Blurred
On Thursday, it was decided that Sam, Dimitry, and I would go with our local friend Faizal on a road trip to the ocean. There is a small fishing village Dimitry and Faizal had travelled to last year that they wanted to visit again before Dimitry's departure. When they went last time, they met a Brazilian guy running a small guesthouse there and had always wanted to return so that they could stay overnight. They warned us that it is a long motorcycle ride and is very remote, but I had no idea what was in store for us on this journey.
We load up on two motorcycles after some morning delays and set off into the unknown. The road is tiny and there are only about 4 villages during the 3 hour motorcycle ride. The space in between the settlements is either farmland or untouched wild African bush. Now that the wet season has started, the land has become much more lush and green. What was recently scorched grass and dusty red dirt is now teeming with life. Lots of cassava is planted in plots along our journey, as well as fruit trees, corn, and other veggies. We see many people laboring in their fields tilling, harvesting, carrying, working. Village life is always working. This time of year is crucial to ensure they will have enough food to make it through the "time of hunger" which is roughly from January to March when the cyclones roll through the fields and the food from the previous year runs out. It feels almost wrong to be speeding past on our way to our beach vacation.
Faizal and I are chatting for some of the ride as I am taking in the sights. We pass by a beautiful mountain not far out of town and he tells me that we can hike it sometime. Travelling east toward the coast is taking us farther and farther from the city of Nampula. As the journey goes on, the road narrows and becomes more sandy. We are used to getting looks as white people on motorcycles, but the farther we go the more I wonder when the last time was that a white person even passed through here. Groups of kids call out to us and we get lots of hollers from people sitting in the shade in their yards. I have developed a habit of giving a quick wave to any bikes that pass going the other direction and Faizal jokes that I am his "secretary" doing the greetings for him. I prefer to consider myself the princess, because that is more what it feels like. A fair-haired maiden visiting from a distant land, greeting the locals with a graceful wave as she is whisked by in the motorcade.
We reach the tiny village of Quinga and get directions to the beach. It is about noon and everyone is on their walk back from morning fishing in the cove to have siesta at home. Baskets, bags, and buckets are filled with all kinds of fish being carried back from the ocean. A young man holding four large striped lobsters gives us more directions. The path is such deep sand at this point that the bikes are really struggling to even make forward progress. We get to the edge of town and find a place to store the motorcycles. We also find out that the Brazilian guy's dream of running that guest house went belly-up and he left town. Turns out, he couldn't convince tourists to take a 5 hour journey from the nearest city.
We walk down a steep sandy path and take in the amazing coastal view. The cove is created by a long, thin strip of land blocking the crashing waves of the ocean. You can't quite yet see where the piece connects to the mainland, so it appears as a beautiful sandy island in the distance. When we get down to the cove, Dimitry barters with some local fisherman for boat passage to the other side and we climb aboard the small vessel along with some deckhands who are mostly children. Its about 10 minutes to the other side, and after we pay our negotiated $2 fee we begin walking over the sandy hill to be greeted by the raging, rising tide of the Indian Ocean.
The sand here is a swirl of black and tan. The black grains are far finer than the tan and stick to each of the ridges of my fingerprints, appearing almost as a grainy ink. The tan grains lay on top in no particular pattern. Small shells are plentiful, and I am able to rescue a few into my pocket. I strip down to my swimsuit (which I have endured wearing under my clothes for the last four hours) and head toward the ocean. I leave my glasses on without thinking and dive into the surf. Within less than 3 minutes, I have sacrificed them to mother nature. I wait at the shore a bit in case they might be returned to me by the waves, but the tide is coming in aggressively and I am sure that they were crushed in the riptide. Keep in mind that the rest of this story occurs without the use of my glasses. (And also that I brought a spare pair on the journey that were waiting for me back at my room).
We continue our childlike play in the ocean as the waves crash in with the rising tide. The water is refreshing and the sand is soft. We are the only people on the entire beach. I am partially blind, but it almost makes it more beautiful in the blur. I take some moments to myself down the beach to have a private yoga session. I perch in tree pose facing the horizon and meditate to the sound of the waves. My toes grip in the sand and I focus on my non-visual senses. The breeze makes my body sway like a tree in the sand. After some more play and a little rest, we are back over the island and heading across the bay on a different boat.
Back on the mainland, we have a brief interlude with some local fishermen who show us their catches of the day. Huge eels and fish that are almost as big as me. They love getting their pictures taken. What is it with men and holding up their fish? It seems be culturally transcendent stereotype. As a group, we discuss the fact we have no food or water and no place to sleep. It is decided we will scavenge the local market for some snacks and head back to Corrane as quickly as we can. We are able to have a quick hot meal made for us in the village and enjoy some freshly grilled fish to fuel us for the long journey home.
About an hour into the ride back, the rain starts. At first it is what I would consider a shower, and then it quickly becomes a downpour. The sun has set at this point, and we are left with no option but to press on in the dark through the storm. We have no option for shelter, as the nearest village is another hour away. Waiting it out under a tree will only take our journey later into the night. Thunder and lightning begin with a vengeance. The road becomes a river and visibility is limited to just a few meters on the bike. Lightning shoots horizontally and vertically through the sky in giant slices as I look up in awe. It is so bright that it leaves a zigzag imprint on the inside of my eyelids when I blink. I knew that the full moon night may bring something tremendous, but this is not what I had in mind.
We are soaked all the way through. Everything except the phones which are safely sealed in my fanny pack wrapped in a plastic bag. I am starting to get very cold and make myself small against Faizal's back to keep myself from the wind. Meanwhile, he is having to drive and also take the brunt of the stormy elements. All I can do is close my eyes and do some breathing exercises. I repeat over and over in my mind, "safe and secure. We will arrive home safe and secure". We pass a surprising amount of people coming back from the fields, quite a ways from their village. Some are on foot and others on bicycles. All are walking so calmly, quietly, and most without flashlights. There is no panic, no hollering to each other about the weather, no fumbling in the dark. Just walking through the storm as if it was any other evening commute. Faizal carries the same peacefulness. There is a normalcy here to the weather which I perceive as apocalyptic.
We finally reach the next village and shuffle around some items, refuel, and I get a fresh shirt. We have made it all the way through the storm, which had been passing toward the beach. It is now just sprinkling and there is much less water underfoot. I have been on the bike with Faizal driving and Sam has been on with Dimitry as the driver on the other. They have been riding behind us, following Faizal's lead through the very flooded road. Checking in with the other crew, we hear that there have been multiple crashes for them along the way. Sam looks like he has seen war. Dimitry looks like he has seen hell. We are cold, wet, and still have a long way to go. Another three hours pass as both bikes navigate each sandy ditch, slippery puddle, and eroded edge. About 10PM we finally reach the outskirts of Corrane. We eat a very late dinner mostly in silence and each go off to collapse in bed. It takes about a whole day just to process the events of the previous one.
Once my mind settles and I finish grieving the loss of the glasses, I get some good clarity and I produce quite a few pieces of writing. This is the pattern of things here, intense moments of awe followed by beautiful periods of inspiration
How can one know clarity
without the struggle of distorted view?
Seek the antithesis of one's goal,
and transformation may be possible.
Squalor may not always result in comfort,
but will certainly provide one's definition of it.
Pain is not the only path to pleasure, but
is required to appreciate it fully.
Creation will necessarily call for sacrifice.
For energy is not made,
it is moved.
