the clunky way-too-full truck story

At five thirty a.m. on Saturday morning I walked onto the veranda of my host mother's house. It is five stories up and looks out onto the sea. I went there in hope of a fresh breeze to help take off the stickiness the night provoked--my bath hadn't really helped much. There was no such breeze this morning. Perfect day to go to a real beach. (I don't really call Beira's shore a real beach, it's dirty, the water and the beach, there's lots of trash, the waves are puny, and it is crowded with people occupying themselves in many sorts of uncouth behavior.) As we planned for our weekend, I had thought that Joseph and I could bike the 20-30 kilometers north of Beira to Savane beach, but he rejected the idea claiming we're not fit enough (he's pretty wise). And since there were no MCC vehicle's available we decided to take public transport--clunky old trucks filled to the brim with people, fish, coolers to hold more fish and so on. Joseph commented that the reason they've not yet upgraded the public transport on this particular route which ends at a fisher village and a simple but beautiful beach resort is because the tourists that go there prefer to write home about the clunky way-too-full trucks they take there. (Unlike the bike point, I don't think Joseph was right here. Most tourists that go to this beach have access to 4x4 vehicles and wouldn't dream of climbing onto one of those trucks) But I suppose the ones that do ride them do like to spout about the fact that they partook in such a great adventure. So this is my story about them..

Truth be told, there isn't much to say. On the way there I got the 'white girl seat' in the cabin with the driver. In between us sat a girl who looked like she was 13, maybe 14 but no older than 15, clutching her baby that had been born the previous day. I dozed, read the Onion using internet through my cell phone, and chatted with the driver. On the way home, I rode in the back, covered my shoulders with a cloth to protect them from the deadly African sun and wrinkled my nose at the smell of the dry fish. But I was with Joseph and we laughed and told each other stories, and I didn't even get tired of standing (I normally despise standing for longer than 15 minutes or so). By far the worst part of the whole using public transport thing was the anticipation of it...

After an unspeakably wonderful day on the beach where there was actually a fresh breeze, clean water, big waves, and stretches of empty beaches, I awoke to the sound of a coconut falling outside my tent. Then I heard wind. Or was it rain? I put my glasses on and peeked outside, no not raining. Tried to sleep. Wait, no, that's definitely rain. I spent the next hour listening to rain fall and repeating the following thoughts:

1. If it rains a lot the public transport trucks will not run tomorrow because
a.)the road that already has potholes that children bathe in will flood more and they will not

be able to pass

and even if they could,

b.) the fishermen will not want to travel in the rain and the trucks don't leave unless they are full

2. There are no other options for a lift back to town because

a.) there are no other guests staying at the resort for the night and no one will come if it is raining.

b.) the owner of the resort will not want to leave either if its raining and the roads are flooded.

3. We could:

a.) Ask Cheryl to drive the MCC truck to pick us up, but she's at home with two sick children and Steve is out of town and she wouldn't want to drive on flooded roads either.

b.)Pay the owner of the resort to take us to town but that would very likely exceed our budget.

c.) Walk the 20-30 km home in the pouring rain carrying our tents and other bags.

It seemed that 3c was our only option. I finally looked out the window of the tent and saw a blurry light in the sky (I had removed my glasses). It was a star...and if there are stars surely it can't rain that much. Holding on to that hope, I slowly drifted into those weird half-conscious thoughts and then eventually to sleep.

I awoke to a cloudy sky, but the sun was peeking out. We went for a swim, ate our breakfast of hummus and crackers and Pringles, thanked God for his glory, and packed up. By this time the sun was shining full force and I knew we'd have a ride home. But I was still dreading it. I was thinking as we trudged through the sand to pack up our stuff and start the journey home how nice it would be to have a little Honda Accord and we could just cruise down the paved highway, stopping off at a convience store for 100% orange juice and a doughnut. Änd then I remembered that I claim to care about the environment and the amount of carbon dioxide put into the atmosphere. I spout off ideals of a society that bikes and walks and using public transportation more. I sighed and rolled my eyes at myself and my great ideals.

As we puttered down the road, I watched black exhaust of the 1952 Bedford truck we were piled in puff out into the deep blue sky. I counted the people in the truck. Nineteen. I wondered if we divided us by the amount of exhaust coming out of our tail end, we were really reducing carbon emissions by using this particular vehicle. We picked up at least ten more people more people, so I'm guessing it would be less than two people in a Kia would emit, but it might be worth doing a study on.

frolicking on the beach........

*This blog is dedicated to my housemate and bff, Brooke, so that she knows what's going on in my life.