Paradise Lost

No I am not comparing my writing ability to that of Milton, I just thought that this was quite an appropriate title. You see, my situation has literally gone from the sublime to the ridiculous.

When I asked someone before coming to Mozambique what there was to do here, the answer was, 'go to the beach, drink beer and eat prawns.' To which I replied, 'Isn't there anything else to do?' And his response was, 'Na mate, everywhere else is gash.'

And he was right. I am stuck in the northern capital, Nampula, waiting for a bus (which leaves every Tuesday, Thursday or somewhere in between) that goes all the way to Maputo. Having originally planned to stay at numerous places down the Mozambique coastline for a day or two, this seems like a drastic move. But Mozambique is ridiculously expensive, and away from the coast is not particularly nice. It is western prices for African goods here (they still sell Sega Megadrives in the shops), so I am getting down to the competitive end of the country as soon as possible. 26 hours and 2000 Meticais (about US$100) on the bus should see me in Tofo Beach - the backpackers choice for Mozambique.

Not that being here hasn't been an experience. My hotel, for example, is top notch. At Mtc800 per night ($30) you would expect a certain amount of luxury in Africa. But ask me how many of the toilets have toilet seats in the hotel. Err...well I counted half; as in one toilet had half a toilet seat. I also optimistically waited for ten minutes for the hot water pressure in the shower to increase, before realising it was only faintly warm at the beginning because it had been sitting stagnant in the pipes for a few hours beforehand.

I suppose I am expecting too much from a Pensao (cheapest form of hotel) above a Chinese restaurant. I know from my own experience of Chinese run establishments in the UK that hygiene is often not given the highest priority, and this is no different. They also don't seem to serve crispy shredded beef in Mozambican Chinese restaurants, which I was ready to accept - but when the news came through that they don't have prawn crackers either, I nearly hit the roof. This must be the country - apart from Scotland, perhaps - with the most prawns per capita in the world. Yet no prawn crackers! Devastating.

However, I wasn't that devstated, because my apetite has not been what it used to be in recent days. This is because I have had my first onset of illness since coming to this incredible continent. It has only taken eight countries, but finally I have spent two nights unable to sleep whilst things of varying vile colours exit from  numerous parts of my body at various speeds and frequencies. Obviously a hotel with half a toilet seat and a dirty restaurant is the perfect place to be during such a period, but as I always say: beggars can't be choosers. I've been in worse situations before, and I am sure there will be many more such times to come.

I suppose it is just lucky that I have such an awesome command of the Portugese language. Oh no, wait...I  don't. In actual fact my Portuges is just French words slightly Italianised with English used to fill the spaces. As a result it does not work. Which is another reason why I'm heading to the south of the country so quickly, where people speak slightly more English (due to having to deal with obnoxious Afkrikaaners every holidy season). It literally took thirty minutes to find out what time my bus is leaving tomorrow. And I am still not quite sure, so I am going to roll up at 2.00am and just hope for the best (I think it leaves at 3 - but this is TIA, so who knows).

One last thing to mention is the most common good being sold here. It is in fact live chickens. I assume that you cannot trust the quality or cleanliness of a chicken that has been slaughtered, plucked and trussed and as a result people prefer to see the chicken whilst it is alive before making a judgement on whether to buy it or not. It is also a better way of keeping it fresh. They might also use the feathers for filling cushions, and the head to put on a necklace or something. Either way, I don't appreciate live chickens being thrust in my face when I'm trying to go to the ATM in the morning (although it is probably more agreeable than being offered weed whilst making a similar trip in Zimbabwe). Fortunately my Portugese does extend to,  'Nao, obrigado,' which means, 'No, thank you,' so am able to make it clear that I have already got my meat for this week's Sunday roast. 

This booming trade in live chickens makes bus rides interesting though. It was rather like the scene near the start of Borat where he lets live chickens out of his suitcase on the New York subway - except it happened to me on a chapa meant for 15 people, so was rather more difficult to avoid these squawking monsters. Still, they were more pleasant company than the basket loads of stinking fish stacked everywhere on the first leg of the journey.

So twenty-six hours, 2500km on a bus and I should be rediscovering paradise. But as TIA I'm not expecting it to go that smoothly. I'm going to call it thirty-five hours and a broken wrist and then I think I'll be closer to the truth. Aim low and you'll never be disappointed.