After nearly five months in the easy part of Africa, in the part where travel is straight forward, where budget accommodation is abundant and inspired, food is either good or great and where most people speak an intelligible language, I got back into “real Africa” as I crossed the border to Mozambique. Actually I entered the unreasonable world five minutes before I crossed the border. There were three Swazi policemen halting me on the road.
Swaziland is a small and beautiful country but it is very much like the adjoining parts of South Africa only on a more diminutive scale so I didn’t spend more than two nights there. I didn’t expect any trouble from the police as I had all papers in order which was not very difficult as the only thing you need is a passport with the correct entry stamp, a driver’s license and a receipt of the 50 rand road tax paid at the entry to the country.
But the police was of a different opinion. They asked me why I didn’t have a tax disc, a small sticker glued to the license plate of local cars. I tried for a good fifteen minutes to explain to them that I was only temporarily, for two days in fact, visiting the country and could not possibly be expected to go through the administrative procedure of applying for and being issued a tax disc. That is the entire purpose why I had paid 50 Rand in road tax when I entered the country. But the police were adamant and wanted to fine me 60 Rand, about 3 Euros.
I was pretty sure they were not trying to scam me, mind you that I had not yet left the easy and organized part of Africa. They issued a very official receipt of the fine and in the end I just had to accept it. They thought they were doing the right thing. I was convinced they were not up to date with the rules and regulations but sometimes there is just nothing you can do. If they had tried to scam me I would have known and it would have been much easier to bend their minds. Well, anyone can make a mistake. I rode on.
I had heard that there is, or at least has been, insurrection in the north of Mozambique but I didn’t pay this information too much attention. It seemed outdated and I had no intention going to the north anyway. My route was planned to go as far as Inchope and then straight into Zimbabwe from there, way away from any northern insurrection if there even was any at this point in time. Mozambique seemed so peaceful. The capital Maputo was deemed relatively safe even after dark. You don’t find that in many big cities.
But then as I stopped for coffee at one of few gas stations that sold anything in the shop, I met a western couple that was travelling in a 4x4 vehicle in the opposite direction. They mentioned that there indeed is an insurrection at the present and that it is very much alive. They said that one person was shot in a road ambush not long ago and it had happened, not in the far north but along the route that I intended to travel on my way to Zimbabwe. They didn’t have any further information as they had only travelled to Vilankulos and were now heading back to Maputo.
I too made a stop at the tourist destination of Vilankulos. Here again I met a foreign couple that travelled with their two children in a 4x4 Landcruiser equipped for camping. They were Dutch and were on their way to Egypt roughly along the same route and time plan as myself. They had more detailed information regarding the safety situation. I was told that between the towns of Save and Muchungue, along my intended route, people travelled in convoys protected by armed military. There was another convoy stretch further north but off my route. There were further pockets of insurrection in more remote areas.
So, the security alert was real and not old news. I better catch that convoy, I thought. It was leaving Save going north daily at 09:00 and I had 140 kilometers to Save so it meant an early morning start. The Dutch family was taking a different route along a small dirt road partly because it was more direct and partly to avoid the critical stretch of road. They also had the proper vehicle for it. This was not a realistic option for me as it would have meant 450 kilometers of sand to the Zimbabwe border and another 150 kilometers until I would have reached solid surface. The only other option to avoid the convoy stretch would be to retrace my steps all the way back to Maputo and then further into South Africa and crossing into Zimbabwe from there. This would have been twice the distance (about 1000 km extra), taken me twice the time and it would have taken me back to the same spot where I was a month ago. This did not sound appealing at all. I decided to go with the convoy.
I left Vilankulos at six in the morning. The sun had just risen above the horizon and provided limited warmth. It was cold. Mi fingers were freezing. The road quality dropped a notch after Vilankulos and numerous potholes kept the speed below eighty. It was a beautiful morning though. I passed through an attractive countryside with single baobab trees here and there. Most of them were without leaves which made them look weird amidst the lush environment.
I reached Save with time to spare so I stopped for a warming cup of coffee. I closed in on the combined toll booth and security check point just before the bridge over Rio Save. As I was waiting in line behind a truck I saw a police vehicle going through the post in the opposite direction. It had the blue lights flashing and the sirens wailing. Following closely behind was a large bus. There was a very characteristic hole in the front wind screen, on the drivers’ side. Only a bullet could have made such a hole. The police car and the bus passed quickly in the direction of Maputo.
I didn’t know what to make out of this. Was the blue light police car standard procedure? Was the bullet hole new or old? I had no idea. The police at the toll booth seemed perfectly calm and gave no sign of alarm. My papers were checked and I was told to cross the bridge and drive up a hill where I would find the convoy. On the top of the hill I passed some fifty big trucks, a few cars and a couple of minibuses that were parked on both sides of the road. There were also a few military vehicles. I drove to the front where I stopped.
Some of the military vehicles were small pickup trucks with benches on the back for personnel, others were armored personnel carriers with heavy machine guns mounted on the roof. All had “police” written on the sides but these were definitely military vehicles. I guessed that if the military was officially involved combating rebels that would in reality mean civil war and civil war does not have a good ring to it. Better then to pretend that the police are maintaining security in a “normal” manner.
A group of uniformed soldiers came up to me and asked questions about my motorcycle, where I was from, where I was going; the usual stuff. One of them asked me if I could spare him 100 Meticais (2 €). I couldn’t. Then a man in camouflage uniform came to talk to me. He was obviously some kind of officer and spoke English well. I asked him about the security situation. He asked me if I had seen the bus going the other way a while ago.
“You mean the one escorted by the police, the one with a bullet hole in the wind screen?”
“Yes,” he said. “Seven people were killed.” I was dumbfounded.
“You mean today, just now?” The officer gestured with his hands telling me that bullets had been flying everywhere. This was the first time I got really worried. I shouldn’t have asked.
As we were talking, a convoy arrived from the opposite direction. There were cars, busses, a lot of trucks and a few armored vehicles. The officer didn’t seem particularly upset about what he just had told me. Was he just keeping a professional face or was this just another day’s work? I didn’t get a chance to ask any further questions and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to know any more. I didn’t consider going back. It was just too far. Besides our convoy started to roll and I was told that I could go ahead and join it wherever I wanted.
I figured that the lightning never strikes the same place twice, at least not in a single day. It’s like when a terrorist attack has happened and all tourists cancel their holiday trips. It is probably never safer to go than immediately after a terrorist attack when police is alert and present in big numbers.
The convoy was led by an armored vehicle followed by cars and minibuses. I chose not to travel among the buses as these seemed to be prime targets. Instead I waited for a number of trucks to pass and got a spot towards the end in between trucks. The rebels are fighting for a separation of the north part of the country which is rich in oil. They still need supplies from the south so shooting at trucks doesn’t seem like a very productive measure. On the other hand, they will hardly gain any support by killing their own countrymen. I can’t see how this can be in their interest. The soldiers had told me that the rebels avoid shooting at them as they would be shooting back. Instead they aim their raids at innocent people. This doesn’t only seem extremely cowardly but also counteractive to their cause. But then again, where's the logic in Africa?
It was 110 kilometers between Save and Muchungue and there were almost no villages. Most of the countryside was covered in high grass, bush and trees, perfect for an ambush. Even if I kept my eyes wide open it would be impossible to spot anyone that wanted to hide. I wouldn’t notice a thing until all hell broke lose. I was nervous but not frantic. I was thinking that I was probably at more unease driving down the Sani Pass Road than I was now. Strange.
The convoy was rolling on, sometimes at good speed, sometimes slow, in accordance with the road quality. I was scanning the grass and the bushes on both sides of the road, for what reason I don’t know. There was nothing I could do if someone decided to shoot at me. They might have missed but that would probably have more to do with luck than shooting skills. I could lean down over the tank to minimize the target, I could speed up and hide behind the truck in front of me but that would only give me cover from one side. If the shooter knew what he was doing I would not even notice.
All of a sudden the convoy came to a halt. We were stationary for ten to fifteen minutes. I had no idea what was happening. I stood close to my bike for protection and kept my helmet on. Couldn’t hurt. It seems silly now in retrospect but this was not a game. I was closer to an active conflict than I had ever been before. Then we started to move again. At intervals I saw burnt out busses and other vehicles along the road, very uncharacteristic from further south in Mozambique.
At a couple of occasions we were driving very slowly due to bad sections of the road where the trucks had to crawl past but I didn’t want to overtake them and risk catching up with the minibuses. Half way there was a military post with tents on the side of the road and soldiers wearing helmets and flak jackets. I saw soldiers with heavy machine guns flung over their shoulders casually walking down the road. I got the impression that they were used to the situation, that the general nervousness had worn off long ago. These guys were battle hardened, they had got shot at and they had shot at other human beings.
That said, the military presence was not impressive. Our convoy was guarded by perhaps three or four vehicles; the armored personnel carrier in the front and a couple of pickup trucks with soldiers that travelled up and down the convoy which must have been spread out over a distance of a couple of kilometers. I only saw the military vehicles two or three times during the two and a half hours that the journey to Muchungue lasted.
It was a slight relief to reach Muchungue but nothing had happened and I had seen no cause for worry so I continued on my way as any other day. It could all have been a hype if it hadn’t been for that bus with a bullet hole in the wind screen.
The next day when I reached Mutare just across the border to Zimbabwe, the proprietor of the backpackers place I was staying at asked me where I had just come from.
“Mozambique,” I answered.
“Did you run the bullet gauntlet?” she asked. This told me more of the frequency of the rebel attacks than anything. She told me that some tourists had shown her footage from inside a bus during an attack. Crazy.
/AB
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