Mozam roads
Tim Conibear experiences the questionable joys of Mozambique's open roads and law enforcement.
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We find ourselves battling north along the deep sand trails to which we have now become accustomed. Progress is slow as the trails flit between dense hard-packed grit and stone, and deep soft fine sands blowing gently in the mid-morning winds. After an hour of so of driving we come to the first fork in the trails and a wooden signboard daubed in black paint pointing back towards our point of departure, only 7km away. We press on but soon our progress is halted as we encounter a 4x4 towing a fishing boat stuck up to the axles and going nowhere. There is no way of passing as the single track trail is enveloped by the deep bush and the only possible way forward is to back track and take another route inland. After two hours we are still 7km from our point of departure.
Heading inland and away from the dunes, the roads become more manageable; packed grit and dirt but riddled with potholes and ruts from the rains. We rattle about inside the car but progress becomes more speedy and the odometer ticks along at a pleasing rate. Heading north towards the capital Maputu the countryside is empty with no sign of civilisation. We carry our own fuel for lack of filling stations and pass the odd community consisting of a half dozen reed shelters but there is little sign of activity and nobody seems too keen to earn a living from the passing traffic - probably due its infrequency. Instead we see mothers bathing naked children in small cast iron basins and men resting in the shade of a tree, machetes dangling from their sides. We spot our first wildlife since entering Mozambique almost a week ago. Small herds of cows and goats wander aimlessly in the bush, all look undernourished and there is no sign of a farmer of shepherd nor any sign of ownership; perhaps they belong to the small communities, perhaps they are wild or escaped, there is no way of telling.
We are covered in dust. The once gleaming surfaces of the dash are now matted with a fine layer of dirt that permeates every nook of the cab rendering everything filthy to touch, nothing is clean and any attempt to cleanse merely transfers dust from one surface to the next. We raise the windows but the air-con is out and the fan billows yet more dust into the already choking environment. We share hoarse coughing fits, our teeth white amid dirty faces as we smile and grin at the reality of off-roading through Africa. The road continues to unfold straight ahead, baked and rutted in the midday heat. Dust clouds on the horizon indicate lorries pushing north to the capital, overloaded with cargo and people clinging onto every available grip. We approach with care, enveloped and blinded before emerging into the dazzling sun once again and the barren open road as we pull ahead.
All of a sudden, from the corner of my eye, I spot something, towering into the sky just visible above the bush to my right. The road is empty and unchanged, the countryside still barren. But there it is again, clawing the sky as it rises from the slums of Maputu, revealing the vast skyscrapers of the capital visible across the brown waters of Inhambane Bay that has opened up before us out of nowhere. The incongruity of a vast city rising out of the empty and barren bush is startling and we stop to take in the crumbling majesty of Maputu. The sky reddening with the sunset, the scene is almost apocalyptic as vast skyscrapers rise up from the silhouetted outlines of the ruins and slums. It takes a full five minutes to get over the contrast before we begin again only to be pulled over and our first encounter with the 'law'.
There are three of them. The first decked out in a white naval looking uniform complete with sharp peaked hat and decorated lapels, pompous and preening like a peacock as he pulls us over in an overly theatrical way that invites muffled laughter that only seems to encourage him further. The second is in army uniform; tall, heavy and hiding behind dark glasses, he looks more ominous and not to be messed with. The third remains in the shade of the tree holding his cocked rifle.
'Where your shirt?' demands the peacock.
'Sorry?' I reply as I remove my perfectly legal seatbelt.
'You must drive with shirt, where your shirt?' he demands as a small truck overloaded with 30 or more passengers teeters by.
I follow it's path deliberately with my gaze to make a point but his stare is unflinching. There is no answer to his question, it's 35 degrees with no air-con and since when has driving in just a pair of baggies been a threat to public safety in the first place? It's an obvious hustle.
'This Muslim country, you must wear shirt,' he presses.
I understand where he's coming from and respect what he is saying but, having been a lone white face in a small and crumbling Christian church a few hundred kilometres south that morning, I know this isn't necessarily the case. I offer no reply. The Peacock motions to the Heavy.
'Licence' he demands through his dark glasses.
I pull my licence from my wallet making sure not to show them the wad of SA Rand hidden in the main pouch. He fumbles my licence with fat greedy fingers,
'700 Meticais, you pay now, cash' then the two withdraw to the shade and wait. It's a Mexican standoff of stubbornness but we are travelling surfers with nowhere to go, we are in no hurry. After a short while we motion to the pair.
'Ok, write out the fine and we'll pay at the station, no worries.'
A moments consulting. 'OK 100 Meticais, cash, now'
'No, we'll pay 700 as asked, write out the fine and we'll pay at the station, otherwise we go, now'.
Another consultation and the heavy removes his shades. We smile. He returns our licences.
'Wear your shirt' he retorts weakly as we pull away, driving through the slums of Maputu and heading north to our campground for the night to float on dreams of adventuring in Africa and the turquoise point break that awaits at the end.
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Mozam roads (text) by Tim Conibear is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
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