Buses, Borders, and Bureaucrats. Oh my...

Monday morning of the 5th of March, I woke up early to catch a taxi to the bus station. After a quick but sweet goodbye with Kat, I was off racing in crazy morning Joburg traffic anxiously hoping that I had left myself enough time to get my ticket and board the bus. Luckily taxi drivers operate by their own set of rules and traffic legality aside I reached my destination with time to spare. Hurry up and wait seems to be the recurring theme, as my desire to be punctual was not matched by the coach service I was taking to Maputo.

I waited an hour and a half for the bus to arrive in Park City Transit Centre (Joburg Bus depot). I must have been looking especially friendly that morning as through out my wait, I was approached a number of times and asked about everything from bus schedules to where the washrooms were (a kind old man even asked me if I knew the results of the weekends football match). Unfortunately I was not able to help any of them, but it helped pass the time. We finally boarded at 9:30am, and I was relieved to see that despite not offering the luxury that one may expect from the description offered on the website, the bus was much more comfortable than the Greyhound I am used to taking from Ottawa to Toronto. The bus was under sold, so I got to relax and stretch out my feet as there was no one around me. We a jolt and a puff of black exhaust we were off, Maputo bound my home for the next year.

I had slept very little the night before (a lot of trouble sleeping my first week in Africa), so I had no problem passing out within minutes. I awoke only a couple of times, once at each rest stop, which surprisingly differ little from the ones we have in Canada (well except for all the palm trees and the lack of a Tim Hortons), gas station, bathroom and disgusting fast food. Now I have had some disgusting fast food in my life, but my first (and last) encounter with the South African franchise Steers gave me a new found appreciation for McDonald’s. I will leave it at that.

Luckily the nausea I was feeling was surpassed only by my sleepiness, and with a few delicious apples so lovingly packed quickly by Kat, my stomach had settled enough for me to pass out, again. I awoke some hours later at the next stop, and opted to stay in the bus catching the last few minutes of the movie classic Big Momma’s House 2 (personally I think one of the most underrated sequels ever hehe). It was the perfect time to wake up as we entered the highlands region of Eastern South Africa.

It was at about this time that I began to realize where I actually was. Sounds crazy I know, but with all the rushing in the week prior, the anxiousness and excitement at being reunited with Kat, the jet lag, sleeping in, the comfort and modernity of Melville and Joburg, it was not really until moment, as the bus winded its way through the highlands, with its breathtaking landscape that it dawned upon me that for the next year that this was going to be my environment. For the first time I felt I was in Africa. I beamed with excitement at what lay ahead. I would say that if was an amazing inspirational moment in my life if it were not for the odd fact that Big Momma’s House 2 had now been replaced by a DVD of all of Celine Dion’s ‘greatest’ (and I use the term loosely) hits. What was even odder was the intense attentiveness of some of the passengers on the bus to the videos. This fascination with Celine Dion distracted me from the passing scenery from time to time. Soon we had escaped the narrow, winding passes and tunnels of the highlands and arrived at Nelspruit where some got off, and we took on new passengers.

The back of the bus being nearly empty made it an attractive place for newcomers. While no-one was adventurous enough to sit next to me, there were some young folk who sat in the seats in front and next to me. Within moments the individual to my right had made I contact with me as began chatting away. Naturally looking out of place, he asked me where I was from. I responded as every proud Canadian does, modestly from Canada. Strangely they did not believe me. It required a look at my passport for me to finally gain their trust that I was just not an American paranoid about my safety. My Canadianess attracted much attention from those around me. First there was a young couple from Germany who was travelling with a guide (the guy who initiated conversation with), whom had been to Canada and were feeling nostalgic enough to re-count all their adventures to me. Second there was the young man behind me who had been quite the entire ride from Joburg, but who it turns out lived in Ottawa the last two years (what a small world). Before I knew it we had arrived at Komatipoort, the South African side of the border (Ressano Garcia is the Mozambican side). I left the bus, and it was suggested that I take nothing but some cash and my passport with me.

Komatipoort was a pleasure to cross. A short wait at passport control, a clean and efficient border control office, with a pleasant official. All access points into South Africa were monitored by a border guard. Once you clear passport control you have to walk on foot to the other side. I enjoyed the stroll as I entered for the first time was is to be my new home. As you enter Ressano Garcia the contrasts begin to surface. A single Mozambican border guard checks your passport as you enter (what he is looking for I am not sure), and you continue walking at which point it is really your choice if decide to announce your presence at customs or not as there is no one else directing you there. I decided to be a good international citizen of course and do as everyone else was doing.

The border control office on this side was in stark contrast to what I had just passed through in South Africa. Some would call it organized chaos. If it were not for one of the bus attendants kindly noticing my confusion, I probably would not have known to fill out the customs card, so conveniently hidden behind a pillar in a gap between the quickly forming lines. Oh, and thinking that you could possibly be provided a pencil or a pen at this point is truly misguided. Even trying to borrow one from the officer at the car registry window proved to be a negotiation worthy of challenging my language skills. Once the card was filled out, the task of trying to pick the right line was in front of me. Here is a piece of advice for anyone who follows in my path; there is no right line. Just stick yourself in the shortest one and pray you do not get the guy who speaks worse Portuguese than you in front of you.

By the time I reached the front of the line I must have looked like I was melting (it is significantly warmer in Mozambique, very humid). I also noticed that aside from the Australian in front of me practicing what he was going to say to the border official in Portuguese over and over, that I was the only white person left in the line. Which also made me notice that I saw no one from my bus in line. My sweat glands already working overtime, it was impossible for me to sweat even more from nervousness. After an excruciatingly long negotiation between the Australian guy and the border official it was my turn. Everything was going alone nice and smoothly until he muttered something and pointed to the wall. I could have sworn I was hearing a different language. I used my Portuguese and the second time around I caught a familiar word; tax. Now that is one we all know. So I asked how much – a dangerous question to ask if you are an obvious foreigner at a border entry point. Luckily, it was not more than what would work out to two dollars Canadian so I paid it and off I went.

I arrived outside to a sight that frightens me to the core even to this day. My bus was pulling away. I had a passport and the equivalent to twenty dollars Canadian in my hand. Everything else was on that bus. Instinct took over, and I did what anyone else would do. I ran. And boy can I run fast when it comes down to a crunch. I must have been quite a site. Some locals shouted “run run”, some nicer locals actually alerted the bus driver and he stopped. I boarded the bus to some applause from my German friends who got a kick out of watching me run. They assured me they would have alerted the bus driver (I am not so sure).

Tired from run I fell asleep. I woke up just as we began entering the outskirts of Maputo.

To be continued….