Having allowed myself the luxury of a two-week break in Durban visiting a long lost friend I turned my thoughts towards the adventure that lay ahead. I have always wanted to visit Mozambique and I saw this as my opportunity to experience, or even just catch a glimpse of, the culture and lifestyles of the Mozambican people as I travelled from South Africa in search of Mikindani.

Arrival in Mocimboa seemed dreamlike as lack of sleep, the temperature rise as we headed north and the travel left me disorientated. I found accommodation in a nearby guesthouse and decided to explore the town. Mocimboa is a sleepy town with white sand lining the streets that lead to the beach at the end of the town. Being accosted by Lucia Juma, the local drunk, (the Beetle has also met this man too – not a nice experience!) set the scene for the rest of the day when I’d naively anticipated a peaceful evening. I played dominoes with the girls in the local restaurant, chatted with the men at the local bar and then a meal at the guesthouse where I chanced across Taiwanese Mr Wu and Abo his Mozambican friend. Mr Wu (no English), myself (no Portuguese) and Abo (a little of all languages) agreed that the local disco must be attended.

The electricity is cut at 10pm so the town is plunged into darkness and the only noises I heard as I walked under the stars to the disco were voices, laughter and crickets. The disco was my first taste of African nightlife and was assuredly colourful, and I danced with my new friends and many others until we left the activity to head for some sleep. My chance stalking by an ‘unpleasant man’ meant that I was escorted back across town by Mr Wu, local ladies and a number of others who clutched my arms the entire walk and yelled at each other in Portuguese; they insisted I stay in their guest house where they could take care of me, but a Muslim guest house, where two men bring back two women in the middle of the night I can assure is not a positive situation. I drifted to sleep and then the cock crowed two hours later as I arose early, once again, for the last part of my journey.

4am perched on the back of an open truck, wedged in between buckets, bicycles, yams and small children as I saw the sunrise. The group of ten of us bumped and rattled, spun and raced along sand filled tracks bound northwards for the Tanzanian border. Mozambique is certainly a beautiful country and it's hard to believe that only years earlier the lands I was fleeting across were littered with landmines. It seems so unlikely that fear and destruction could reign in such a place. It seemed appropriate that an hour from the border our vehicle should break down. A half hour stop as engines were tinkered with, bits of pipe bent and bashed, the lid shut down and once more we flew north. Somehow I imagined my AA card would be of little use in such parts. The Mozambican authorities inspected our vehicle two miles from the border, where an official in khaki and a sultry face indicated that an inspection of my luggage was in order. I began unloading each item out of my 70 litre rucksack and felt violated and indignant that anyone thought they had the right to rifle through my wash bag. (Same thing happened to the Beetle.) He quickly lost interest and although at first intimidated by his stature and official stance, as he mounted his motor-ped I smiled as I observed his right foot was protected by a steel top-capped boot and his left just a flip flop.

We continued by truck, wending our way down towards the Rovuma River. How better to embark in Tanzania than being carried across the shallow waters of the Rovuma to the sandy beach having crossed the mighty river by dhow. The scene was reminiscent of a biblical scene as I was carried like an injured hero returning from war. As I saw Jean and the Trade Aid Land rover waiting close by I breathed a sigh of relief, as I knew I had finally made it safely to Mikindani.

For more information on the work carried out by Trade Aid in Tanzania, see their website www.mikindani.com