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It was Sunday morning and my little brick phone started buzzing as daylight slowly appeared. “Rápida Amiga, rápida”. He yelled through the phone, his excitement seemed like anger. The chappa driver told me to hurry but I knew better than to run. I had about thirty minutes before I missed the only car from Mocubela to my house in Maganja. After two years, everything that once seemed foreign beyond my belief had begun to make sense ...or so I thought. He called again. “Rápida amiga, rápida”. I picked up the pace. June means winter weather in Mozambique so there was a slight chill in the air. As the sandy road crunched under my flops, I thought about dinner. The province of Zambezia is known for strong agriculture, dating back to when the Portuguese colonized Mozambique. It’s lush and widely vast landscapes that cover the 16 districts make it a unique area with desirable resources. First I spotted the corn, then a pile of small pumpkins. Five minutes down the road, I reached the white pickup truck. The corn was stashed away but I had the pumpkin in hand. I said hi to the passengers sitting in the back, a variety of about twenty-five people plus cargo which was twenty-people too many. Being a foreigner in the middle of Central Mozambique, it’s normal to notice my pale Irish skin stirring up curiosity. I paid the extra fee to sit up front with the driver, which many people can’t afford or wouldn’t dare be so careless with their money. There was small chatter in Chuwabo which I barely understand but sounded like "white" and "pumpkin" which needed no objection. Within 10 minutes we were moving. The ride in a private car takes an hour. The road is unpaved and parts of it hopelessly damaged from heavy rains and lack of infrastructure. For the public transportation option (chappa), it can take up to three hours (or more). Observing the lives of rural towns by car is families carting water, kids playing with giant smiles, bicycles carrying five times their weight in charcoal, women moving effortlessly with a baby (or two) on their back, and children running to school. It’s easy to get lost in the measurements of global disparities...I was distracted when the loud explosion from front right tire redirected my attention. We all scurried out of the car to assess the situation, the sun was heating up. Within a minute news had spread that there was NOT a spare in the car. People begin to huddle together, cursing the driver. Updates were flying around and we heard a tire was en route. People were speculating that it would never come. I joined a group sitting in the grass. I kept hearing the word “Abóbora” which is Portuguese for pumpkin. One man kept gesturing at me…I waited patiently and then asked him what the problem was? Did they want to eat the pumpkin? It was small but I had no problem sharing. Once we all got over the initial rage of being stranded in the middle of nowhere, we began to converse and enjoy our time. Classic Mozambican, quick to forgive and make friends. One man wearing a colorful winter hat turned to me and said “Senhora Esperanca, do you know that people believe traveling with a pumpkin is bad luck?” I could not believe what I was hearing. A woman jumped in and added “in my tradition, you cannot travel with a pumpkin or a rabbit.” I laughed nervously and immediately regretted the shopping spree. “So it’s my fault that we’re in this situation?” I asked. He laughed and said the tire was in bad shape and would’ve popped either way. I threw the pumpkin outside the truck and it ignited laughter. Another woman cut a big slit into the pumpkin with a machete. “You can travel with it by first cutting it down the middle.” She ordered me to put it back in the car. I could not leave it there, it was paid for. Three hours later the new tire arrived and I had pumpkin curry that night for dinner.