When we awoke Sunday morning, the countdown was on: only 24 more hours remaining with a set of wheels in our possession. We'd grown fond of the big SUV that M.'s boss had left with us while he was out of the country. In fact, we might have become overly attached. On more than one occasion, I'd be riding in the passenger seat and realize that I had been absentmindedly running my hands along the arm rest, patting the dash, and smiling at the car as one might respond to a cooperative, loyal horse. I couldn't have been more than a day short of turning to my husband and saying, in all seriousness, "you know, I think maybe she wants to stay with us."
We set out on a day trip while we had the chance, heading to a place called Macaneta. A native friend said the water and beach there would be clean and pretty. An expat friend said of Macaneta, "the journey is more interesting than the destination." I assumed that merely meant we would see some pretty scenery along the way.
We left in late morning and took the EN-1 highway. The roads here are never uninteresting. Here's a typical sight:
It's not uncommon to see a truck loaded up like this, with the small addition of a person sitting on top, like a cherry atop a junk sundae. In fact, that day we passed such a configuration with a person and a dog on top. When you have to get somewhere, you have to get somewhere.
At this point, we were looking for a sign that would point us to the turnoff to Macaneta. Everyone who told us to about the place certainly didn't say there isn't a sign, and surely they would have warned us if there were no sign.
It was yet another instance in which we found our old way of making assumptions a bit... counterproductive.
There was no sign. Our map wasn't detailed enough to provide any help. We drove along the EN-1, then turned around and drove back the other way, then turned around again. We finally pulled over in the shadow of a massive stadium mid-construction, and called Ali. Ali has lived here for a few years and knows her way around. These were her instructions:
First you have to go all the way to Marracuene. There's no sign for Marracuene, but it's after you go around a big curve. And if I remember correctly, there are several white concrete blockades, like the blocks they use to keep cars from going over a cliff. After those, you turn right. Then go all the way to the river, then go along the river and the cliff until you find a road that goes down to the river. Then you might see a line of cars for the ferry. It'll all seem wrong, even when you're going the right way.
Her directions were perfect. We pulled into the line for the ferry about 20 minutes later.
As we waited, we regarded the ferry skeptically. It isn't very large -- carries five vehicle at a time -- and certainly isn't new. It groaned and strained each time a car drove aboard. I don't know what ferries are made of, but they're heavy enough without the addition of five four-wheel-drive vehicles.
But the Titanic was enormous, and it floated, I told myself.
Self, I said, if reassurance is your goal, you might choose another example .
How about airplanes? You still can't figure out how they fly, no matter how many times you Google "how do airplanes fly?" But they do.
Still, I might have attempted to estimate the depth of the river and speed of the current, made a guess as to whether the water might contain Zambezi sharks, and decided which belongings I'd hold onto and which I'd let sink if necessary. Luck favors the prepared.
We were first in line for our group. We drove aboard and get out of the car to watch the ferry's crew direct the cars into their tight spaces, all just barely fitting. The fifth was a tractor pulling a trailer, which contained a coffin.
For all of the vehicles to fit, one car had to drive up to -- nearly on, really -- the ramp that was held up by thin cables like a drawbridge. I don't think it would be a good thing if one of those cables were to break.

When we reached the other side, we headed down the only road available in the only direction available. Did you know that the word "road" is actually a relative term? Here the definition starts with "path without vegetation." The definition deteriorates from there.
You can't tell from that photo, but those puddles conceal holes that are a good 8 inches deep.
Several people had climbed into the back of the tractor trailer when it pulled off the ferry. I can only assume they were family members coming to receive the coffin.

Eventually, the tractor driver motioned for us to pass. After that, we continued very slowly, reassessing, every few feet, which path would be the least jarring. Along the way, several children approached us and held out their hands. "Estou a pedir, patrão, estou a pedir." I'm begging you, sir, I'm begging you. They tried to look pathetic. They mostly grinned.
When we eventually reached a crossroads, we turned left to follow the only signs. They promised us "resorts," and that sounded like a decent option.

But this decision took us along a sand road, up and down little sand hills. No more bumps. But no traction, either. Momentum was our best tactic.
We drove until it became clear that there was nothing to see, then returned to the road that had brought us in. We knew we had set ourselves right when we saw the kids.
They dance for tourists and then estou a pedir, patrão, for a few coins.
At the end of the road, we found an outdoor restaurant, the only establishment in the area. We sat near a large group of filthy, burly men decked out in strange sporting clothes. They looked a bit like car drivers with the addition of armor. As it turns out, they were four-wheeling through the area, which explains why they needed such complicated protective gear. They wore endless items layered one on top of the other, forming an exoskeleton that would protect their bodies in the event of an accident. The scowling man at the head of the table swigged a bottle of Laurentina beer and swore at the waiter. The DJ played Bobby Brown's "Don't Be Cruel" and Beyonce's "If I Were a Boy," frequently changing the speed of the music to make Bobby sound like Alvin the Chipmunk and Beyonce sound like a demon moaning at the gates of hell. Two tan toddlers danced in front of the DJ's table, their diapers peeking out from their swimming suits. Mosquitoes aggressively dive bombed everyone but landed with such grace that nobody knew the mosquitoes had been there until they were long gone.
The restaurant sits on the bank of an estuary. We had expected ocean. But then we saw concrete squares marking a path up a small hill to the side of the dining area. That's how we found the reason we had come:


We stayed a short while, but didn't want to risk missing the ferry. I found myself looking forward to the return trip for no good reason. It's bumpy to the point of being painful. Kids ask for money every hundred meters. Cows block random sections. But all the reasons to dislike it are all the reasons I loved it. It's symbolic of everything that seems to happen to us here: unfamiliar, full of stories and consequences that had never, until now, been our own.
On the way, we passed a truck with a group of people who somehow managed to survive the road's holes and hills like this:

After I snapped the photo, they cheered and waved.
Kids were waiting for us 100 meters down the road. The young boys hopped up and down and swung their arms. Two teenage girls put their hands by their ears and swayed their hips. A few little boys approached the car, no doubt to ask for money.

But instead, they did this:

On that road, I couldn't even hold the camera steady. I have no idea how they hung on for a solid 2 km before being chased away, giggling madly, by a disapproving adult who saw their antics while walking down the road.



A long while later, we boarded the ferry for the return trip.

Only this time, we were the ones in the precarious spot with our front tires on the suspended ramp. This is what it looked like from inside the car:
(And here's another photo of M. on the ferry, because I know his mother will appreciate it as much as I do.)
Eventually, we reached the EN-1 highway and headed back to Maputo. Suddenly, I saw it in a way I hadn't before: as a modern engineering marvel. But also a bit boring.
Straight, freshly painted lines. Wide lanes.
Smooth, even, and orderly. All the way back to the city.