Relationships and sexuality are always interesting parts of culture, and Rwanda is no exception. What is interesting, from my perspective, is in Rwanda (and much of east Africa) how deeply entrenched very different dating and sexual norms are in society. Men and women, but men in particular, tend to have more concurrent sexual relationships but fewer partners on average over their lifetime than westerners. At the same time, sexuality also seems a less visible part of society, where touching others (regardless of gender) is widely accepted (and practiced!) but in entirely platonic forms. Any shred of intimacy is largely left behind closed doors. Few people speak openly about relationships or sex, and students appear to exhibit little knowledge or willingness to engage in conservation about them.
The concept of concurrent relationships is an important public health concern as HIV/AIDS rates have skyrocketed in most sub-Saharan African countries since the 1980s. In her alarming yet incredibly enlightening book The Invisible Cure, Helen Epstein explores the rise of AIDS in Africa and the continent’s attempts to deal with the epidemic. She concludes that patterns of partner concurrency are largely to blame for the rapid transmission of AIDS in southern and eastern African countries. Male circumcision also appears to play a vital role, a potential reason Islamic west African countries experience much lower HIV/AIDS rates. HIV/AIDS in Rwanda is a serious problem, but not quite as acute as some southern African countries (check out the rates of HIV infection in Namibia, South Africa, Botswana, and Lesotho – terrifying!). Still, I have heard that HIV rates are dramatically underreported in Rwanda, although I cannot confirm this. All manner of campaigns have been launched in east Africa to educate people about the dangers of concurrent relationships. Uganda, which successfully combated the AIDS epidemic there in the early 1990s, has some catchy slogans: “No side dishes,” and “Overgrazing.” Clever.
The nature of dating and sexuality in Rwanda makes it difficult for people like Evan and me, who already are singled out as different, to understand how people view dating and sex. Evan teaches General Paper, an all-purpose current events and history course for upper secondary students. Sexuality and HIV/AIDS are part of the curriculum, but Evan cannot accurately determine what many students think because students do not openly discuss such issues. At the same time, we know some of our students have boyfriends or girlfriends and are sexually active (think, empty condom wrappers on the football field…no, seriously). The social obfuscation which pervades much of Rwandan society does not exempt dating and sex. Unsurprisingly, the cultural barriers have also largely prevented Evan or me from having any relationship with a Rwandan woman, which I must admit is a shame because Rwandan women are beautiful. Sigh. We’ll just have to content ourselves with the ever popular rub-a-dub. I’ll let you stew on what that one is!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
He gets the mélange, too.
Wow, time flies. It has been a churning whirlwind of a term filled with unexpected holidays and massive upheavals to schedules. I’ve been so consumed by getting things done and managing the mismanagement that the blog has been neglected. Expect a few more blogs before my service wraps up in three weeks. Term ends in about two weeks, then a week of preparing reports, then some freedom.
Evan and I, like Sawa, have become common figures in the Nyagatare scene, traipsing to the market, eating at a few different establishments, and drinking at one local watering hole on occasion. Generally people have grown accustomed to seeing us around, especially the motorcycle taxi drivers and university students. This blog is dedicated to those university students who try so painfully hard to pretend they are our friends.
When we’re out and about oftentimes university students will approach us or make contact when we walk by. Inevitably they tend to act as if they know us, even though our range of what I might call friendly acquaintances at the university is quite limited. Most often, they belie their posturing by calling us Ivan and Isaac – our two cover names given to people who we quite likely will never see again or don’t particularly want to hang out with at any future date and time. Ivan and Isaac are common names in Rwanda, Evan and Zach are not, so we just make it easy for them. The ruse has extended into our private life as an inside joke.
Evan’s take on the whole situation is good, and it’s best explained by the simple statement, “He gets the mélange, me too!” (A mélange is just a plate of mixed food – gastronomically terrible but filling). You see, sometimes we wonder if people psychologically make themselves our friends simply because they observe us so much and find commonalities. Wow, he drinks beer at Blue Sky. Wow, they eat omelets at City Center Restaurant. Wow, they shop for crackers at the ‘supermarket.’ Just like me. This kind of identification is fine except when it actually intrudes too much into my real personal life. If someone wants to yuck it up for a few minutes on the road with the umuzungu, fine. That’s often a funny exchange. There are even some university students I enjoy sharing a beer with. However, it becomes a little tiresome when you become a linguistic punching bag for someone’s poor English and drunken Kinyarwandan.
While I enjoy meeting new people, and I certainly have met some interesting people in Nyagatare, the simple fact is my social circle is relatively small for a reason. Evan and I socialize with people with whom we have more in common, whether it’s another volunteer, a professor at the local university, or a teacher at school who we particularly like. Ten months have been enough to convince me of that. So watch who you call Isaac, you might just give yourself away!
Evan and I, like Sawa, have become common figures in the Nyagatare scene, traipsing to the market, eating at a few different establishments, and drinking at one local watering hole on occasion. Generally people have grown accustomed to seeing us around, especially the motorcycle taxi drivers and university students. This blog is dedicated to those university students who try so painfully hard to pretend they are our friends.
When we’re out and about oftentimes university students will approach us or make contact when we walk by. Inevitably they tend to act as if they know us, even though our range of what I might call friendly acquaintances at the university is quite limited. Most often, they belie their posturing by calling us Ivan and Isaac – our two cover names given to people who we quite likely will never see again or don’t particularly want to hang out with at any future date and time. Ivan and Isaac are common names in Rwanda, Evan and Zach are not, so we just make it easy for them. The ruse has extended into our private life as an inside joke.
Evan’s take on the whole situation is good, and it’s best explained by the simple statement, “He gets the mélange, me too!” (A mélange is just a plate of mixed food – gastronomically terrible but filling). You see, sometimes we wonder if people psychologically make themselves our friends simply because they observe us so much and find commonalities. Wow, he drinks beer at Blue Sky. Wow, they eat omelets at City Center Restaurant. Wow, they shop for crackers at the ‘supermarket.’ Just like me. This kind of identification is fine except when it actually intrudes too much into my real personal life. If someone wants to yuck it up for a few minutes on the road with the umuzungu, fine. That’s often a funny exchange. There are even some university students I enjoy sharing a beer with. However, it becomes a little tiresome when you become a linguistic punching bag for someone’s poor English and drunken Kinyarwandan.
While I enjoy meeting new people, and I certainly have met some interesting people in Nyagatare, the simple fact is my social circle is relatively small for a reason. Evan and I socialize with people with whom we have more in common, whether it’s another volunteer, a professor at the local university, or a teacher at school who we particularly like. Ten months have been enough to convince me of that. So watch who you call Isaac, you might just give yourself away!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
When MJ met MC.
I had the distinct honor of presiding over my first high school dance this past weekend. Evan, like me a bit burnt out from a particularly rough two weeks of mismanagement and incompetence at work, had gone to Butare to visit John, our traveling partner from southern Africa. The Anti-AIDS club had arranged to use the dining hall for a series of performances, skits, and dancing sometime last week, but it was continuously rescheduled. Finally, Saturday night was a go ahead, and I was responsible for providing the supervision.
To my surprise and utter dismay, the students had actually decided to just dance, and perform not drama about AIDS education. They had already set up the dining hall with AV equipment and rearranged the benches and tables so I gave, assuring the Anti-AIDS group president that the shindig would last no longer than 10:00PM.
At first, students stood ringed around the enclosed area created by upturned tables used to contain the sound a bit and protect the windows. The girls especially, who trickled in slowly, just watched with bemused or ambivalent expressions. Small groups of boys jittered furiously, kicking, stomping, and sliding their sandal-clad feet, rhythmically twisting their shoulders and hips. However, with the lights on, most students seemed (unsurprisingly, I guess) unwilling to brave the “dance floor.” What’s more, the boys and girls were decidedly separated, boys to my right, girls to my left. It was just like those dreadfully awkward high school dances of yesteryear.
Eventually I caved on the lights. The bright fluorescent bulbs can be shut off piecemeal in the dining hall, so I allowed the students to leave the lights off in the third where they danced while the remaining two thirds stayed garishly lit. Within twenty minutes many more students were gyrating, swaying, and vibrating to the ubiquitously bad Rwandan hip-hop blaring out of overburdened speakers. Their dance style is distinctive, some silly hybrid of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, and the Twist, but they are good nonetheless. In fact, really good. Hell, at least they’re exercising, I thought. And I was amused.
The night turned out to be good fun despite the chaperoning bit. A former student who now works as a lab assistant turned up to help supervise, along with Claude, the night watchman. Predictably the students bemoaned the admittedly early end time (although I had given them four extra songs past our agreed stop time!), and I could understand their displeasure. The students are so cooped up at school with little to entertain themselves. Dancing is a great reprieve for them from an otherwise stressful experience. I imagine that’s why we have the alcohol problems we do amongst some of our older students (who, were they not students, could drink freely outside of school as many are of legal age).
While I was sad to cut off the music, I knew if I didn’t put my foot down it would be a slippery slope. Some of the students will take all they can get and more if you let them. Plus I was famished having not eaten dinner. With dancing finished, the students trouped off to do god only knows what. With their energy levels spiked, I just hoped they wouldn’t break anything too big!
To my surprise and utter dismay, the students had actually decided to just dance, and perform not drama about AIDS education. They had already set up the dining hall with AV equipment and rearranged the benches and tables so I gave, assuring the Anti-AIDS group president that the shindig would last no longer than 10:00PM.
At first, students stood ringed around the enclosed area created by upturned tables used to contain the sound a bit and protect the windows. The girls especially, who trickled in slowly, just watched with bemused or ambivalent expressions. Small groups of boys jittered furiously, kicking, stomping, and sliding their sandal-clad feet, rhythmically twisting their shoulders and hips. However, with the lights on, most students seemed (unsurprisingly, I guess) unwilling to brave the “dance floor.” What’s more, the boys and girls were decidedly separated, boys to my right, girls to my left. It was just like those dreadfully awkward high school dances of yesteryear.
Eventually I caved on the lights. The bright fluorescent bulbs can be shut off piecemeal in the dining hall, so I allowed the students to leave the lights off in the third where they danced while the remaining two thirds stayed garishly lit. Within twenty minutes many more students were gyrating, swaying, and vibrating to the ubiquitously bad Rwandan hip-hop blaring out of overburdened speakers. Their dance style is distinctive, some silly hybrid of Michael Jackson, MC Hammer, and the Twist, but they are good nonetheless. In fact, really good. Hell, at least they’re exercising, I thought. And I was amused.
The night turned out to be good fun despite the chaperoning bit. A former student who now works as a lab assistant turned up to help supervise, along with Claude, the night watchman. Predictably the students bemoaned the admittedly early end time (although I had given them four extra songs past our agreed stop time!), and I could understand their displeasure. The students are so cooped up at school with little to entertain themselves. Dancing is a great reprieve for them from an otherwise stressful experience. I imagine that’s why we have the alcohol problems we do amongst some of our older students (who, were they not students, could drink freely outside of school as many are of legal age).
While I was sad to cut off the music, I knew if I didn’t put my foot down it would be a slippery slope. Some of the students will take all they can get and more if you let them. Plus I was famished having not eaten dinner. With dancing finished, the students trouped off to do god only knows what. With their energy levels spiked, I just hoped they wouldn’t break anything too big!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Retracing our steps.
After another wonderful flight on Kigali Air’s new 757-300 Johannesburg-Kigali route, we stepped off the plane into the pleasantly warm night air of Kigali. We spent the night briefly catching up with fellow volunteers over dinner, then the following morning sorting out phone issues. In the smoggy mid-afternoon glare we boarded a bus back to Nyagatare, quite unsure what might await us at home.
The heat in Nyagatare was immediately a stiff reminder of our everyday reality. The air sat heavy and still, not a cloyingly sticky humid heat but a weighty, oppressive heat pushing down, settling in and around the house over the course of the day. The curtains hung limp and motionless in front of the open windows; the trees stood mostly bare, lifeless, and statuesque outside. The sun shone as fierce and bright as ever. Occasionally a sharp, brief gust of dusty wind pierced the house, a rather grim reminder that we more or less live in a desert six months of the year.
Thankfully everything was in order at home (no sign of the rat!). Rainy season is also picking up here in Nyagatare, as elsewhere. Rain means cooler weather, more water, and less dust, all of which are welcome changes. We’ve also planted a new garden with Sawa, so we’ll see what grows. More updates soon.
Cheers,
Zach
The heat in Nyagatare was immediately a stiff reminder of our everyday reality. The air sat heavy and still, not a cloyingly sticky humid heat but a weighty, oppressive heat pushing down, settling in and around the house over the course of the day. The curtains hung limp and motionless in front of the open windows; the trees stood mostly bare, lifeless, and statuesque outside. The sun shone as fierce and bright as ever. Occasionally a sharp, brief gust of dusty wind pierced the house, a rather grim reminder that we more or less live in a desert six months of the year.
Thankfully everything was in order at home (no sign of the rat!). Rainy season is also picking up here in Nyagatare, as elsewhere. Rain means cooler weather, more water, and less dust, all of which are welcome changes. We’ve also planted a new garden with Sawa, so we’ll see what grows. More updates soon.
Cheers,
Zach
Paraíso.
Tofo is truly stunning. And overrun with foreign tourists, but that’s neither here nor there. I contemplated posting a long report about each and every thing we did, but such a tranquil and relaxing place deserves a clean and spare treatment.
The beach stretches out in a long palm-tinged arc cradling the clear blue-green Indian Ocean. Swells roll in softly most of the time, providing just enough background music to soothe one to sleep. All along and behind the beach are restaurants and relatively shabby backpacker’s accommodations. We stayed in a plain palm thatch bungalow perched atop a dune looking directly onto the ocean. In town, situated neatly just behind the beach, a small market sat quietly staffed by ladies overcharging (understandably) for delicious produce and gleaming seafood. All around them were locals selling copious amounts of liquor and beer for the tourist crowd. Next to the market a local (and cheap) restaurant served heaping plates of rice, stewed cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes, and your choice of fried just-dead seafood (prawns, fish, calamari). Other restaurants dotted around Tofo served similarly delicious grub, ranging from fried eggs and salad on fresh bread to Greek salad and pizza. The matapa, a soupy greenish local dish commonly eaten with rice was also not bad.
Our only real goal in Tofo, besides relaxing and mentally recharging for Term 3, was to swim with whale sharks. Having seen whale sharks in captivity (sadly, I might add), Evan and I both relished the idea of swimming freely with them. Tofo is basically the place to go if you want to see the gentle giants in the wild. Roughly 300 of the world’s approximately 1,000 whale sharks are found for most of the year off the Inhambane province coast. Tofo is chocked full of ocean safari companies that organize snorkeling excursions to swim with the sharks just off the shore (no more than a kilometer!). Despite some early technical difficulties, our boat crew proved their worth. They found three different sharks in the span of two hours.
Once a whale shark was spotted the boat crew positioned the boat ahead of the advancing behemoth and everyone slid (or floundered awkwardly) into the water. I bobbed on the surface and dove down deep to swim right next to the sharks. My decent swimming skills proved handy. Each was large, but one in particular must have been seven or eight meters and entirely docile. It was, for lack of a better term, magical (am I gushing too much?). Highly recommended to anyone visiting southern Africa; in fact, almost worth a trip to Mozambique itself. And the price? Not too shabby: $30 for snorkel gear and two hours on the water.
Other than whale sharks, Evan and I just lounged around, wake up late, ate tasty food, read books, played pool at the hostel, swam, and sunned ourselves on the beach. Evan also built more than one sand castle. We met a lot of very different people, many from Europe, South Africa (obviously), and Australia. We shared beers and laughs, and did a bit of dancing. We even ran into the same older Dutch man from Zimbabwe at our hostel!
After our sojourn in Tofo, we took an early (think 4AM) bus back to Maputo, and then an overnight bus back into South Africa. Before leaving Maputo, Evan and I just sat for hours in a restaurant having lunch and coffee, then sipping Laurentina beers as the sun sank lower over the Indian Ocean. Before hopping on our bus we loaded up on tangerines, loaves of delicious bread, chocolate and devoured two highly suspect but scrumptious hamburgers (fried egg and pickles included) from a sidewalk shack. It had been a highly successful trip by most accounts. No crimes committed or arrested for, no major thefts (unless you count that bank hold-up…er I mean…canoe trip in Botswana), and some interesting (or phantom) visas for the passport. Would have been nice to see lions and other game in Zimbabwe, but life isn’t a script. We felt refreshed after five days at the beach, ready to tackle another four months of teaching.
The beach stretches out in a long palm-tinged arc cradling the clear blue-green Indian Ocean. Swells roll in softly most of the time, providing just enough background music to soothe one to sleep. All along and behind the beach are restaurants and relatively shabby backpacker’s accommodations. We stayed in a plain palm thatch bungalow perched atop a dune looking directly onto the ocean. In town, situated neatly just behind the beach, a small market sat quietly staffed by ladies overcharging (understandably) for delicious produce and gleaming seafood. All around them were locals selling copious amounts of liquor and beer for the tourist crowd. Next to the market a local (and cheap) restaurant served heaping plates of rice, stewed cabbage, carrots, and tomatoes, and your choice of fried just-dead seafood (prawns, fish, calamari). Other restaurants dotted around Tofo served similarly delicious grub, ranging from fried eggs and salad on fresh bread to Greek salad and pizza. The matapa, a soupy greenish local dish commonly eaten with rice was also not bad.
Our only real goal in Tofo, besides relaxing and mentally recharging for Term 3, was to swim with whale sharks. Having seen whale sharks in captivity (sadly, I might add), Evan and I both relished the idea of swimming freely with them. Tofo is basically the place to go if you want to see the gentle giants in the wild. Roughly 300 of the world’s approximately 1,000 whale sharks are found for most of the year off the Inhambane province coast. Tofo is chocked full of ocean safari companies that organize snorkeling excursions to swim with the sharks just off the shore (no more than a kilometer!). Despite some early technical difficulties, our boat crew proved their worth. They found three different sharks in the span of two hours.
Once a whale shark was spotted the boat crew positioned the boat ahead of the advancing behemoth and everyone slid (or floundered awkwardly) into the water. I bobbed on the surface and dove down deep to swim right next to the sharks. My decent swimming skills proved handy. Each was large, but one in particular must have been seven or eight meters and entirely docile. It was, for lack of a better term, magical (am I gushing too much?). Highly recommended to anyone visiting southern Africa; in fact, almost worth a trip to Mozambique itself. And the price? Not too shabby: $30 for snorkel gear and two hours on the water.
Other than whale sharks, Evan and I just lounged around, wake up late, ate tasty food, read books, played pool at the hostel, swam, and sunned ourselves on the beach. Evan also built more than one sand castle. We met a lot of very different people, many from Europe, South Africa (obviously), and Australia. We shared beers and laughs, and did a bit of dancing. We even ran into the same older Dutch man from Zimbabwe at our hostel!
After our sojourn in Tofo, we took an early (think 4AM) bus back to Maputo, and then an overnight bus back into South Africa. Before leaving Maputo, Evan and I just sat for hours in a restaurant having lunch and coffee, then sipping Laurentina beers as the sun sank lower over the Indian Ocean. Before hopping on our bus we loaded up on tangerines, loaves of delicious bread, chocolate and devoured two highly suspect but scrumptious hamburgers (fried egg and pickles included) from a sidewalk shack. It had been a highly successful trip by most accounts. No crimes committed or arrested for, no major thefts (unless you count that bank hold-up…er I mean…canoe trip in Botswana), and some interesting (or phantom) visas for the passport. Would have been nice to see lions and other game in Zimbabwe, but life isn’t a script. We felt refreshed after five days at the beach, ready to tackle another four months of teaching.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The last chappa to Tofo.
Despite our border ‘troubles,’ we managed to get safely back to Pretoria. Unfortunately we arrived far too early in the bracingly cold early morning. We took a taxi from the Pretoria train and bus depot across town to the relatively safe and pleasant Hatfield neighborhood where we first stayed. We literally loitered outside the twenty-four hour McDonald’s for over an hour before another restaurant opened. Afterwards we gratefully dropped our bags at the same hostel and bid farewell to our travelling companions; Evan and I then grabbed a surprisingly stellar Lebanese lunch and watched a (rather disappointing) movie starring over-the-hill Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz.
That evening we boarded another overnight train (no sleeper births this time) for the run to the Mozambique border. Unlike our previous overnight train adventure, this trip turned into a miserable, numbingly cold, horribly uncomfortable fifteen hour misadventure. I cannot underscore what a dire state I was in mentally at 10:00am the following morning…hungry, exhausted, and barely defrosted.
We hopped a chappa to the border less than 10 kilometers away, still jammed into a tight uncomfortable space but happy for the warmth emanating from the dozen or so bodies packed into the van. At the Mozambique border we walked through a mildly perplexing maze of construction work and random buildings to exit South Africa and then strolled past an army checkpoint to the bustling Mozambique border post. Evan and I knew that Mozambique has a penchant for unexpectedly raising visa prices and admission requirements, but we hoped for the best. Turns out, it was highway robbery, but with a fancy visa: $82 for a full page brightly colored sticker visa complete with digital picture and oh-so-snazzy hologram. A visa not dissimilar to the damn Zimbabwean visa stuck in Hewsan’s passport.
Once through border control, we grabbed a few tangerines from the roadside, piled into yet another chappa, and took off for Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. We spent an uneventful afternoon and night in Maputo; I managed to sleep for about 10 hours despite a 5AM wake-up. It had been such smooth, if exhausting, sailing for so much of the trip, and Evan and I were grateful to make it uneventfully into Mozambique. Sadly our traveler’s luck had, unbeknownst to us, also exhausted itself.
A taxi ride to the bus park in Maputo was followed by a rather epic twelve hour bus trip to the picturesque laid-back beach town of Tofo. First, as we approached Xai-Xai, roughly three hours to the north of Maputo along the coast-hugging N1, the driver began intermittently pulling on the emergency brake. The bus rolled slowly through Xai-Xai’s main strip until without warning the driver pulled to the curb, hopped down from the cab, and sprinted across the street to a faded, rundown automotive supply store. He returned within minutes holding a small generic bottle, whose contents I couldn’t make out. At the northern edge of town, the bus pulled into a garage, and Evan and I both emitted the low, barely audible moans. We are accustomed to mechanical problems in Rwanda that can delay a trip for hours and hours. Generally, those delays are tire-related, but this new dilemma appeared brake-related, which could only mean serious trouble.
Surprisingly, although the issue was the brakes, the driver, conductor, and a few guys from the garage managed to remove four wheels, change two brake disks, and replace the wheels in about two hours – highly competent (by my standards)! We were back on the road. Little did we know that the trouble had only begun.
Roughly an hour further down the horribly pitted and rough highway extending northwards from Xai-Xai towards Inhambane province, we encountered an even greater obstacle. Somehow, in the hollow of two stubby hills, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed, flipping dramatically on its side, successfully blocking the entire two lane highway and an remotely passable areas to either side of the tarmac. A long line of idling trucks, buses, and 4x4s idled impatiently and expectantly in long queues up either hill, dots of a mechanical army ant war party snaking to the crest of the far hill. Within a few moments of our arrival, private vehicles began emerging along a sandy track to our left, seemingly out of the bush itself. Some had branches stuck in grilles and leaves clinging to windshields. Soon buses began appearing, too.
Other vehicles and their drivers began to take note and braved the deep, loose sand. 4x4s managed easily with enough speed, buses failed or didn’t fail based on the drivers’ skill. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to be a congenital idiot (just wait). Our first ill-fated attempt took us away from the worn path already forming, but rather to the left, up a small rise that would cut across a small plot to the sandy track leading into the bush. We hit the rise with too many people (read: everyone; they hadn’t thought to remove passengers) and too little speed. Shit, now we’re stuck.
After assessing our predicament, the driver and conductor began an elaborate back and forth dance to extricate the stalled bus. The conductor, befitting his title, conducted by digging furiously with a shovel and instructing passengers where to place branches and other debris to ensure traction. The whole affair became a communal struggle, first against the soft, tire-eating sand and then against the slick red mud churned up by the spinning tires. The effort, by most measures demonstrated everyone was ready to get back on the road, but the driver was a moron, turning the wheels in entirely wrong directions at the most inopportune moments.
Streaked with mud and sweating from exertion in the humid Mozambique afternoon, Evan and I rued our previous luck. It seemed travel karma had finally found a cosmic cure for our earlier good fortune. Eventually, we managed to get the bus back on the road. The driver, this time with an empty bus, drove headlong at the existing sandy track. To my astonishment, he managed to get stuck again. Doh! We pushed and soon had the bus free again. We bumbled down the sandy road through cassava fields and thickets of dense brush, dodging oncoming vehicles, before finally reaching the paved highway again. Inhambane here we come!
Our earlier delays put us into Inhambane late, really late. We had expected the bus to continue to Tofo, one hour by dirt road to the east directly on the coast. The driver and conductor flatly refused and ordered us off the bus. We had little recourse since neither Evan nor I speak Portuguese. A small boy immediately approached us offering small treats and the ubiquitous coconut bread. Instead, we asked him to find us a chappa to Tofo. The ride, and day in general, had been exhausting and humbling, but we desperately wanted to make it to Tofo the same evening. I was astonished when the boy beckoned us to follow right away, mumbling something about the last chappa to Tofo. Sure enough, Evan and I piled into the very last chappa of the evening, just after 7:00PM bound for the idyllic Tofo. We wedged ourselves and packs into the back row and waited. Before long, the chappa was filled to overflowing. The driver did some sort of vexing victory circle around the bus park and then careened towards the road to Inhambane. At first count, before anyone hopped off the bus, our small Toyota minivan taxi had twenty-five – yes, 25 – people crammed into its cabin or hanging precariously from the open sliding door. Bodies were draped over bodies; hands clung to whatever stable piece of metal or flesh they could grab (or grope). I’ve been squeezed before, but this was a new level of leave-none-behind public transport. I grinned the whole way to Tofo, praising the travel gods for our last little bit of luck in a depressingly luckless day.
Look for a final installment tomorrow, wrapping up holiday stories.
Zach
That evening we boarded another overnight train (no sleeper births this time) for the run to the Mozambique border. Unlike our previous overnight train adventure, this trip turned into a miserable, numbingly cold, horribly uncomfortable fifteen hour misadventure. I cannot underscore what a dire state I was in mentally at 10:00am the following morning…hungry, exhausted, and barely defrosted.
We hopped a chappa to the border less than 10 kilometers away, still jammed into a tight uncomfortable space but happy for the warmth emanating from the dozen or so bodies packed into the van. At the Mozambique border we walked through a mildly perplexing maze of construction work and random buildings to exit South Africa and then strolled past an army checkpoint to the bustling Mozambique border post. Evan and I knew that Mozambique has a penchant for unexpectedly raising visa prices and admission requirements, but we hoped for the best. Turns out, it was highway robbery, but with a fancy visa: $82 for a full page brightly colored sticker visa complete with digital picture and oh-so-snazzy hologram. A visa not dissimilar to the damn Zimbabwean visa stuck in Hewsan’s passport.
Once through border control, we grabbed a few tangerines from the roadside, piled into yet another chappa, and took off for Maputo, the capital of Mozambique. We spent an uneventful afternoon and night in Maputo; I managed to sleep for about 10 hours despite a 5AM wake-up. It had been such smooth, if exhausting, sailing for so much of the trip, and Evan and I were grateful to make it uneventfully into Mozambique. Sadly our traveler’s luck had, unbeknownst to us, also exhausted itself.
A taxi ride to the bus park in Maputo was followed by a rather epic twelve hour bus trip to the picturesque laid-back beach town of Tofo. First, as we approached Xai-Xai, roughly three hours to the north of Maputo along the coast-hugging N1, the driver began intermittently pulling on the emergency brake. The bus rolled slowly through Xai-Xai’s main strip until without warning the driver pulled to the curb, hopped down from the cab, and sprinted across the street to a faded, rundown automotive supply store. He returned within minutes holding a small generic bottle, whose contents I couldn’t make out. At the northern edge of town, the bus pulled into a garage, and Evan and I both emitted the low, barely audible moans. We are accustomed to mechanical problems in Rwanda that can delay a trip for hours and hours. Generally, those delays are tire-related, but this new dilemma appeared brake-related, which could only mean serious trouble.
Surprisingly, although the issue was the brakes, the driver, conductor, and a few guys from the garage managed to remove four wheels, change two brake disks, and replace the wheels in about two hours – highly competent (by my standards)! We were back on the road. Little did we know that the trouble had only begun.
Roughly an hour further down the horribly pitted and rough highway extending northwards from Xai-Xai towards Inhambane province, we encountered an even greater obstacle. Somehow, in the hollow of two stubby hills, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed, flipping dramatically on its side, successfully blocking the entire two lane highway and an remotely passable areas to either side of the tarmac. A long line of idling trucks, buses, and 4x4s idled impatiently and expectantly in long queues up either hill, dots of a mechanical army ant war party snaking to the crest of the far hill. Within a few moments of our arrival, private vehicles began emerging along a sandy track to our left, seemingly out of the bush itself. Some had branches stuck in grilles and leaves clinging to windshields. Soon buses began appearing, too.
Other vehicles and their drivers began to take note and braved the deep, loose sand. 4x4s managed easily with enough speed, buses failed or didn’t fail based on the drivers’ skill. Unfortunately, our driver seemed to be a congenital idiot (just wait). Our first ill-fated attempt took us away from the worn path already forming, but rather to the left, up a small rise that would cut across a small plot to the sandy track leading into the bush. We hit the rise with too many people (read: everyone; they hadn’t thought to remove passengers) and too little speed. Shit, now we’re stuck.
After assessing our predicament, the driver and conductor began an elaborate back and forth dance to extricate the stalled bus. The conductor, befitting his title, conducted by digging furiously with a shovel and instructing passengers where to place branches and other debris to ensure traction. The whole affair became a communal struggle, first against the soft, tire-eating sand and then against the slick red mud churned up by the spinning tires. The effort, by most measures demonstrated everyone was ready to get back on the road, but the driver was a moron, turning the wheels in entirely wrong directions at the most inopportune moments.
Streaked with mud and sweating from exertion in the humid Mozambique afternoon, Evan and I rued our previous luck. It seemed travel karma had finally found a cosmic cure for our earlier good fortune. Eventually, we managed to get the bus back on the road. The driver, this time with an empty bus, drove headlong at the existing sandy track. To my astonishment, he managed to get stuck again. Doh! We pushed and soon had the bus free again. We bumbled down the sandy road through cassava fields and thickets of dense brush, dodging oncoming vehicles, before finally reaching the paved highway again. Inhambane here we come!
Our earlier delays put us into Inhambane late, really late. We had expected the bus to continue to Tofo, one hour by dirt road to the east directly on the coast. The driver and conductor flatly refused and ordered us off the bus. We had little recourse since neither Evan nor I speak Portuguese. A small boy immediately approached us offering small treats and the ubiquitous coconut bread. Instead, we asked him to find us a chappa to Tofo. The ride, and day in general, had been exhausting and humbling, but we desperately wanted to make it to Tofo the same evening. I was astonished when the boy beckoned us to follow right away, mumbling something about the last chappa to Tofo. Sure enough, Evan and I piled into the very last chappa of the evening, just after 7:00PM bound for the idyllic Tofo. We wedged ourselves and packs into the back row and waited. Before long, the chappa was filled to overflowing. The driver did some sort of vexing victory circle around the bus park and then careened towards the road to Inhambane. At first count, before anyone hopped off the bus, our small Toyota minivan taxi had twenty-five – yes, 25 – people crammed into its cabin or hanging precariously from the open sliding door. Bodies were draped over bodies; hands clung to whatever stable piece of metal or flesh they could grab (or grope). I’ve been squeezed before, but this was a new level of leave-none-behind public transport. I grinned the whole way to Tofo, praising the travel gods for our last little bit of luck in a depressingly luckless day.
Look for a final installment tomorrow, wrapping up holiday stories.
Zach
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Warning: Do not open whilst train is in motion.
For anyone considering travel in Zimbabwe, especially to Victoria Falls, definitely check out the overnight train connecting the northwest tourist city with Bulewayo, located in west central Zimbabwe. Evan and I discovered the train online via a random BBC article metaphorically contrasting the current, decrepit state of the train with Zimbabwe’s own predicament. The rolling stock was built in Birmingham in the early 1950s then imported for use on Rhodesian Railways track. You can still see the chipped and faded fanciful R&R logo on all of the cars. At its inception, I’m quite sure the train would have been something, but today its glory is but a faint memory: no electrical power, all original fixtures (mattresses, it appeared, included), the barest of WCs, and doors at the end of the trains that swung freely and unpredictably open like hinged saloon doors.
With our bags packed and goodies for the train purchased, we clambered aboard the old sleeper car and into our cabin. Luckily, the arrangement of cabins is by two and four people, perfect for John, Evan, Hewsan, and me. Two bottom bunks, two top bunks, and two large windows looking out on the passing scenery. Temperatures dipped considerably during the night, but we had blankets supplied to us in enormous plastic zip top bags large enough to fit a small child comfortably (no bed bugs!). Everything about the cabin, like the rest of the train, was washed out, worn out, nonfunctional, but perfectly reasonable for $4!
There were more than a few stories online about the train hitting elephants on the tracks late at night, and there were clearly anti-elephant measures placed along the tracks in certain places. Fortunately, there was no elephant-related derailment, nor any derailment of any kind, although I think we did stop for an interminable period in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, we had a good time.
We arrived in Bulaweyo late but not terribly so (maybe two hours) and went in search of a bus to Pretoria. Greyhound, it turns out, had screwed us, but there were plenty of coach buses to be had, so we bought tickets later from another company. In the intervening time we wandered a bit through Bulewayo, which is a rather odd city in my opinion, and ate lunch. It seemed like something out of 1960s or 70s rustbelt America, with ugly, nondescript concrete block buildings dotted with the occasional aged colonial building surrounded by greenery.
Although the bus from Bulaweyo also left late (more than an hour), it turned out to be a comfortable ride complete with, yes, eight hours straight of Shaka Zulu. Now, if you haven’t seen this classic marvel of a series, run, no, sprint to your nearest computer and attempt to illegally download said program. It was a revelation filled with elaborate sets and costumes, large-scale battle scenes, and a really uncomfortable level of jiggling bare breasts. Okay, so maybe revelation and marvel are bit too complimentary, but it was rather (darkly) humorous to watch so much of the series.
The only rough bit of the trip back to Pretoria, as we had been warned, was the border crossing back into South Africa. The entire process took about three hours and there were people just everywhere, even late in the evening. The most worrisome event of the entire trip also transpired on the South Africa side. After going through border control and nonchalantly circumventing a baggage check with all the other passengers on our bus, the South African border police did one last spot check on us before allowing everyone back on the bus. Sure enough, the guy managed to grab the four white guys and four random African men for a “random” search. I didn’t expect anything different, but you it pays to be a little wary in such situations.
The officer escorted us to the “screening area,” which was in fact a small enclosed space off a men’s bathroom. Uh-oh. He proceeded to pat down the four African men, pausing only to give one Zimbabwean guy a hard time because his reason for visiting SA was rather vague (come on man, just say you’re visiting a friend!). At this point, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I was bracing myself and secretly hoping Hewsan’s would keep his Bostonian mouth shut (Hewsan, god bless him, has a sometimes worrisome knack of arguing or confronting in the entirely wrong situations). Does he want money, cameras, something else of value?
Turns out, the guy was just a pervert and wanted to cop a feel; he wasn’t corrupt, or, at least, not in your traditional way. Were we violated, yes, but we didn’t have to fork over any money or other valuables, which just might have been worth the trouble. My body involuntarily shuddered as I climbed aboard the bus but we were moving onwards to Pretoria! Border successfully navigated.
Back again with Mozambique in tomorrow or Saturday.
Zach
With our bags packed and goodies for the train purchased, we clambered aboard the old sleeper car and into our cabin. Luckily, the arrangement of cabins is by two and four people, perfect for John, Evan, Hewsan, and me. Two bottom bunks, two top bunks, and two large windows looking out on the passing scenery. Temperatures dipped considerably during the night, but we had blankets supplied to us in enormous plastic zip top bags large enough to fit a small child comfortably (no bed bugs!). Everything about the cabin, like the rest of the train, was washed out, worn out, nonfunctional, but perfectly reasonable for $4!
There were more than a few stories online about the train hitting elephants on the tracks late at night, and there were clearly anti-elephant measures placed along the tracks in certain places. Fortunately, there was no elephant-related derailment, nor any derailment of any kind, although I think we did stop for an interminable period in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, we had a good time.
We arrived in Bulaweyo late but not terribly so (maybe two hours) and went in search of a bus to Pretoria. Greyhound, it turns out, had screwed us, but there were plenty of coach buses to be had, so we bought tickets later from another company. In the intervening time we wandered a bit through Bulewayo, which is a rather odd city in my opinion, and ate lunch. It seemed like something out of 1960s or 70s rustbelt America, with ugly, nondescript concrete block buildings dotted with the occasional aged colonial building surrounded by greenery.
Although the bus from Bulaweyo also left late (more than an hour), it turned out to be a comfortable ride complete with, yes, eight hours straight of Shaka Zulu. Now, if you haven’t seen this classic marvel of a series, run, no, sprint to your nearest computer and attempt to illegally download said program. It was a revelation filled with elaborate sets and costumes, large-scale battle scenes, and a really uncomfortable level of jiggling bare breasts. Okay, so maybe revelation and marvel are bit too complimentary, but it was rather (darkly) humorous to watch so much of the series.
The only rough bit of the trip back to Pretoria, as we had been warned, was the border crossing back into South Africa. The entire process took about three hours and there were people just everywhere, even late in the evening. The most worrisome event of the entire trip also transpired on the South Africa side. After going through border control and nonchalantly circumventing a baggage check with all the other passengers on our bus, the South African border police did one last spot check on us before allowing everyone back on the bus. Sure enough, the guy managed to grab the four white guys and four random African men for a “random” search. I didn’t expect anything different, but you it pays to be a little wary in such situations.
The officer escorted us to the “screening area,” which was in fact a small enclosed space off a men’s bathroom. Uh-oh. He proceeded to pat down the four African men, pausing only to give one Zimbabwean guy a hard time because his reason for visiting SA was rather vague (come on man, just say you’re visiting a friend!). At this point, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I was bracing myself and secretly hoping Hewsan’s would keep his Bostonian mouth shut (Hewsan, god bless him, has a sometimes worrisome knack of arguing or confronting in the entirely wrong situations). Does he want money, cameras, something else of value?
Turns out, the guy was just a pervert and wanted to cop a feel; he wasn’t corrupt, or, at least, not in your traditional way. Were we violated, yes, but we didn’t have to fork over any money or other valuables, which just might have been worth the trouble. My body involuntarily shuddered as I climbed aboard the bus but we were moving onwards to Pretoria! Border successfully navigated.
Back again with Mozambique in tomorrow or Saturday.
Zach
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