Home
      About Me
      Photos
      Travel Writings
      Poetry
      Guest Book
      Contact

The Passionate Trail of Africa

I had been waking up on the beaches of Lake Malawi for nearly two months now. Every day the sun would rise from behind the mountains on the opposing coast of Mozambique. Louder and louder each day those mountains, and the undocumented mysteries that lay beyond, seemed to be calling me. Thinking of the large regions in northern Mozambique, not yet bothered by the wheels of tourism, excited me. Malawi had been very good to me: great friends, perfect weather, warm nights, and very inexpensive food and travel. I had explored the country very thoroughly and I knew it was time to move on.
I was no rookie at the use of Illala II, the government transport boat used to reach many destinations along the lake. It normally arrived at least half a day late. When it did arrive, and was to leave again shortly, I started backing my bags. I checked out of the place I was camping and met with friends for lunch. We laughed as we watched the ‘new' tourists sprinting with their huge packs to make the scheduled departure times. Strolling down to the docks a couple of hours late we then only had a half hour wait. There were about ten of us who crossed to the island of Chizimulu and enjoyed a few beautiful days amongst the small population of locals. We played soccer with the kids, chatted with the elders, and explored the island.
I bid farewell to this group of friends that I had spent a month and a half with in Malawi. In a small dhow (wooden sailboat) I ventured out across the gentle swell to reach the island of Likoma. The mountains drew ever nearer and my excitement and anticipation of the unknown increased with every kilometre sailed. My last memories of Malawi were having my hair braided by a young island girl and meeting more friendly locals and travellers. I set out on another burlap and plastic patchwork sailed dhow, to complete the remaining five kilometres to Mozambique. With consistent winds we crossed quickly over the deep, crystal blue waters.
A friend from Likoma had told me of a man in the small village of Cobwe, Mozambique. When I arrived, I found Mr. James Bondo with ease and he just happened to speak English quite well, although I was very ready to fake Portuguese using my broken Spanish. With Mr. Bondo's help, I had my entry visa stamped at the police station that was barely big enough for the only policeman in the area and myself. We returned to Mr. Bondo's place were we did some friendly bartering about accommodation prices. "Do you make meals here," I asked Mr. Bondo? "Oh yes, my wife is a wonderful cook," he announced proudly. "Alright then how about this my friend," I suggested, " I will pay only 10 kwatcha (about 25 cents) a night to camp, provided I buy all my meals here." "Wonderful," Mr. Bondo grinned, "please, set up your tent anywhere here on the beach." He swept his hand toward the soft white sand leading to the palm lined shore. My meals would cost no more than a dollar a day!
Mr. Bondo and I toured through the little sleepy village together. There were one or two families selling some non-perishables from their little mud houses and another couple of stalls selling fresh bread. There was, as always, the shabeen where the locals drank their fermented corn brew. "For more than half the year the only access to here is by boat, there are no vehicles, electricity or running water, you're the only white person I've seen here years," Mr. Bondo explained.

As the day grew old I wandered down the empty beach. It all seemed different, serene, and fresh compared to the familiarity of Malawi the day before. As I sat on the west coast of Mozambique and watched the sun sinking over Malawi, I was truly happy. I joined Mr. Bondo, his wife Gloria, and a few of their young children for a hearty meal of home-grown chicken and vegetables. My host was very willing to translate for us all. "You like?" beamed Gloria, proud of her cooking and her English. "Ci, muy bien gracias señora." I responded, and we all laughed. After dinner I set up my tent and read myself to sleep in the brilliant glow of the full moon.
The next day Mr. Bondo showed up early. "Come along, I will show you around," he said, full of energy. The old ruined church, where goats played inside on the rubble, had bullet holes decorating its bare, cement walls. We walked through the large, dilapidated university that had schooled many in its day, and now cultivated only weeds. The war had truly devastated this country, but still the people went on in their endless struggle of existence. Mr. Bondo pointed out all the markers for the buried landmines. "Not to worry," he said, "we know the locations of most of them because we were here when the military planted them." "Most of them?" I exclaimed. Mr. Bondo laughed. "Just stick to the paths," he suggested. The most evident and heart-wrenching effects of the land mines were the numerous Mozambican amputees. We weaved across the fertile soil that spawned their gardens. Having arrived at his field, I was amazed to see such a variety of vegetables. There were carrots, broccoli, lettuce, pumpkin, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, huge stalks of corn, and much more. It had been many months since I had seen such variety. "The soil will accommodate anything," he said. "it's getting the seeds that's the problem." We gathered food for lunch and headed back to his home.
That afternoon I was fortunate to meet a man who owned a boat that was soon heading south. Since it was not uncommon to wait a week for transportation, I jumped at this opportunity. Later, Mr. Bondo and I went back to his gardens to fetch vegetables for my travels. When we got there we found that a troop of baboons had completely destroyed his entire crop of corn, breaking most plants and eating any cobs that were even close to being ripe. I felt weak, and a huge lump filled my throat. This was the family's major source of food...gone. We could still hear the baboons crashing through the jungle in the distance. Mr. Bondo seemed to take it in stride and said, "I am sorry you will have no corn to take on your journey." I nearly cried. These people are amazing. That night he offered me a room so that I could pack my things and be ready at a moments notice. Not having slept in a bed for in months, I was like a hibernating bear.
I woke before dawn to the foreign sound of an engine. Mr. Bondo and his family were at the shoreline to see me off. "Thank you all so much for your kindness and generosity," I fumbled out in broken Spanish. "I'll mail seeds for the garden as soon as I can," I yelled as we putted away. Their waving figures faded into the landscape and the sun began to rise from behind the ominous mountains as we sailed away.

This leg of the journey was done in a 16-foot fibreglass boat with the usual ragged sails and eucalyptus tree mast. Oddly, this boat had an engine, odder still, the skipper ran the little outboard continuously until it was out of fuel. This left us to paddle when there was no wind, or wind from the wrong direction. I was traveling with not only ten other people, but also lots of dried fish, some goats and some chickens. The beaches we stopped at to eat and sleep were immaculate and seemingly unaltered since the beginning of time. We bought fresh fish along the way from leathery old men who had spent their entire lives fishing these waters.
The ladies cooked cornmeal and fish on the fire, and it was insisted that I eat with the group. Within their culture, everyone who travels together looks after each other as they would their own family. I shared the food Mr. Bondo had given me. We conversed as best we could; we laughed and enjoyed our time; in a place where time meant nothing. When night fell we slept on the sand beneath a blanket of stars.
After a few wobbly days on the water we sailed up to Metangula where I was directed to the big church on the hill to exchange money. To my surprise, the three priests were from the United States. They exchanged my Malawian kwatcha to Mozambican meticais. "No problem," they said, "we head to Malawi all the time for supplies." Later that day, I asked to put up my tent in their mission yard, but they insisted I stay in their guest room. I had planned to leave the next morning on my quest to reach Pemba, a village on the Indian Ocean coast. I had heard many good things about Pemba and was missing the ocean.
Before I knew it I had been there a week. We often engaged in in-depth conversations, after yet another great meal, about the various opinions of religion. In my time there I came to see how the entire community relied on these men. "We are not only clergymen, but also counsellors, doctors, and peacekeepers for the community," one priest explained. I was amazed at how open-minded these men were and how similar my spirituality and their Christianity were. "It's all about goodness and helping others," we agreed. I was pleased at being able to show thanks for their kindness by repainted their mission home. Having again encountered great people, it was time to travel on. With a final smile to Lake Malawi and its beautiful beaches, I bid farewell and set off east across the country.
I was fortunate to get free rides with people who were just happy to help. Most were eager to learn a little about my country and speak any English they knew. People appreciated receiving a sticker of the Canadian flag and my address for correspondence. Although most would never write, they liked to show travellers they had friends in other countries.
It was getting late. Having covered only a couple hundred kilometres that day, I still hoped to travel through to Cuamba that night to catch an early morning train to the coast. I met a group of Mozambicans, all with the same idea. We sat beside the dusty goat path they called a road. As the shadows grew longer we talked and listened to a small radio with local music playing. No cars came. Once darkness fell, the nine of us moved to the market area to pass time. There were many personalities huddled on the small cement pad in front of that kiosk. We continued our stories and laughter, one white face glowing in the darkness. We slept the night on that porch.
We were up at first light and moved back down by the roadside. A pickup appeared at 6am. and we clambered into the back, clinging to our hopes of reaching Cuamba by the train's 8 AM departure. There was an air of excitement as we sped past construction work and flew through tall, overhanging grass and trees. The entire time we were being plastered by the red dust the vehicle kicked up.
The long night dogged me and my head bobbed and my eye lids began to droop. My new friends noticed and feared for me as I teetered on the tailgate. "Come my friend, you sit here." They insisted I sit on our big pile of luggage in the centre. In my new seat, I quickly fell asleep. We raced on and made it to Cuamba in record time, only to find that the train had left an hour beforehand.
A frantic discussion ensued and we roared off. My friends explained to me that for double the original price we were now attempting to chase down the train. EEEYHAAA!!! I thought we were going fast before; now it felt like we were airborne! Smiles shone bright and adrenaline rushed as my mind flipped continually between the theme songs of 'The Dukes of Hazard' and 'Road Runner'. We whistled and screamed out warnings to pedestrians and cyclists as we barrelled down behind them. Children waved as we sped through their tiny villages. We rushed past beautiful arid landscapes such as the Formacao Chile-Nampula, a mountain range that runs from central Mozambique south to the Zambezi plateau. We sped across railroad tracks in little towns and shouted to find out when the train had passed. People just waved us on.
With its trail of smoke in the distance, we soon spotted the train. A cheer of hugs, high fives, clapping and laughter exploded. Life was perfect. We sped past it for some distance and came to the town of Malema; pulling up just before the old steamer. I lost sight of my friends as I was thanking and saying goodbye to our driver. Caught between boarding the train and finding my friends, I moped through the masses. Just then I spotted them hanging out the train windows. "Trevor." "My friend." "TREVOR," they called, waving me onto their car. We sat in a big group and recapping the day.
The train stopped for a few minutes in each small town. Hundreds of vendors crowded the train, thrusting huge baskets of colourful fruits and vegetables up at the windows. Everyone frantically bought them, filling bags with green peppers, tomatoes, onions, garlic, sugar cane, bananas and much more. Often the vendors ended up running along with the departing train to fetch their baskets and money. It gave window-shopping a whole new meaning! This eagerness to buy was because the same items would be four times as expensive in the city. It was incredible; the equivelant of 50 cents filled half a garbage bag with vegetables. "Are you not getting anything," they asked in Portuguese? "I have no need for so much," I answered in Spanish. They all gladly gave me a few fruits and vegetables from their huge sacks. "No, no, no," one man laughed as I butchered my piece of sugar cane. "Like this." He peeled the entire piece in seconds, scored it into bite size pieces and handed it back to me grinning proudly
Much to my friends' amusement, I started writing furiously to try and capture the mood. They each wrote a little comment, and signed my journal, catalouging the distances traveled and the record times in which we covered them. We talked of our families, schooling, and future aspirations. We enjoyed each other's photographs and some slept. We rolled through the darkness, and reached the blinding lights of Nampula seven hours later. With hugs and handshakes I sadly said goodbye. It seemed like much longer than a day we had known each other.
Two of the younger men and I ventured into the city and visited one of their families. I left my backpack there while we set out to organize a bus to Pemba. We were able to find one leaving at 4 a.m. "Come, we will find you a place to stay, and some good Mozambican food," they said. I thanked my friends for their kindness and we traded addresses and bid farewell. I ate my fishcakes and then slept a few hours in a nice, inexpensive hotel. When it was time to go, the bus driver came into the hotel and wrapped on my door to wake me.
Late that day, after more bad roads and a painfully hot and crowded bus ride, I made it to Pemba, northern Mozambique. I lay beneath a palm tree on the soft white sand while the waves broke gently and the sun warmed my body. I breathed a happy sigh...
I had found that by letting life run its course, the most memorable experiences occur. Two weeks earlier I had set out on this journey without knowing how I would reach my destination. I knew better than to waste my breath asking questions about departure times or how long a trip would take; all things work on 'African time'. Simply by wanting it, believing I could do it, and staying positive I found myself in the place I had set out for. The journey truly is the destination!

tb