Rioting and Missing Buses and Flights on the Way "Home"

After a great week of swimming, diving, making friends, partying, close wildlife encounters, and carefree relaxation... it was time to leave. Though this could not happen without a nice "Wisconsin Night" first. After hearing the glorious stories of my hometown and my alma mater, my new South African friends would not be let off without becoming honorary Badgers. And so it was:

If you want to be a Badger...

Now, in the early hours of day 10, our 4am shuttle back to Maputo was looming. We decided not to go to sleep, since it would probably have made things worse. Instead, I started to worry that I hadn't taken enough pictures of the resort, so I grabbed my camera and tripod and set about taking some night shots. I was doing long exposures, and each time a photo appeared on my camera I was thrilled with how cool they were turning out. Somehow, in the black darkness of the 3am night, I was exposing photos of the beach and the resort. Here are a few:

Most of our group packed up and started the half hour walk to the shuttle stop. We stayed behind to make some final pasta and assist in loading the trailer full of luggage, while Sean got his truck ready. Running a bit behind from everything, we arrived at the shuttle stop to find no shuttle stopped or waiting. It had left without eight of us, and the now 4:15am prospect of catching up to the fastest thing between Tofo and Maputo seemed daunting. It would appear that "African time" is quite selective in its application. The driver left promptly at 4:00, even as fellow trip mates explained that we were on our way and had tickets.

Speeding down dirt roads in the darkness and crammed into the uncomfortable back cab of Sean's truck, we caught up to the shuttle, only to find they had filled the empty seats immediately and we were now without transport... sort of. We simply remained in our current seats, with five of us sitting in the back of Sean's bakkie (South African word for truck). That's right, folks, we did the 8 hour chicken bus drive that was previously detailed in the back of Sean's bakkie. To make the ride a bit easier, we grabbed sleeping bags, pillows, and an air mattress from the luggage trailer. In retrospect, it was almost certainly more comfortable that the chicken bus drive, so we again sort of messed up, but actually made the right move.

Crammed into the bakkie for the eight hour drive to Maputo.

Fatima's chicken bus was also dethroned as the fastest thing from Tofo to Maputo... we beat it. Back at the backpackers, we spent one final night in the capital city of Mozambique with a dinner and lots of resting. Still a bit overwhelmed by my malaria medicine and feeling nauseous, I went to sleep early.

This would prove helpful when we got up at 6:30 to catch our Greyhound again, this time out of Mozambique, back into South Africa and to Johannesburg to catch our 7pm flights to Cape Town. (Did you get that? Lots of traveling, but it was the last day.) This seemed completely viable and timely until we reached the Moz border.

The full view of the border post.

So here is the scoop: It is Easter weekend, so there is an inordinate amount of traffic moving through the border. To compensate for this, Mozambican border patrol created a temporary border post about 3km from the actual border. This would seem fine, but as you can see in the photo, it consisted of several green military tents in the middle of nowhere. There were a few computers at each tent, powered by generators, and had ethernet cables running in the dirt to the satellite uplinked embassy truck. Worse yet, there was practically no signage or organization on how this "post" would be functioning. As a result, you had thousands of people attempting to follow directions, get in lines that were explained to be for this or that (Moz exit stamp, South African entry, Miner's, etc.), yet no visible progress.

We stood in line for about an hour and a half before getting to the front of the S. African entry line. It was at this point that a border agent shouted for everyone to create two lines (in Portuguese). What they were for was unclear at the time, but we did as people started to cut in line and find new spots. Eventually lines were disregarded, and people moved to the front of the tent to figure out what we were supposed to do, and to check on why the line had not moved for 45 minutes now. Lines disappeared, and this lead to a large crowd surrounding the tents, searching for information and trying to do the right thing. I was at the very front of this, and watched on as tensions rose, people began yelling, and the seemingly incompetent, outnumbered Mozambican border patrol agents attempted to shout back, tell people to move, and restore order to something that neither they nor the waiting people understood. I felt very uncomfortable as more people pushed to the front, more shouting happened, and people started crossing the tape to tell their story and get information.

At times, it felt like a full out stampede was going to happen as we were pushed from behind, and five unarmed military officers physically pushed our crowd back into place. Suddenly someone pushed too much, about 10 feet from me, as an officer pulled his spiked belt from his pants and started whipping the man. Some chaos ensued as people ran, others that were accidentally struck fought back, and other border people ran to assist or provoke. At the same time the line had stopped completely, and I thought, "This is getting much worse. This is getting out of hand."

And it did. Over the next 45 minutes, I stood near the front of the line, listening to the directions of macho men with military berets shouting at us in Portuguese while more rioting broke out just 15 feet away. This time more people were involved with more belts, more running, and more shouting and crying. And remember my anxiety issues around this time? My hands were shaking and I was trying to calm my breathing as I considered a full out riot with pushing, belting, and running as the prospect of people stealing the passport stamper became more real. Finally, I was next (and first among our group) to get my stamp. I slowly walked up to the woman and patiently waited for the god damn stamp. With passport in hand, I went back to the bus to calm down. Shortly after I left, things got worse with people pushing, and agents fighting back with clubs this time. I watched from the bus as people ran, some holding children. Apparently a woman was being hit and held her baby up to stop the man, but he didn't. Crazy stuff.


I learned that since this post was on Mozambican soil, there were only two South African guards whom could do nothing but watch, their power limited to observer at this temporary post. Further, I learned that this was not the norm, and it was a result of Easter weekend, understaffing, and bad management. At first I thought this was only overwhelming and dangerous because I'm American, but a woman from Durban, South Africa remarked that it was the most dangerous situation she'd been in in her life, and a woman from Joburg said she'd never return to Moz.

The most recent clubbing had lost our trip members their spots in line, and after a cumulative four hours at the post, we gave up as Greyhound called everyone back to the bus. They had found a South African official that was able to give us a siren escort to the actual border, where we'd have people looking out for us. This proved simple and fast, and the ordeal was quickly over. On the road again, it was now become obvious that we'd miss our scheduled flights that evening in Johannesburg.

This is when phone tag began. Six hours before my flight, I knew we wouldn't arrive in time, and opted to call the airline and rebook for the next day. My adventure seemed to be extending, and at the cost of $75, I blame the whip-weilding, belt-pelting border patrol. Over the course of the following hours our group sat on the phone with airlines spending money, approximating driving time, and asking themselves and others if we'd be there in time even to catch the last flight out at 9:00pm. Greyhound, incredible as they are, sent a private shuttle just for us, in hopes of speeding us to the airport separately. It was for free, and I can't say that would ever happen in America.

Sunset as we drove on South African soil.

This new bus sped down the highway toward the airport, but for naught as at least twelve of us missed our flights, with varying penalty fees and the need for new overnight accommodation plans. Luckily, Steve has family in Joburg that picked us up and brought us back to their house. Here, Alexei, Daniel, Steve, and I recharged, each got a shower, and were treated to an awesome braai the night before our new flights. Once again, I thought things had gotten worse but somehow found that our adventure was getting better.

A consolation dinner fit for kings.

Don't worry, this story does actually end. We got up the next morning, were politely shuttled to the airport by Steve's uncle, and finally, successfully caught separate flights back to Cape Town, only to reunite on the other side and head into town. This is about the point that I started thinking, "how in the world do I blog about this trip?" I hope I've done it justice. In the way of souvenirs, I didn't get a whole lot. In fact, I lost a number of Wisconsin shirts in the way of gifts, but I did gain tons of stories, over 700 photos, and some sweet as heck African trousers.

Three of the pictured pants are yours truly's.

As you've seen over the last few posts, and as I mentioned originally, my trip to Mozambique was truly an adventure of variety. Most notably as we got around: By planes, Greyhounds, chicken buses, taxis, cars, boats, and a bakkie for good measure.