Speed Bumps

(Originally written Aug. 4th) 

Life is fantastic. This morning I didn't want to spend an extra second in my bed. The moment I woke, I heard the waves rolling in and crashing outside. I knew the sun must be coming up and I didn't want to miss it. I untucked my trusty mosquito net, slid on my flip flops, and walked out of my little thatched-roof bungalow in my pajamas to find the sun shining brilliantly over the soft, beige sand. It is incredibly peaceful here at 6:40 in the morning, and I am particularly thankful that at 8:30 last night, despite it being a Saturday, I was too tired for anything but bed. A Great Dane and a Jack Russell Terrier are running together, playing on the beach. Further down, there is a woman in a traditional African sarong walking alone with a large bucket. Other than that, there is no one, and it is bliss.

I've only been in Mozambique a few days now. I spent the first two in Maputo, and was so spent from three weeks of camping, firmly scheduled days and being part of a group, that all I wanted was to do nothing at all. I went to bakeries, cafes and spent most of my time reading and investigating where I should spend my time in this long-coasted country. Flights are terribly expensive, so I opted to make my way up the coast via chapa, their version of the minibus. However, the hostel I was staying at offered a convenient door-to-door shuttle service that would bring me from my hostel in the capital directly to Tofo, my next destination. Although somewhat pricey, I decided the convenience was worth the cost. I double-checked that the shuttle would at least make a couple bathroom stops and signed up to leave at 5:30 the next morning. Wow, a direct door-to-door service! I was off to a good start.

“Too good to be true” is the expression that springs to mind when describing the said “direct shuttle”, and it shouldn't have been, for the seven hundred meticais that I paid to the hostel's reception desk. Before I continue, let me clarify a few things. Seven hundred meticais is equal to about twenty-six U.S. dollars, and it is a long ride from Maputo to Tofo. But this is Mozambique, not the United States.

The shuttle arrived on time, and approximately 10 of us, all foreign, were loaded into its small inside, where the twenty-something year old in charge proceeded to cram our luggage into the aisle and our day packs into our already-limited foot and leg space. I looked around at the variety of, “Oh boy, here we go” expressions around me, and reminded myself that it could be worse...and worse it became. Ten minutes later, we stopped at the very traditional African bus lot, where we sat for the next hour as our man in charge searched for passengers to fill the rest of the breathing space. Once he had successfully found six more passengers, he snapped his fingers and made seats appear where they previously failed to exist, charged each new arrival 435 meticais for the ride, and we were on our way. Failing to notice the stunt that had just been pulled, the non-Portuguese speakers around me sat quietly, trying to readjust their bodies in a way that would be comfortable enough for the six-hour journey. I sat there annoyed, suddenly remembering the hand-written sign at the reception near the information board about the shuttle. “Any questions or complaints, speak to the driver.” Why didn't that raise a flag in the first place?

The next eight minutes were spent in an unsuccessful attempt to bring to the attention of the driver and other man in charge that we were aware we had been overcharged by 265 meticais, and would like some type of fair action taken. Yes, the others got on the bus ten minutes later than we did, so they didn't owe us the entire difference. But we had all assumed that we were paying the price we were for the convenience of a non-stop, comfortable ride. Had we known we could have gotten on the vehicle in the same place the others did and paid 435 meticais, we certainly would have.

The man in charge wouldn't look me in the eye as I asked him why we were being charged 700 meticais for nearly the same exact service. He paused, repeated my question several times, paraphrased it, and finally declared that we should take it up with Fatima, the hostel owner, if we had a problem. I explained that there is a sign in the reception, directing us to speak to those in charge of the shuttle, not Fatima, should there be “questions or complaints”. Indignant but unsurprised at having been taken advantage of by both the shuttle service and Fatima, I was unable to keep my mouth shut about the obvious corroboration. This useless exchange came to an end with one last sudden comment from a Mozambican passenger who decided to chime in. “What does she want? For us to pay 700 meticais for the ride? We're not slaves! This is Mozambique!” and mumbled something about racism to frost the already overcooked cake. All I could do was shake my head and laugh in my mind at the accusation. If only she knew me.

Despite the unpleasantries of the shuttle, getting to Tofo was so worth the trouble. I think sometimes we think about going somewhere, but we know the ride is too bumpy, cramped or long, and we let it discourage us. But what about the fresh grilled lobster and coconut rice, the eleven dollar hut on the beach, and the chances to swim amongst dolphins and whale sharks? Isn't all of it part of the journey?