Bribing our way into Mozambique

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“One thousand meticas, your fine.” The Mozambican policeman sentences Tony for driving over a street divider in swerving from hitting two people sitting in the middle of a pothole-stricken road in pitch dark. There were no signs, no visible clue as to the street splitting into two ways. The policeman sits waiting with his tattered notebook, looking to his fellow officer on the right. Tony protests that he isn’t paying a fine for something that ridiculous. “How much you have? OK, two thousand meticas, your fine!” Tony shakes his head, We’re on holiday, we haven’t got that much money on us! “Where you come from? Botswana!” as he looks at the plates. “Two thousand meticas,” he holds out his hand. Tim tells him to give us the ticket and we will go pay at the police station. The officer refuses, he says we must pay him on the spot. After more negotiation, Tony pays 1,000 meticas just to get back on the road. Goes right into the officer’s pocket.

Before we crossed the border from South Africa into Mozambique we stop at a gas station for some food and fuel. In the dark, crowds of what you would imagine real African refugees to look like huddle in the corners. As I come out of KFC with my Twister in hand, I see that one of these refugees wrapped in a shawl huddle over is sitting next to Tony in the front seat. …. I sit down in the back and realize these refugees sit at the borders to offer black market FX rates, and we change some meticas with her. As we wrap up, she warns us to not drive far into Mozambique at night. “Robberies, very dangerous, you will killed!” As she steps out we don’t know how serious she is being, but it makes me a bit nervous to say the least.

Although the road from South Africa into Mozambique has been much improved in recent years, the last third of the way from Maputo to Inhambane is rough to be generous. We decide to man up and drive the whole way from Joburg to Tofo in one go overnight. You drive on a completely deserted stretch of dirt road, everything illuminated by the nearly full moon. Imagine middle-low class America route 59 farmland roads, only ghetto-ize it by about 5 times and take away any street lights, two-story buildings, store signs, movement.

The roads in Mozambique take us through what look quite literally like ghost towns. Nobody is out, all is still as you pass by little houses and huts on the sides of dirt roads. Signs are lacking, we don’t even know if we are going in the right direction towards Tofo. Gas stations are empty and unmanned. Around 3 or 4am, Tim is driving and about to fall asleep. We find a gas station that has one light on and pull in. The air in the town is as still as the puddles of water in the movies before the dinosaur steps rumble from the far distance. Two shady characters come out of the shadows, “What you lookin for?” Tim sizes them up from inside the car. Cigarettes, you got any? “Let me see…” the guy goes over to the gated shop which is obviously locked and closed. He takes something reminiscient of a feather duster and prods around through the locked gate. “What brand?” Tim takes a look and points. The guy with unbelievable deftness somehow hooks a box near the back and brings it through the bars. Tim asks how much. The guy hesitates, how much should he charge for a box of stolen cigarettes? He doesn’t know, “How much you pay for them?” Tim thinks and says he usually pays 20 rand, so 60 meticas. The guy thinks a bit, then nods. He has no idea how much cigarettes are worth but he makes his bit for the night.

Outside of the towns we pass, the sides of the road are engulfed by overgrown tall grasses and weeds. A car comes in the opposite direction probably once an hour, a few of them swerving into our lane until Tim flashes the brights and swears. As we drive through the night, we pass a number of seriously dodgy shadows. We pass a crowd of children in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, in the dark, who crowd around the street as our car passes trying to stop us. Tim accelerates through. Men come from out of nowhere, illuminated solely by your headlights as you near and stand in the middle of the street trying to stop your car, with a not so small chance of attempted hijacking. We pass one guy who seemed to be covered in black plastic bags, we didn’t know he was a living human and not some scarecrow until he started walking as our car approached. Lone people sit on the side of the road with nothing for miles on either side, on their bikes and stare as you drive past. Where have they come from? Do they sleep near there? Where are these kids’ parents? What are they doing? Why do they try to stop you?

Welcome to the Third World.

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