República de Moçambique

“I like to spend some time in Mozambique/The sunny sky is aqua blue/

 And all the couples dancing cheek to cheek/It’s very nice to stay a week or two”

– Bob Dylan, Mozambique

I’m not sure if Dylan ever spent a week or two in Mozambique, but if he did, he forgot to sing about abject poverty and rampant corruption. I only spent four days in Mozambique and yes I saw white sand beaches and the aqua blue seascape; however, my Mozambican experience was also defined by all that Dylan must have left behind.

Maputo

Maputo is a little over 100 kilometers from the South African border post of Lebombo, which is located just north of Swaziland and just south of the Kruger National Park. The 100kms rolls gently through hills and down toward the mangroves that lead to the low, sandy coastline. The coastline is there, I’m sure of it, but the city has consumed everything in sight. You first pass through the shacks and shanty towns that accompany most African cities, but the sprawl of Maputo moves ever-inward, building up and out as you move in. A two lane bumper-to-bumper street runs through the heart of Maputo, with hollowed-out and pockmarked (possibly still remnants from the civil war) buildings lining this main thoroughfare. The road is hectic, the action fierce, yet the faces out the window seem still, eyes tracing the jerking movements of the Toyota Yaris. The only trace of the Portuguese is the art deco architecture that gives the city a sense of charm, as well as the occasional tanned face beneath a helmet of dark hair gliding in and out of lanes – surely not a foreigner. On the whole, however, the city is a squalor, a postcard that conceals the misery the lens avoids. At night, down by the harbor, where a few bars emerge from the sidestreets, this seedy town feels that much seedier. And the only escape from it is north, for one cannot head south unless one has four-wheel drive, as the roads turn to deep sand 50kms out. You don’t know when you actually leave Maputo; the city sprawls northward with you, spreading its tensions with you all the way.

Magic in a magical land

Bilene, Mozambique is a solid 3 ½ hour drive from Maputo, but feels like a lifetime away. The white sandy beaches instantly washed away the stress of the city. The locals were villagers, carrying with them the pace and attitude of the countryside. In addition to the locals, there were immigrants from Zimbabwe, really Rasta-types. (On a side note, it was a shame to see so many educated, capable, confident, well-meaning young men and women fleeing Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.) The Zims, my travel companions and I sat out in the square one night, drinking a few pints of 2M beer, talking politics. At night the stars came out, seeming to drift out into the Indian Ocean. The prawns and Portuguese chicken was as good as I read about. Reading and reflecting was the order of the day – a great respite from the worlds we create for ourselves.

In some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique

My (and my travel companions’) Mozambican story begins and ends at the border crossing. Now, I’ve crossed a handful (or more) African borders in my life, making me neither an authority nor a novice on such matters. That said, I carried a casual disposition into the Mozambique border…at first.

Driving from Pretoria to the Mozambique border takes about 6 hours, so by the time we arrived we were hot and tired. Once at the border, we were surrounded by hawkers trying to sell us insurance and currency and the like. Others were trying to “help” us through the border, which means they “showed” us where to go and what to sign and all the rest. Then it was time to grease the skids, meaning it was time to pay off the Mozambican “cops.” They only wanted R200 (about $30) to “check” the car, while the “helpers” were asking R250 in tips. We obliged. Needless to say, we, or at least I, left the border depressed and disoriented, the experience souring most of the trip.

On the way out of Mozambique on Sunday we swore that we would not be bamboozled again. Forget these guys. We came focused, with an edge, an attitude. (For those that may not know, you need to get stamped in to a country when you enter and stamped out when you depart. For example, when we left SA on that Thursday, their border agent stamped us out.) Pulling up on the Mozambique side we saw the same old hawkers whistling us in, so they could “help” us get stamped out of Mozambique. This time we skirted past them, driving directly to the South African parking lot. The cops didn’t seem to take notice. So, we got in a long line on the South African side to get stamped in to the country. As we were waiting in line, one of the “helpers” made it over to us and asked if we got stamped out of Mozambique. No, no we hadn’t, was our reply. “You gotta come back, you gotta come back then,” he demanded. He then asked, “did you get your car checked yet?” Nope. He continued to badger us until I asked him who exactly he worked for. And then I informed him that we will see if things work out here on the South African side; if not, I told him, then we would be happy to come back. Leverage had shifted, the momentum had turned. Now all we needed was a bit of incompetence from a South Africa official. Sure enough they were very accommodating and we were officially stamped in to South Africa.

As it stands today, I am without a stamp out of Mozambique. I guess you could say that in some ways, it’s as if I never left Mozambique.