Namialo and the essential Cyndi Lauper.

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In the morning Johannas and I toss our packs into the back of Gabriel’s pick-up, and with a few toots of the horn and a handful of merry waves, we bump along through the streets of Ilha. We’re undoubtedly a curious sight - at no point this week have I seen more than three or four other white tourists on the island - and there are plenty of barefoot kids in varying states of undress to chase our clouds of dust. At the bridge to the mainland a chapa idles near the checkpoint, four haggard faces peering from the rear. It’s a Sunday, and traffic to the mainland is slow: the driver wearily informs us he’s been waiting for his truck to fill since early morning. Gabriel shakes his head and offers us his best wishes, pumping our hands, hopping into the cab, and motoring back through the morning heat. We prop our things against a bench and go over our game plan, deciding that if we want to make it to Namialo and Nampula by nightfall, our best bet is to take the first ride that comes our way, go as far as it’s willing to take us, and then sort ourselves out from there.

We hitch a ride across the bridge with a sullen young Indian who seems awfully begrudging about the whole thing, considering it was his idea to give us a lift in the first place. His is a swank, tricked-out 4x4, and the A/C is on full tilt; memories of Ilha are soon growing that much fonder in the comforts of the truck’s sub-arctic chill. On the mainland we haul our things into the shade and squint toward the distant ribbon of road winding its way to Nampula. Mozambique’s notorious December heat is proving, upon further review, to not fuck around in the least, and we’re grumpily sweating through our shirts, doing our best to not snap at the locals who have decided nothing quite livens the mood of a Sunday morn like a good long stare at two sweaty white guys. Trucks come and go, none heading in our direction; one driver offers us the services of his own vehicle at the not immodest, bargain-basement price of 1,000,000MT - or 4,000 US bucks - a head. Johannas is in remarkably good spirits, considering he’ll have to travel twice as far as me and catch an afternoon flight from Nampula. Finally a flat-bed pulls up, churning up a cloud of dust, shouts of “Nampulanampulanampula!” coming from the rear.

A great shifting and jostling commences, backpacks and bodies wedged between bags of mangos and sacks of maize flour. The mood is high, a very African sort of bonhomie born from countless sweaty bus rides with an agitated chicken pecking at your rear. Knees are wrenched, backs are twisted, children passed around like a can of Pringles, clearing some space for new arrivals. An old man stares fixedly into the middle distance, twisting an embroidered kufi cap in his hand. Flies swarm at a bagful of fish and squid by his feet. His is a face of grim endurance, each wrinkle and crease suggesting the innumerable hardships of rural life in Mozambique. It’s easy to see why the village elder, by virtue of his wily acts of survival, is so venerated here in Africa. You think this life is easy, white boy, he seems to say, you just try it for yourself some day.

A husky woman trundles to back of the truck, gathers her breasts in her arm, and hoists herself onboard. It is a masterful performance. She stiff-arms a few young girls and hitches up her capulana, lowering herself on my unfortunate foot with an archaic groan. Murmurs of appreciation all around. Watching these hefty African mamas negotiate the challenges of their girth is like watching an All-Pro lineman protecting against the pass rush. She shifts forward and leans back and flashes me a glimpse of her massive bosom. Suddenly, staring at this Leviathan of flesh, I understand how Ismael once felt, beholding the white whale crashing through the waves and contemplating the work of God.

We’re 20 kilometers from town and making slow progress when the driver pulls to the side of the road, parks in the shade of a mango tree and kills the engine. He hops from the cab and the conductor hops from the rear, and a brief congress ensues. This does not bode well. Sure enough, when the engine again thrums to life and we pull out onto the road, we’re pointed squarely back in the direction we just came from. Twenty minutes later we’re back where we started, parked just a few feet from the bridge to Ilha. There’s a man waiting with five 50 kg. sacks of maize flour piled by his side, and I suspect there was some subtle communication while we were in transit, a promise of a few extra meticais for the driver if he came back to retrieve this cargo. The passengers, patient and uncomplaining at even the worst of times, are slowly working themselves into a froth. It’s hardly the first time I’ve witnessed such a scene. The greedy minibus conductor - the man who can always find space for one more paying passenger, who will stop the chapa every twenty meters if it means loading another fare onboard - is perhaps the most villainous archetype of African transport. (The belligerent drunk and wailing infant ranking not too far behind.) Anger is a frightful contagion, and it can pass around a crowded truck with terrific speed. The men forced to climb onto the cab and balance themselves atop suitcases, the women rearranging their bags of produce and their nursing infants, are giving this driver a terrible working over. And yet, once the cargo is loaded onboard and we’ve rearranged ourselves into a stable system of twisted limbs and scrunched feet, the mood passes. A few wisecracks and rolls of the eye signal the usual disregard for the whims of African transport: What do you expect! And then we’re off on our merry way, making it to the Manapo junction in just over an hour.

Things at this point begin to proceed more smoothly. The T-junction at Manapo is one of the region’s busiest, and it takes just a few minutes of idly wagging our hands at passing trucks before a driver offers us a lift. We pile into the back of his Hilux, Johannas looking sweaty and sunburned as he curls into a ball and hunts for shade. It is a swift, smooth ride to Namialo. We exchange a few quick words and well-wishes in parting, the driver already eager to tear off for Nampula, and I give my back a terrific jolt as I pull my pack - which is, at this point, starting to push 30 kg. - onto the side of the road. These minutes of waiting for Geoff are as unpleasant as any I hope to spend in Namialo. The sun is high and fierce, the pain in my back is exquisite, and the assembled youth of Namialo - a scruffy, aggressive lot pushing cashews and boiled eggs my way - are showing me far more attention than I can stand. Geoff mercifully pulls up and toots his horn before long, and with a cheery “Howizzit?” we’re on our way.

His spirits are high, and it doesn’t take much time around Namialo to see why. Sandwiching the Nampula-Nacala road - a major artery which connects Mozambique’s busiest port to the north’s largest city, as well as to landlocked Malawi and Zambia - the town seems to have embraced its singular role as a place to refuel before flooring the pedal and making tracks to somewhere else. Kids in threadbare outfits shuffle along the main road, surrounding each chapa or lorry with biscuits and orange Fanta and cashews and mCel airtime and loaves of bread. No one seems to linger long, and for that reason alone, Geoff is grateful for my company. We stop at the bakery and then head back to his place for lunch, Geoff chattering away all the while, happy to reconnect with the world beyond Namialo. His house is on the edge of town, not far from where the road speeds to Nacala, leaving the dirty congestion of Namialo behind. The guard, a tall, severe man in rumpled overalls, hoists my bag onto his shoulders and follows us inside. Curious kids and idle neighbors linger nearby, wondering at the new arrival.

It is a massive place, with ceilings like the nave of a cathedral, and little to suggest it’s been a full month since Geoff moved in. Ruddy and youthful, somewhere in his 40’s, he is the quintessential bachelor, a man for whom nothing in Mozambique seems quite as dreadful as the perils of housekeeping. “You don’t realize, when you move into a place, how much you have to do to it,” he complains. “Bloody curtains, rugs!” He says the words the way the rest of us might say “pederasts” or “wife-beaters.” And there are admittedly few domestic flourishes in the sitting room: a table, a stereo system piled high with CDs (The Very Best of Celine Dion; The Essential - ! - Cyndi Lauper), a giant fan on a floor-stand with blades like jet propellers.

In the kitchen, though, the man is in his element. He swings open the fridge to reveal a world of plenty: meats and juices, cartons of eggs, condiments, dessert cakes, sodas, chocolates. Even at the Kabula Lodge, in Blantyre, when no less than six of us were sharing the same kitchen, there was a certain meagerness to the fridge and cupboards. But Geoff, amply compensated by the Singapore conglomerate financing his project, has decided to drown the sorrows of his solitude in a sea of licorice and bite-sized Snickers bars. He slices open the bread rolls, spreads the butter, piles on the sandwich meat and processed cheese, adding a few tomato slices as a coup de grace. Live like savages if we must, his manner implies, but we might as well eat like kings. Four hefty T-bone steaks sit thawing in Ziploc bags on the counter. He plunks two ice cubes - ice cubes! - into a tall glass of soda and plods inside, eager to polish off a quick lunch before checking the day’s progress on the farm and then heading to the local bar for some “frosties.”

In the bedroom Geoff fluffs up the pillows and cranks the A/C to some ungodly setting. It is, I’ll admit, a welcome relief from the deathly heat of Ilha. I shower, change, roll around in the sheets. Life in Namialo isn’t half-bad, really. Outside I find Geoff poised masterfully over the grill, four steaks broiling side by side under a blanket of chopped onions. He skewers the steaks with a massive fork and hoists them onto our plates. Steak with a side of steak: it’s as manly a meal as you’re likely to come across in these parts. We eat quickly, quietly, in a reverie of protein and animal fat. At the bar we drink our frosties in sweet, icy oblivion, and it’s not until the third round that we bother to complain about what happened to all the girls.

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[RAJASHEKAR GOUDA.]

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i am chartered accountant, basically i am farmer family, while seeing the image of farm i remembered my farm. Thanking you Rajashekar gouda Chartered Accountant.INDIA