the entire 150 meters to said immigration office. Here, they fussed that I didn't have my immunization document and that I hadn't initiated a visa through the consulate. They overcharged for my visa, but that seemed like a fair bargain for breaking so many laws.

Across the border in Milange, it's an entirely different world. Everyone uses the same language (at least the first 10 km), cell phone company, and side of the road, but the differences were astounding. Cleanliness (much worse), population (much more sparse), general layout of the town (spacious) - it was all strange. I hoped to score a bus or matola or something to the major city of Mocuba. Two hours of waiting at the "bus depot" yielded my first opportunity and success - the most luxurious vehicle I have sat inside in a year. After four hours in a tumble freeze dryer (bouncy, cold, and dehydrated), I was happily in Mocuba for the night. The next morning, whilst foraging for a bakery,I stumbled into a bus going to Quelimane, which is where I wanted to go (buses travel in the eastern part of the country frequently, just not to/from Milange). A few more hours of misery accompanied me on my journey, but the quaintness of the town quickly quelled that. Quelimane is like an avocado, papaya, and lemon juice soup for your granola (thank you Chrislyn!). The landscape is like a Caribbean island. The architecture looks Caribbean and Iberian. Business is Middle Eastern and Indian. Yet the majority of people are, by look and character, clearly African. All I know is that an American-style pizza made all the world right, even if just for a few moments. Another beautiful sunset, restful sleep, and morning beckoned me to the beach. And so, after walking 5 km in the wrong direction, sinking up to my knees in mud and frog poo, becoming the village attraction, and getting redirected, I found my way to the back of a flatbed truck. A hour later, I found myself standing in the Indian Ocean, amazed at the size of the beach, amused at the small waves, and longing for some shade. Within a few minutes, I located some trees fairly close to the sand and waves, pulled out my hammock, and plopped down for some reading and a nap. Had hunger not interrupted my nap, I might still be there now. With some hesitation, I reintroduced my feet to the ground and headed home.

The return trip was more of the same story, sans an amazing hitch. Frigid, frustrating, and forgettable (I wish I could forget the transportation, not the trip). The return trip also gave me time to ponder many things such as "why didn't I bring a coat?", "are we there yet?", "will the border authorities hassle me on the way back as well?", and "do I want to do this again in three months?". Of course, the last question required the most (but still hardly any) thought. Three months in one community feels like no time at all. However, I can barely remember what life was like in Rwanda. A wise woman once told me that we all go through the seasons of life. Most of my life's "seasons" are coincidentally three months long but Malawi is one summer I don't want to end soon.

(a few pictures of my trip are on facebook)