24 hours

00 :12. The sound of a dentist’s drill penetrating my temple wakes me up.
Covered in sweat I sigh, it's just a dream. It’s not a dentist’s drill; there are mosquitoes in the tent.
A wild hunt begins and ends in handclapping, then silence.

02 :23. Something has awoken the dogs. Loud barking ricochet in the distance as every dog in the village joins the cacophony. A dog yelps as his owner gives him a kick. Then silence.

03 :51. The roosters begin. It’s still long before sunset but these puffed-up poultry must be from a different time-zone. The volume and intensity slowly ebbs out, but never ceases.

04 :48. The muffled sound of a single woman pounding maize is soon accompanied by another one, and then another one. The gentle sound hushes me back to sleep.

05 :42. The sun is up, and so is Aili. She stresses the importance of leaving the village before the customary crowd of staring Africans, ruins our privacy. As she opens the tent, two heavy mosquitoes take flight.

06 :18. While I cook porridge Aili takes down the tent and the crowd is slowly closing in on us. First only two kids, then four, then eight; sixteen; thirty-two and the crowd only keeps on growing. More and more adults, pushing closer and closer like a big faltering organism as they devour us. Staring in silence or murmuring comments to each other while never letting us out of sight with their yellow eyes.

06 :52. We flee the overwhelming crowd of staring eyes, and decide to brush our teeth outside the village instead. We find directions to the closest water-source, usually a well or a borehole surrounded by yet another crowd. Young hard working kids carrying home water to their families.
In Africa everyone helps out, except the men if they’re unemployed, then they can relax and drink beer instead. A woman is never unemployed, she has to do the low-status job at home, not worthy a man’s precious time. Tradition is tradition.

07 :02. Finally on the road again. The unclean water we’ve obtained will probably mess with my stomach later, but it quenches the thirst for now. The first half an hour is discouraging, but the temperature is refreshingly cool. By now the men have awoken. We meet them on the road as they cycle with heavy loads between their houses, plots and the closest village market; to sell their produce.

09 :37. It’s getting hotter. If we happen to be near a village we look for a padaria or pastelaria, and have a quick second breakfast of bread/pastries and coffee.

10 :00. People smile, wave and call out cheerful greetings as we ride past. -Bom dia! -Boa tarde! - Ola’ - Como estas? - Estou bem - Obrigado! - Muito prazer. - Ate logo. - Ate a proxima.
Traffic is minimal and there’s a strong tropical smell that I can’t place. The surrounding vegetation is thick and full of colourful birds and butterflies. Every now and then we see monkeys playing around in the canopy or at the roadside looking for human waste. We hear drumming as we pass the villages, women singing. We decide to ride until noon before we break for lunch.

11 :42. I’m close to collapse; I’ll never make it until noon. We stop at the first village along the road. A market consisting of four squatting women selling exactly the same produce in the shade of a huge mango tree. Tomatoes, onions, bananas and pounded maize - an equally exciting variety, village after village.
A small mud-hut next to the mango tree is the centre of commerce. Useless Chinese plastic items, the African soap-bars, Brazilian or South African biscuits, sweets, spaghetti, oil and lukewarm soft drinks.
In a rush I down a soft drink in order not to sink into total apathy due to exhaustion. The quick sugar-rush does the trick and ten minutes later we start to cook. Every thought I have is punctuated by the sound of the beating drums. It gets louder and louder. We roll out our mattresses on the ground and rest while the food is cooking on the stove.

12 :28. Food’s ready. We eat like starved wolves then quickly pass out on our mattresses again, to the sound of the unrestrained drum.

13 :40. The drumming has stopped. I look up. A small group of kids stand in a semi-circle around us, watching us sleep. A few metres away at a dilapidated mud-hut a group of men sit drinking. The crumbling hut is the village bar and the men are getting drunk on palm-wine. They’re loud and merry and laugh at the women as they come out from the nearby mud and thatch-church, carrying their drums.

14 :07. We wash our dishes and pack our bags. Walk around for a bit of chatting with the villagers, fill up with fresh water and try our best to avoid the drunken men.

14 :51. Lethargic we wave goodbye to the small village. Later that evening everyone in the village will talk about the two strange whites, which came to visit them during the day.

15 :25. It takes some time to get back into cycling-mode. The afternoons are always a bit uninspiring to cycle. We make more stops, bargain on cashew-nuts, coconuts, honey, papayas or whatever else we find being sold at the roadside.

17 :37. The temperature is getting agreeable again and the low-lying sun is draping Mozambique in a pleasant, warm light. We start looking for somewhere to spend the night and ask around for the closest school.

17 :49. We’ve found a school and a couple of teachers to which we explain our need for a place to pitch our tent. They giggle and hide behind each other until the bravest one dares to talk to us. He explains that they can’t make any decisions until we’ve consulted the head-teacher/ principal. A classical African greeting procedure follows as we find the head-teacher and we explain everything we just told the giggling teachers. He explains that he can’t make any decisions until we’ve consulted the village chief. Exactly the same procedure happens once more, the slow greeting, the same story and finally (as always) an approval from the village chief to let us camp at the school.

18 :12. The rumour about the two whites who will spend the night in the village has spread like a wildfire among the kids and a massive crowd has gathered to watch us pitch our tent.

18 :30. The sun sets while we start to cook. There’s still a huge crowd; staring, pointing, laughing at us in the dim light.
The teachers, eager to practice some English and find out how they can go to Europe, accompany us. On their command, kids run and fetch us soft drinks and beer, water for showering, and more firewood to the fire they’ve made next to our stove.

19 :21. Foods eaten and most of the crowd have gone. Inside a small reed shelter that’s nothing more than three walls and an entrance facing the bush we shower with the bucket of river-water that’s been provided. We look up at the stars as we scoop water over each other, trying to figure out why the skies seen from the small villages always are so clear and beautiful? Maybe it's because there's so little pollution in the air and the closest town with electricity is 300km away.

19 :31. Time for bed. We’re both extremely tired as we crawl into our small abode and turn out the lantern.

19 :45. Thoughts appear in a mishmash of past, present and future. What happened during the day? What will happen tomorrow? It all funnels into a blurred line of unfinished thoughts that slowly becomes dreams.

19 :59. Aili remembers! It’s anti-malaria pill time. Yippee!
I put the white pill on my tongue, feel its acerbic taste fill my mouth, then swallows and let it lead me deep down below my subconscious. Deep into the valleys of vivid dreams that I’ve got so accustomed to while traveling on malaria prophylaxis in Africa.
90 minutes later the pill has warped my R.E.M. into something far closer to a bad acid trip than an actual dream.

00 :12. The sound of a dentist’s drill penetrating my temple wakes me up.
Covered in sweat I sigh, it's just a dream. It’s not a dentist’s drill; there are mosquitoes in the tent.
A wild hunt begins and ends in handclapping, then silence.

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