Memorial in Chimoio reminding of the revolution
Only a couple of dogs were barking when Jason and I marched through sleeping Chimoio at 02:00 am to catch the bus to Vilankulo. The bus stop was already busy. Passengers, vendors and those who have no better place to go were standing around.
We squeezed in the tiny seats all the way in the rear of the bus and worriedly observed more and more people climbing in. Soon it was clear that the folding seats in the aisle were to be used. Packed like this, with sacks of onions and roots filling whatever space was left, we sat in the station for 1½ hour. Nothing happened. With every minute I felt more like a sardine, unable to move and unable to leave the bus. By 04:00 am I had difficulty breathing and the scary feeling crept in that I could not do this trip.
The idea of giving up a 50 USD seat, being stranded in Chimoio all by myself, all this could not make me stay on. I suffered what must have been a panic attack: like a maniac I crawled over everything and everybody occupying the aisle to get out. Jason worriedly looked through the window, passed me my bag and wished me well.
Walking back to the guesthouse at 04:00 am was a ghostly affair: people sleeping in the streets, in driveways, some trying to stay warm at little campfires. But I had no other choice to get to a safe place. Luckily the guard at the guesthouse heard me knocking and I crawled into my dorm bed that I had left three hours earlier. All I knew was that I could not go on this bus again unless I had a seat up front.
Two days later I had one, another 50 USD! This is actually the price for Chimoio to Maputo, but it makes no difference where you get off, you have to pay for the whole trip…
Picture by Jason Risley.
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