What was I supposed to do?

by Luciano Lomastro (Argentina)

A leap into the unknown Mozambique

I spent some weeks exploring the beaches of northern Vilankulos when I decided it was time to discover a new location. I was exactly craving to get closer to anyplace where tourists could be found. I know it sounds crazy to hear a person in paradise and far from the western world asking to see people on vacation. I really was. After several months in eastern Africa and sharing with beautiful local people I needed a moment to stop, grab a beer, share with others my experiences and feel that exchange of feelings that leads into a question that only long term travelers can ask themselves “Am I still part of the other side of the world?” As usual in those latitudes, finding the long distance bus station goes into a whole research I successfully did after a warm good bye from my local couch surfing family. I negotiated with the micro bus driver that I was willing to pay more, as always as a foreigner, but this time in exchange for the front seat in that micro bus. It was a deal. We were supposed to travel 800 kilometers across the savannah in that crowded seat beltless old Chinese minibus to the town where I was supposed to get a boat. Four hours after we left, people started to yell in the back of the crowded bus. I was the only foreign person plus the only one who could not understand the local dialect. I can speak Portuguese, but apparently my only link to that national language was the minibus driver who decided to park on the verge of the road after hearing troubles in the back. The sliding back door opened and a bunch of people became to get off until one of them was literally dragged off the bus to the muddy wet floor. After clearing up the events on my head I realize the problem was she was feeling sick and fainted because of the tremendous heat in and out the microbus. People didn’t look worried at all for her but I started to consider about how worrying this moment was. The lady was literally fainted or dead on the mud. The rest were just staring at her, worried for their schedules keeping poker faces. After a few minutes, rain started to fall. Are we supposed to call for help? That was my concern. Apparently I had the only phone of the group. Emergency calls only. When it seems to take hours, stucked in the middle of nowhere where animals snoop around and eat people according to TV, they started to assist her throwing (more) water into her face and drag her in order to wake her up. No clue. She was stone dead. Her African dress was covered by mud and almost completely off, her boops were all muddy and shown to us. My feelings were mixed because as a spectator it was a real African tragic comedy but as part of it I was concern about how to proceed or if I should interfere in their customs or way to deal with this kind of situation. No one looked worried at all. I got terrified by the moment the driver decided he was tired of waiting and tried to turn the engine on but it did not work. My head said “ok great”. This bus doesn’t work but on the other hand we are not leaving a half-naked woman in the land of lions and who knows what else. My first reaction was to check: one, the quantity of water available on my bottle; second, the quantity of nuts on my bag, third, the closest mango tree out there. Some hours later, the old lady was slowly recovering. Wet and dizzy, she was pulled into the bus with her face out the window to avoid her body vomit inside. The driver made a wise use of his mechanical knowledge by hitting the engine and accomplished to make it start and make it to my first checkpoint of that long journey where a crowded old boat was waiting for me to survive a water experience.