WorldTripping.net - Mozambique travel writing and travel articles.

WorldTripping.net - Mozambique travel writing and travel articles.,WorldTripping - Simon and Leah tour Mozambique by bicycle. Read the Moz travel journal. Peruse the online travel articles. It's all about cycling in and around Mozambique and traveling by bike.,worldtripping,world tripping,simon,leah,simon green,leah ingham,cycle africa,bike africa,bicycle africa,brighton,cape town,overland,brighton cape town overland,uk,sa,overland,uk sa,uk sa overland,coast to coast, coast to coast overland,cycle mozambique,bike mozambique,bicycle mozambique,travel mozambique,traveling mozambique,travel writing mozambique,travelogues mozambique,cycle touring,bike touring,bicycle touring,cycle travel,bike travel,bicycle travel,cycle traveling,bike traveling,bicycle traveling,publishing,publishing online,travelogue,online travelogue,travel writing,travel writing online,diary,diaries,online diary,online diaries,weblog,web-log,web blog,web-blog,blogger,blogging,

"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.

Beira and the Forest Lady.

We'd been on the road too long and we were suffering from heatstroke. It was impossible to cycle later than ten a.m. without stopping for shade every half a kilometre. Reluctantly but gratefully, we accepted a lift from Anna, a concerned motorist who offered to take us to her house in Beira. As we were whisked along, we took a moment to savour the glowing yellow sunset above the towering green hills which fringe the Zimbabwe-Mozambique border. The land was yellow and barren save for the stumps of chopped charcoal trees. Enterprising village children scooped dirt into the potholed road as we approached; then held out their hands for a deserved tip. As Anna drove, she recounted her life story. A spanish journalist, she spent the war years in Mozambique, falling in love with the place. A stint with the U.N. and then her purchase of a forest followed. She had written a thesis on the use of the forests to fund the war and had been so upset by the devastation her research uncovered that it inspired her to buy her own. She was now the only woman to own and run a forest for peace, she had proclaimed, proudly. She called it eco logging, ensuring that trees were carefully managed and replaced. Anna explained that every day brought a new fight to keep her forest and her business. Far from being cowed, she was determined, happy and fulfilled. She dispelled my travelling blues, giving me the strength and determination to continue.

Welcome to paradise.

We spent two days in the sleepy, dusty town before hoisting our bicycles onto the roof of the local ferry and crossing to Inhambane. We cycled the 12 kilometres towards Tofu, stopping to buy veg and bread at the local market. The women were chirpy and cheeky, pulling at Simon's beard and bursting with laughter.

We had cycled the final few kilometres towards Fatima's place in a jubilant mood, passing lone fisherman selling their catch by the roadside. As we approached the Indian ocean, dark clouds lidded the sky and an electrical storm raged far out to sea. Cocooned inside the thatched bar, we now sat, watching the rain thunder down. Waves crashed on the shore and the wind whipped up the sand. Inside, orphaned children plied their wares. Antonio, left to fend for his brother and himself, sold his bracelets to the young crowd of tourists. Locals played pool and we chatted idly over beers. Mozambique certainly had its own unique character and I was inexplicably drawn to it. Anna's offer of joining her and setting up a forest project was becoming increasingly appealing.

One of those Days.
We sat side by side, drinking Laurentina. The motel offered us a shelter, out of our price range, but necessary. We were on the stoop, looking out on the dark night. Local people sat chattering on the car park fence across from us. We were in no mood for conversing, with them, or each other. Earlier that morning we had walked in a daze around the busy town of Xai Xai, buying the usual, tomatoes, onions and bread, our staple diet at the time. We'd not even tried to bargain for the room. We now sought solace in beer, " Do you think we caused it more suffering by interfering?" Simon burst out. "I've been wondering about that all day, and no, what happened to it was going to happen anyway, we just tried our best." "But could we have done more?" Simon gushed again. "I thought about trying to slit its throat but our knife isn't sharp enough. Or drowning it but I only thought about that afterwards," I offered. Poor consolation. "I could have held it under the water in that trough. Ten minutes would have done it, but that policeman wouldn't let us near." "He wasn't genuine, anyway," Simon argued. "There was no way of telling who he was. I can't believe he asked us for money!" My voice was shaky with anger, still. "Let's not talk about it," Simon asserted. But we were going to. We had to. The events at 4 a.m. that fateful morning had to be discussed and thrown away. We'd dealt with the aftermath in different ways. Simon had been snappy with people, I had locked myself in our room and sobbed. I sucked on my drink and tried to piece it all together. What were the warning signs? Why hadn't we listened to our instincts the night before?
We arrived in the little hick town early afternoon. All accommodation was taken by NGO's, or too dire to even contemplate. Gangs of boys roamed the streets and a strangely attired woman hopped around, babbling to herself. We had been offered a room in a private house but then the owner had changed her mind. We pulled into a small guest house. A mangy monkey rolled around on a chain. Frightened dogs ran to and fro around our legs. Birds in tiny cages flapped their wings as the wind blew the branches of the trees in which the cages had been hooked. We were told there was only camping space as their rooms too had been taken; World Vision volunteers although we saw no evidence of any guests.
"As soon as we saw that monkey we should have known," Simon interrupted my thoughts. " Hindsight," I replied tersely. "We had no choice." "We could have hitched a ride out of there. I couldn't have killed it myself. Do you think they killed it properly after we left? Simon begged an answer. I didn't want to answer him. We're not in the business of lying to ourselves or each other to lessen the guilt we were obviously feeling. I didn't want to return to the scene to find out. The idea was too horrific to contemplate. "It reminds me of what happened in Tofu when you stopped that guy from beating his dog and he had simply grinned and told us it was his dog." I was trying to understand and so was Simon.
We'd been woken by a dull thudding and a dog's howl. I raced from the tent, bleary eyed and panicked. A tiny towel wrapped around me in haste. It was barely light. The man was beating with a stick the sandy coloured pup I'd fussed a few hours previous . I shouted at him to stop. Simon was soon by my side and the man ran away. As we crawled back inside our tent and bedded down, the thud thud began again quicker now and the howls louder and desperate. I reached the scene to find the pup lying dead. The other dogs scampered around and Simon took flight after the man wielding the stick. I heard myself shouting at a grinning onlooker until the drunken owner appeared from his house. "What is going on?" he shouted. A commotion followed. Simon was arguing with the man with the stick, I was arguing with the owner. A small crowd was forming. "It attacked the monkey," one man protested. "It has rabies," another man lied. The truth was, it was a wreckling, about 4 months old and smaller than the others.
With a pathetic whimper, the dead dog revived, then screamed. Its head was half bashed in, its one eye, rolling. It rocked to its feet only to flip in agony, three legs broken, its back twisted. It fell again, motionless. I felt like a child, wide-mouthed, no noise coming. The dog revived again and the screaming yelps were joined by my own. "I'm bringing the police. Get off my property," the owner yabbered.
It took us minutes to pack, the so called policeman standing by, refusing to show us any i.d. The silence between the dog reviving was unbearable. Each time, I prayed aloud that it was dead this time, and each time the silence was pierced with its yelps as it refused to let go. "Kill it," I begged the policeman. "Haven't you got a gun?" The dog was pushing itself around in circles, its head and tail flapping like a fish. No-one seemed to notice.
I took another suck on my beer. "Let's hitch straight to Maputo." We'd both been lost in contemplation. "First thing in the morning," I agreed, no discussion necessary.

Click to see the Mozambique photographs.

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Before here we were in Malawi. After here we were in Swaziland.

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