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Published: August 18th 2011
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It's rumoured - between travellers, in the guidebooks, and on websites -to be full of pickpockets, hustlers and con-men, and I'd hoped to bypass it by catching a dhow from Tanzania to Mozambique. But with the dhow non-existent, my only option was to cross the border via the somewhat notorious Rovuma River crossing. And it turned out to be everything it was rumoured to be - a beautiful place to be fleeced, but fleeced I was.
The crossing began with a bent Tanzanian border official who demanded 2000 shillings (80p) to leave the country. I refused and bluffed, at which point he let me pass, only to point out, behind my back, my rucksack on the truck to one of his cronies outside. I took it as a signal to leave as quickly as possible, and to not let the bag leave my grasp from that moment onward.
With no foreign exchange bureau in the village I was in before the border, I had to change my shillings on the black market at the border, always a recipe for disaster, and before, during and after the transaction, I was hassled, hustled, and shouted at - the roll-call being touts, wannabee guides, and Somali refugees caught in a no-mans land by the border - not wanted, not liked, and not even acknowledged by those imprisoning them. It was an inauspicious start to the day.
Next up, it was the turn of the boat captain, who demanded 25,000 shillings (10GBP) for a 300m ride to Mozambique on the far bank. I got away with paying 10,000 shillings, although that is still double the local rate, but with a crocodile and hippo infested river between me and my next country, there wasn't much else I could do. Of course, there did used to be an official ferry, you can till see it's mast rising from the waters, but neither government shows any willingness to want to to raise it from the depths. But the boat ride, all 4GBP of it, was fantastic. We first crossed a small channel to a golden sandbank in the middle of the river, whereby we had to climb out of the boat, and reminiscent of the Somali refugees, walked barefoot, in a ragtag column, with our bags on our heads, towards our second boat. Climbing into boat - not much more than a large wooden canoe with an engine - we slowly approached the 'port' on the other side, as the engine filled the engine filled the air with smoke and noise, and a watchman on the bow directing the pilot away from danger, including three hippos wallowing in the shore. As we drove into the wooden bank, and made our first steps into Mozambique, so began a scrum to find a space on the pickup that was heading to the border post. Not the organised officialdom of other border crossings here - not even your standard African one - here it felt like no-one and everyone was in charge, whoever happened to be shouting, pushing or pulling the hardest at any point. With my final shillings changed, a quick check to make sure my wallet was still safely in my pocket, and the pickup boarded and filled to capacity, we bounced and bumped our way down the sandy, thorn-lined track to the Wild West of Mozambican policing and bureaucracy...
After over seven months, with little more than bored questions from officials, I guess something had to give, and it gave as soon as we stopped at the first police checkpoint past the border post. In the next twenty four hours I encountered five policemen, or groups of, and at each one I was hassled for a bribe. I was asked for travel permits, letters of invitation, residents certificates, and anything else the officers could think off. None of which was needed. Previously all officials I'd met had dispelled the myth of African bribery, but here they were doing it proud.
Following the advice of an American I'd met who travelled through Africa in the 70s, I talked, and talked, and talked, mentioning everything from the Queen, to the Commonwealth (of which Mozambique is now included), to the High Commissioner in Dar es Salaam. Waving my hands, and speaking without a break of a breath, it was like a dusty, roadside version of Just a Minute. And somehow, somehow, it worked.
For, I was taken off buses. My bag was taken off buses. I was asked how much money I had on me., and telling them I had nothing, I was told that I should borrow money from the driver and pay him back whenever I reached an ATM. It happened at midday, in the afternoon, the evening, and at 4am as I waited for a bus. I was stopped in the street, made to get on a police motorbike, and taken to the nearest station to answer questions. And on more than one occasion, my passport was taken from my hands, and disappeared into pockets or darkened rooms. But once the questions were asked, the bluffing was over, and I'd given them nothing but words, I was waved away with an exasperated flap of a hand.
I may have escaped with my finances intact, but that still didn't stop the annoyance, or remove the dread as each check point was approached. And it didn't prevent me from hating that first 24 hours. It got to one point, at around 6am, after my third passport check that day, that I swore I'd leave the country as soon as I could if the hassle didn't stop.
But then someone must've heard, and from then one, the requests for bribes stopped, and all I'd handed over was an unwanted Swahili phrasebook, and a lot of exasperated sighs. It still ranks as one of the worst 24hours of the trip though (only slightly behind the previous trip from Dar es Salaam), and it continued until I rolled into the sanctuary of Russel's Place backpackers in Wimbe; dusty, tired, exasperated, and in a need of a break from the road for a few days.
Northern Mozambique - a beautiful place to be fleeced.
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