Mozambique to Tanzania: The Border

Sunset over Pemba, Mozambique

Long before dawn showed its crack, we boarded a local bus from Pemba, Mozambique to Palma- an estimated 10 hours away.  In the pitch black of the African morning, my pelvis clanged against the metal bar supporting my behind, chickens in basket clucked (lamenting their fate or ours, I’m still not sure), and our journey began. As the day grew hotter, the world outside our rusty bus sprung to life.

Literal window shopping en route

The miles and minutes ticked by, the menagerie grew. Each stop was a circus- vendors clamored for sales through the open windows, while passengers shouted their orders and threw the required payment as we pulled away. Purchases included, but were not limited to: candies, cookies, fruits, , combs, cooked lunches, batteries, discmen, socks, wooden spoons… those windows were like portals into Mary Poppin’s magic bag. We passed toddlers practically taking their first steps through the fields, to an empty audience. Huts made of mud and straw so durable that they could outlast New York’s strongest skyscrapers.

The road to the border from the back of a very rattly truck

Every local on that bus knew where the wazungu were heading. They helpfully pushed us out the door at this mystery destination, and it’s a good thing they did: all that lay outside that bus were a few trucks and an expanse of dirt road.  These truckers knew the drill- foreigners only get off here is to cross the border, like we were hoping to do. We bargained, chose a man with a pickup, and hopped in his flatbed. Already weary from the day’s multi-sensory explosion, this journey was jarring, to say the least. If I’m being more accurate, this was the bumpiest, windiest, most death-defying drive I have ever taken. I actually tied myself to the truck, for fear of being popped out like a corn kernel.

Crossing the dry riverbed towards Tanzania

The driver’s friend riding with us spoke a bit of English, and advised that we were quickly approaching the final crossing of the day. So when the driver evicted us on the banks of the Ruvuma river, we thought we were stuck. The guys with the one remaining motorboat named their price, we sucked it up, and got in our third vehicle of the day. This boat wheezed black smoke for 10 minutes before the river dried to a trickle. Out we all climbed, our drivers carrying the boat, and us mucking through the quicksand behind them. Reaching the other side of the river- what awaited us? Another 6 mile stretch of road before immigration, and this time, 10 young men with bicycles hoping to help!

On the back of a hired pushbike, with a separate biker towing the backpacks

Enter James, a travel agent from Kenya on business in Tanzania. He calmed us with perfect English and a kind smile. He not only coordinated our rides to the checkpoint in Swahili, but somehow spoke to my inner psyche. I was tired, and he appeared when we needed him. Our packs strapped to the back of the pushhbikes, I hugged my hired bicyclist and watched the sunset over the African plains.

These boys thought my camera’s flash was the best game ever intvented

The checkpoint. After 14 hours of travel, we stood in front of the well-worn wooden desk, where men with machine guns scrutinized our passports. Hubby got through relatively easily- being British, he paid and was sent on his way. I, on the other hand, am American. A lengthy interrogation determined my fine- almost double that of my husband’s. The sum of which, we did not have after paying for his freedom. My new best friend and savior James, who we had met 30 minutes prior, berated the border officials on our behalf, spotted us the cash, and got us on another pickup for the 45 minute ride to his friend’s hotel in Mikindani, Tanzania. With a single “goodnight”, he left us to our beds, promising to meet up with us the next day.

The local well, made possible by our new friend

We paid a fair fare for the room, ate well, slept solidly between clean sheets. The owner of the hotel turned out to be as nice as James, and just as curious. The next day, the four of us toured the town, the men telling tales of their business endeavors. The two were co-founders of a charitable organization working with local government to build water wells in the community. They were proud of their accomplishments, and wanted nothing more than to share their stories. We found the one open bank in town, and withdrew money to repay James for the passage into Tanzania. He helped us book our flight to Dar Es Salaam later that day. We kept waiting for the other shoe to drop- It never did.

Thank you, friends.

Our two new friends booked a driver to take us to Mtwara Airport later that day, and we all exchanged email addresses. We took one final photo as a group, and left them to continue their normal lives. I sent them the photo and continued to correspond long after travelling back to the US. We returned the cash we borrowed, but we will never be able to repay their kindness.