The twelfth week took us from the sick bed on Lake Malawi, through an interesting border crossing into Mozambique, and onto the rainy coast of Tofo.
We were planning on leaving Lake Malawi right at the beginning of the week, but since Moreno fell ill, we knew we’d have to stay another day or so. Well, he did get better, but the next day, I caught a weaker version of the bug and it was my turn to spend the whole day in bed. (For those of you keeping track, the wife of the neighbor that was sick also got sick when I did…strange….We never did figure out what it was).
Crossing into Mozambique
We arrived at the Mozambique border a bit hesitant: we weren’t sure about the safety of the roads or whether we’d actually be able to get a visa on arrival, as any guidebook we consulted or other traveler we asked had the same answer: “They don’t. Except sometimes they do.”
But everything seemed to be going good until I noticed that beside my photo on the visa, bold and in uppercase was MORENO’S full name. The BS and lack of formality in these places, I swear:
“Hi, sorry. This is his name. Not mine.” I walk up and politely point to the visa.
The official that clearly screwed up and forgot to change the name when he took my photo and printed my visa, stared at my passport for a few seconds, then asked to see Moreno’s (yup, that’s him), and then shuffled off to get his supervisor. The supervisor walked up.
“This is fine.” He said after a few seconds of pondering.
“Can you change it?” I ask, hesitant but still polite.
He shakes his head and looks deep in thought. “This is just how our computer works.” He lies.
“You cannot make a new one?” I don’t want to push, but I sure don’t want to take a chance with an incorrect visa.
“No.” He shakes his head. “That is how our system is.”
Right, so from hereonin, everyone that comes in a requests a visa will be named Moreno, till the end of time?
Moreno takes over as I start muttering under my breath. “That is a complete lie!”
“And if the police check, this will be ok?” Moreno asks. We had heard that the police are notorious for fining tourists for whatever they can.
“Yes, they see you together, it’s ok.” Uhhh…
“Can you just print up a new one? Unpeel this one, and stick a new one in?”
Moreno’s logic was just too much. The supervisor, looking defeated but hesitant, gets on the phone.
“My boss will be here soon. He will see. Take a seat.”
In the end, the boss came and disappeared into the back room where we had our photos taken to issue me a new visa like I expected them to do (a Western expectation perhaps) and they managed to peel off the incorrect one and stick in the new one, and that was that. *Phewf!*
Beaches of Bazaruto
By mid week, we were finally on the coast (and I’m happy to report we had no scary incidences and only got asked for a cold drink bribe twice). We got to the small town of Vilankulos, where our main task was to take a dhow (a wooden sailboat) around the Bazaruto Archipelago. And while the beaches in town lacked a bit of “come hither-ness,” the unspoiled islands were exactly the sort of beaches we were waiting for. We boated around (more on that later), swam and snorkeled, and came back very sunburned and very pleased.
But Vilankulos isn’t known as a very safe town, at night anyway, and staying at the lodge we once again felt like we were in a guarded off compound (we technically were), so while the girl that was managing the lodge took us around the town a couple of times and we got to see it, we were ready to move on to somewhere we could actually enjoy.
We arrived in Tofo, one of the three main beaches in the Inhambane peninsula and it seemed immediately to be what we were hoping for…with a small caveat: the weather had turned gloomy and no one was on the beach!
What’s next: We hang out here for a few days and wait for the sun to come back out. We’ll go from there.