OK, this isn't funny any more

Writing today from the porch of our A-frame “hut” overlooking the Indian Ocean in beautiful Vilankulos, Mozambique. We have finally arrived at our “final destination” six days into our journey (so much for the two-day trip we were told it would be – although some of our delays were intentional, others were not). We lost half a day in Masvingo trying to get the two spare tires repaired (again) and refueling with armed security circling around with a massive Rottweiler on a chain (in case his gun wasn’t threatening enough??). Petrol stations are a high crime area because it is a cash only business and lots of men approach your car (not sure exactly why, money exchange seems to be a big business) and are persistent until chased away by the threatening dog (I stayed in the locked car).

We spend all day driving. We busy ourselves with my reading from travel books on the history and culture of the country we are in (or going to) and information on things to see at the places we’ll be stopping. I also bought Paul a little scratch off trivial pursuit game. Between the two of us, we are pretty good at most categories (except for “Sports and Entertainment” when I’m our best bet and that is pretty sad).

We cross the border into Mozambique at Mutare (with some difficulty finding it, although we found a lovely inn where we asked for directions but somehow Paul lost one of his sandals along the way…I’ve always seen an occasional shoe in the road and wondered “how does someone loose one shoe?” Now Paul has done it and I still wonder.)

We drive and drive and as evening approaches we have not seen a place to camp and there does not seem to be any towns coming up anytime soon. At some point during the day we have flat tire number five but we don’t recall much about it after the fact (they’re starting to become mundane). There are lots of people walking on the road…carrying water containers on their heads or large sacks of coal on the back of a bicycle. At this point it is getting dark and we start looking for a clearing that allows us to get off the main road (where there are many 18 wheelers traveling at high rates of speed) and camp but not in someone’s field or homestead.

There are almost no roads off the main road only foot paths for walking. Finally we spot one and end up camping right near a watering hole that becomes active at 5 AM. I worry a bit about landmines from the war that ended in 1992 and we don’t stray too far from the vehicle or the tent. We are woken by the sound of people talking as they pass our tent and most likely wonder what the heck we are doing there. Things would go more smoothly if we knew Portuguese but my Spanish is the closest thing we have.

Sadly, less than 15 miles out from our makeshift camp site we have our 6^th flat and are perched on a steep angle causing the jack to slip and clip Paul in the arm and the vehicle to list over so far, I fear we are going to roll over. Despite the blood and angle he manages to change the tire again and we are on our way.

You have to understand that changing a tire on this safari vehicle is no easy task. We’ve decided that due to my lack of strength I really couldn’t do it even if I had to (scary thought). The jack is positioned up over the driver’s side window and it is too heavy for me to get down. One spare is on top of the vehicle (which requires a climb up the back of the vehicle and throwing the tire off (hoping it doesn’t roll away) because it is too heavy for me to lower down). The other spare is secured under the vehicle by a chain that has to be cranked to be lowered but usually gets stuck which means Paul gets on his back under the vehicle to try to pull it loose. Add to this the fact that when a tire blows it is usually super hot and so it is difficult to touch and get back up to the roof or under the vehicle.

In any case, we get flats 5 and 6 repaired in some place that starts with Mux (I don’t recall the name). Again, this is Africa so the repairs are done in makeshift tire repair places by what looks like teenage boys (part of the reason why they keep blowing). While we wait for the tire repair we buy some cashews from a young boy and refuel. While refueling we watch a whole string of bicycles tied together come careering off the top of a bus almost taking out the people walking on the street below.

I find it interesting how when you travel through areas in Africa, each has a couple of things for sale. In this town it is cashews and pineapples (yum). Up the road a bit it was mangos and tomatoes. Another sacks of coal and firewood. They all have an abundance of a couple of things but not a variety of things. Not great for the people living there who cannot travel the long distances between these locations to get what they need.

Finally, arriving in Vilankulos we eat lunch at a place called Varanda on an outside porch overlooking the most beautiful sea I have ever seen. It is hot but there is a nice breeze and we enjoy a crab salad appetizer and prawn dish for the main course. After lunch we….wait for it…have our 7^th flat and Paul gets clocked in the head with the spare tire as he tries to hoist it up to the roof. It falls back and cracks him square in the forehead, blood streaming down his face and a large bruise forming instantly. Fortunately, I’ve got Bandaids and Neosporin. I fix him up quickly and we try to find a place to get the tire repaired.

We roll into one of these ramshackle huts with tires outside it just as the 8^th tire is going flat (OK, this isn’t funny anymore). I perch myself under a tree on a stump in the shade and start reading my book to pass the time until I literally get ants in my pants and some small boys walk by me and say, “White.” Actually more like “pink,” I think, given the sun I’ve gotten but who cares. We settle in our A-frame hut and decide not to go anywhere for a couple of days just so we can have a break from tire changing.