Journals

Beline is a tiny beach town in southern Mozambique, about one hundred kilometers north from the capital, Maputo.  Its main attraction is a large, often brackish lagoon, which is separated from the Indian Ocean by a thin strip of sand dunes and rocky hills.  Despite being a frequent destination for egg-laying sea turtles, Beline's gritty, serene beuty is not enough to support a thriving tourist industry year-round.  Consequently, for long stretches at a time, it can seem like an empty, forgotten place.  Upon arriving there, my first thought about the place was to calculate how I could leave as soon as possible.    It was about ten o'clock at night--well after dark--and my dependance on public transportation was continuing to be a source of frustration.  I had been in Mozambique almost a week, and after walking the dusty, humid streets of its capital during that time, I was ready for some fresh air.  My plan was to meander up through the coast's scattered beach towns using the inter-city bus service, which everyone told me was far superior to the minibus taxis I now feared.  Thankfully, these reviews were more or less accurate; even though conditions were Spartan, these buses were roomier and in a far better state of repair than the others I had taken.  Yet, in my haste to leave the city behind, I execute a rookie mistake and jumped on the first bus whose driver said he was stopping in Beline.   As a reward for this carelessness, I received an impromptu introduction to the African phenomenon of the 'local' bus.  Unlike in much of the west, where one takes a slower conveyance for reasons of convenience and location, local routes in Africa operate much like the airline industry: the more stops you make, the lower your fare.  Apparently, I had taken the cheapest bus available, because it took a full seven hours--at an average speed of just under fifteen kilometers and hour-- to reach Beline.  The journey was slowed by poor roads and frequent stops, but also by the sheer amound of stuff that the other passengers brought with them.  Almost every time we pulled over, a frantic burst of energy would unleash itself, and the roof would gain or loose any number of jukebox-sized burlap sacks, while locals piled in with various combinations of children, vegetables, bicycles, chickens and goats as their 'carry-on' baggage.   This was all fun for a few hours, but by the time I arrived at Beline's only bus stop, the novelty had long since worn off.  To make matters worse, as my bus's tail lights disappeared in the night, it now appeared that I had taken this ridiculously long ride only to be left in a ghost town.  I asked someone where I could find a place to sleep, and he motioned down the road, to a hidden campsite whose four other tenants had arrived in well-stocked automobiles.  I did have a tent with me, but to this point I had never assembled it in total darkness--even with my flashlight, it was difficult and frustrating work.  When I finally got it together and crawled inside, I was feeling sorry for myself.  All I wanted to do was get some sleep, catch the first bus heading north the next morning and forget I ever wasted a day coming to Beline.  Yet in spite of my poor attitude, I could not shake the feeling that somehow, I was exactly where I needed to be.  And, as it turns out, my luck was subtly changing there in the darkness; within hours, the perfect solution to all my travel woes would present itself, literally, as if from nowhere.