Globally Warmed in Tete

Blimey, it's blistering hot today.  Well, to be honest, we've sweltered and schweated since Thursday but today I went to the trusty Norwegian weather site to check the temp - 42 deg C.  Dropping to a low of 40 by 23h00 later. Oh joy. 

One really should listen to one's more experienced mates.  The shocked, sympathetic faces in August when I revealed my October return trip. "October?  You're coming in October?  That's the worst time to be here!" before advising that they were making plans to hightail it outta town this month. And they have - Mauritius, Harare, South Africa...anywhere but here.

Fortunately a heavy workload has kept me desk chained in an air conditioned office, and I'm wondering if, having come so far, I can conduct telephonic interviews instead of travelling 10 kilometres into town.  That involves walking 50 metres or so outside, travelling from cool office to refrigerated car and really, that's to be avoided at all costs. 

At times like this I think of my schoolmate Sandy, living in Doha.  She often posts the temperatures she staggers under, and let me tell you, she wins hands down.  But when you choose to live in the desert, you get what's coming.  Everybody knows that deserts are hot, and at least she has wonderful restaurants and a choice of souks to trawl through.  So sorry, Sandy, no sympathy for you today.

The heat here is dry, you can feel your skin shrivelling and shrinking as soon as sunlight strikes it.  Yesterday my eyeballs, behind sunglasses, burned.  Not that scratchy irritation feeling, they burned as in the air was so hot, it punished the vulnerable bits it found.

There's that involuntary gasp from everyone as they enter or exit a building - relief on the in and shock on the out. On Thursday, my neck and shoulders were sunburnt from 4 or 5 trips between unit and office during the day - a distance of about 100 metres a trip.  What SPF factor can counter that few minutes exposure? Should I follow the elephants and have a riverbank wallow, donning a protective mud coat?

The curtains and blinds are now firmly closed during the day meaning that we live indoors and in the dark!  (Is this what they mean by darkest Africa?) because at 10h30 this morning the glass sliding door was hot. Not warm, hot. It faces south and gets no direct sunlight at all, yet it burned to the touch, and was allowing heat in. Don't be fooled, glass is a fabulous conductor of heat!

We persevered with a candlelight dinner outside last night, panting because even at 21h00, there was no relief from the heat - it felt as hot as it had at midday.  Good news is that the swimming pool is finished and filled, but believe it or not, the very last thing one wants to do is jump into it while the sun is shining - staying out of those piercing rays is our daily goal. So a roof over the pool is  planned -  bizarre!

I can quite understand those cave towns in Australia but that wouldn't work here.  We drove off road on Sunday, bundu bashing in search of a waterfall (which eluded us) but did stumble across some local mining activity and were totally enthralled by the seams of coal glistening just a shovel depth below surface. The banks above the road, excavated by the diggers, were layered like a Black Forest gateau cake; dark soil above coal above soil and so on down many metres.  If we created an underground home here, we'd be practising for the shovelling we're bound to be doing in the hereafter, getting hotter the deeper we plunged.

The very thought of planet temperatures raising 2 degrees makes me whimper. Please Sir, instead of global warming in Tete, may I request an ice-age instead? At least then the days of tepid gin & tonics will be over.  I'm rather tired of the ice melting faster than the drink slides down my throat.

Roadtripping Essentials in Mozambique

A weekend at an eco lodge in Caia, Mozambique exploring uncharted territory was irresistible to friend Gigi, husband Alan and me.  Experience taught us to pack extra fuel, water, padkos and pillows for soon-to-be-aching backs… and Gigi’s Garmin, a toy we hadn’t yet played with.

I’m sure our travelling routine is familiar to other couples.   The Y chromosome climbs behind the wheel, double X is in charge of refreshments and music.   The devil, in this instance, lies not in the detail but in the navigation.

In the first third of the journey, double X is asked for directions, which, super organised, she has on hand.  Mid-third, tension arises and smiley happy journey vibes change to vicious death stares, searing accusations and a stony silence as Y snatches the directions from double X.  We finally arrive.

Commencing the journey home, I announced that I’d refrain from proffering directions unless the driver asked.  To pass the hours I morphed into a Generation X-er, exploring the Garmin.  

The arrival time changed abruptly from 19h01 to 22h57.  Unease set in.  Switching on and off, resetting and shaking all produced the same answer.  Plan B - the navigation tool on Y’s smart phone?   No signal in the middle-of-nowhere.   Gigi’s advice “switch the satnav off, it doesn’t know these Mozambique roads” was heeded.

Eventually we entered an attractive little town.  Barbecue fires filled the air with a smoky tang, dogs sprawled in the road and music blasted from every house.  Suddenly, a ‘phwoar’ noise whooshed through the cab.  “Blow out?” Gigi asked.   Indeed.  The right front tyre was neatly sliced and we were officially halted.

Gigi and I were dispatched to hunt down an icy 2M beer for the wheel changer.  Late afternoon light bathing the charming community, we paused to watch the Sunday afternoon soccer match, taken aback by children sidling up to us, snapping photographs on their phones and rushing away, giggling.  Obviously, we were a novelty here.  Something wasn’t gelling, though.  Every commercial building was named Chemba something or other and we surmised (correctly) that was the town’s name– one not on our route.  

It was the sight of the majestic Zambezi, molten bronze under the fast setting sun that finally clanged the penny into our empty brainboxes.  This was definitely new territory – we were lost.

Rushing back to the car, finding first our glasses then the map, it was confirmed.  Hopelessly off track, we’d navigated almost a full circle and after five hours travelling we were closer to Caia than to Tete.

But here’s where the wonder of African travel kicked in.  English was not the lingua franca and our pidgin Portuguese wasn’t getting us anywhere.  An enthusiastic crowd of ‘helpers’ recruited the school teacher to translate and within an hour the flat spare tyre was taken (with Alan) on the back of a bicycle to the repair shop and returned.  With the wheel changed, we drove to the repair shop where the proprietor spent several hours finding and fitting a tyre to replace the slashed one. 

Meanwhile, we inspected the choice of two accommodation establishments and plumped for the one offering an en suite with the double room, agreeing to share the bathroom with Gigi.

After ordering food and wine from the bar across the road, we realised that the ‘en suite’ was a toilet with no cistern, alongside a bucket of water to be used for washing and to pour into the toilet bowl.  Emptying our cases of towels and sarongs, we laid them on top of the sheets and retired to the ledge in front of our rooms, perching on newspaper and dousing ourselves with mosquito repellent. 

Congratulating ourselves on remaining calm and our good fortune in being stranded in such relative comfort, another penny clattered into our boxes – the Reubenesque lady staying in the room next door was receiving a number of gentlemen visitors for short periods of time. 

Before the food - grilled chicken, rice and salad – was served, two waiters arrived with a jug and bowl and juggling soap and towel, they poured warm water over our grubby hands.  The simple dignity and courtesy of the act blew our minds.

Long before daylight we were on our way, desperate for coffee and a shower.  But the fabled African road trip hadn’t finished with us yet.  Within the hour, a pop and a hiss brought us to another halt.  Wearily, we checked the tyres – all good.  Finally, the cause was discovered – a blown turbo charger hose.  Much searching of luggage produced some cord and roadside repairs were made.

It was many hours later before we limped into Tete, thoroughly fed up but at the same time marvelling at how, in Africa, kindness, hospitality and solutions are found in the most unlikely of places.