A Bus Trip along the N1 from Mocuba to Maputo

The long wait: the N1 and a flat tire

I arrive in Mocuba at 10 in morning after nearly five hours of a motorcycle ride from Matekenha a local community in Lugela District. It was nearly a 150km rid of eating dust. However, there are road works being carried out on the road from Tacuane to Mocuba which in some parts of the way gives your lungs a break for a cleaner breath. I go straight to the bus station. There are people waiting too for the buses going to Nampula. It is around 11 am. Opposite the road, there is one young guy and lady who like me are going to Maputo. I sit and wait. No sign of anything. Just one bus passes; it is a Nagi bus, to Nampula. It's not mine. I sit near a group of motorbike taxi drivers who wait for their clients. One of them talks to me. We talk about his business. He is doing taxi as a part time job to buy fuel for his motorcycle and food for his family. He also informs me that the people who sell tickets are given the money worth of one ticket if they manage to sell ten. He tells me that yesterday there was a bus that went to Maputo and passed by Mocuba at 4 PM. My hope is that today the bus will be here at that time, now it is 1h30 PM. There is no knowing where the bus is. Only the guys who sell tickets can have this kind of information since they call or are called by the bus responsible – which is the person who manages the bus, the bus driver and the bus conductor. The passengers could not know for sure when the bus was coming or not. The ladies and gents who sell stuff around the bus stop could give hints but not certainty.

It is around 4h50 and the motorcycle taxi driver tells me that there is a bus that is coming. It had a flat tire. It could be here around one hour judging by its current location. I was starving, so I asked him to drive to a restaurant where I had a quick meal. After that I head back to the bus stop and one hour later the bus arrives. And off to Quelimane we go, where we spend the night. The roads to Quelimane are fairly good, only some potholes here and there. The bus driver gets mad at the bicycle riders who like him think they are legitimate owners of the road. He honks repeatedly at them to scary them away. “These people are not scared of cars”, he says. “In Nampula and Cabo Delgado people respect the cars”, he continues. The trip had not so many bumps, we arrive in Quelimane, and it is 7h 30 PM. “We will sleep here”, the bus responsible comments. No one tells the passengers when to leave tomorrow. The crew leaves to their accommodations. It is warm in Quelimane, I am exhausted so I just grabbed three beers and then went back to the bus and slept.

The boss lady hops in: Off Quelimane

It is 5AM, the engine is already running, one NAGI bus has already left to Maputo 29 minutes ago. One lady comes in the bus with a bus conductor who talks to the bus responsible and tells him that she is his mother and he is asking him to let her travel to Maputo. She then goes to the back of the bus and take a sit and a short while she comes back and asks to sit in front, behind the bus driver and in front of me. This place is usually used by the crew members and their relatives and friends. As we start our trip, a small bus hits the bus we were in. After some verbal and some physical fight, we leave Quelimane, to a long and bumpy ride. It is dark and foggy. Most passengers near me are still sleeping. Right after passing the last traffic lights after leaving Ramosa bus stop, we are stopped by the police. “They want money”, some passengers utter angrily. The boss lady leaves the bus and joins the bus driver and the police officers who come back 15 minutes later. She yells at the staff that they are to blame because they pay these monkeys. They agree but they also say that the police officers always find something to get money. “They were talking about a bad tire for example, that is not their business”, the bus responsible comments. After a while I sleep.

The bumpy Sofala and Manica Road

I wake up we are somewhere near Caia. The bus is stopped again by the police and the lady leaves the bus again uttering “what these monkeys are doing?” After a while they come back laughing. “You saw him; he humbled himself when he saw me. They know who I am. You cannot let these people get used to getting money from you”, she instructs. “It is not us, it is the NAGI bus drivers because they drive without the paperwork”, the bus responsible says.”Is that lady the owner of the bus?” one female passenger asks. It was apparent for me that she had powerful connections to Frelimo the party and or government; and this qualified her as a “Boss Lady”. One of the things that struck me once in Caia was how many people - young and old - are begging for money. In other places they sell stuff but in Caia most just beg.

The road in Sofala is just unbearable in all levels. There are more potholes than asphalt (I hope you understand the hyperbole). There is no going in straight lines, just snaking the way out of the potholes and choosing to hit those you figure will harm less your vehicle. It is indeed a frustrating ride. The responsible of the bus laments about the driver's situation to the Boss Lady. The bad roads, the police officers, the demands from their employers are part of his lamentations. He says that accidents happen because of speeding since drivers are forced by their companies to arrive in Beira from Maputo or vice versa on the same day while all other bus companies leave at 5AM. He says that the roads are terrible and some bus drivers because are forced to get the numbers in a day and beat their competitors they don't bother to try to dodge the holes they just drive right through them at high speeds. He says there are over 100 buses that leave Maputo to different destinations a day. He mentions that the government is not doing enough in regards to the roads. He says that president Filipe Nyussi came here to Inchope, then Gorongosa to talk to the Renamo leader Afonso Dlhakama by a chopper and couldn’t feel how hard it is to travel along Sofala/Manica roads. “But it is not Nyussi”, The Boss Lady replies. “He is just not being allowed to see these things”, she says. She mentions a road that was rebuilt just after he found out about it. They all agree with her. From the conversation, it seems that the president is uniformed about the N1 road situation. I wonder what that says about him whether he knows about it or not. The bus responsible says the president told the press that accidents happen due to speeding. He mentions the Etrago accident in Quissico Inhambane that killed twelve people, a bus accident in Tete, another accident in which a Maningue Nice bus caught fire, another accident and another, in very short periods of time. The fact is that people are dying and the president doesn't know about the N1 conditions?

Marringué: mark and memories of a recent war and Party Politics

We drive past Marringué, the roads are still terrible. This place prompts the bus driver and responsible to tell stories about the war times. He mentions a soldier who earlier said that “you will need us”, meaning that when there was conflict the soldiers escorted drivers across the conflict zone. This according to the driver allowed them to get some money as well. “He wants war to come back? The president tells us that there are negotiations and he is talking about returning to war?” After a while I fall asleep again. The trip is so mentally and physically demanding, I know it is even worse if you are driving, since I have done this myself a week before coming from Maputo to Mocuba, after a long trip from Carlentoville, South Africa to Maputo.

“In this place you only see flags of Renamo but you see no one but try to remove that flag to see what happens”, the bus conductor jokes. “In this place, you cannot talk about Frelimo, even in Caia if people hear you speak about Frelimo they rob you”, the bus responsible adds. “I remember once that we booked a place to sleep and when the owners of the place heard us speak about Frelimo they readily kicked us out even though we had paid. We had to sleep in the bus”, he continues. He comments this as there are two old men who just got on the bus in Gorongosa.

One was standing and another sitting, talking in a local language, and from time to time they would speak in Portuguese and the sentence that they kept repeating and caught my attention was “we are the owners of this country”. After a while, I fall asleep again. After a while I wake up, we are in Muxungue. Along the road there are reminders of not a distant past of violence and atrocities: burnt trucks and buses let you know about trips that took other routes, aspirations, hopes, dreams that were cut short. There is no driving more than 20 km per hour on this section of the N1, even if you are pressed by time, competitors and bosses. After a long and bumpy ride, we arrive in Save River. It is around 7PM.

The Save border

Save feels like crossing a border from one country to another. I feel like I am in Ressano Garcia, the only difference you don’t see these many AKMs being carried around. The Boss lady leaves the bus again to join the police officers, soldiers and the bus crew. You can see the authoritative looks on soldiers who from time to time would come here inside and scream at the passengers: “get off the bus with you IDs, now”. The passengers would resist and just sit hoping the Boss Lady would solve the issue, but things seem rough to her.

“Why are they treating us so bad? In this country only foreigners live well”, they comment. “Yes, the border to Zimbabwe is so tough but it is not like this”, one young male passenger adds. The Boss Lady then instructs the bus conductor to get her phone that was on her seat and calls a director and instructs the soldiers and officers to take her to the commander of the staff at the “border”. After, a while of going back and forth, in and out, two officers come in and ask us to hold our IDs on our hands to facilitate the inspection. They start by me. A flashlight is directed straight to my face and wallet as I reach for the ID. He then moves on to the next one. Another officer hops in, and starts talking and laughing with the bus responsible.

“I have one passenger with a Guia de Marcha”, he says.

“Where is she?” The army officer asks.

“She is sitting back there”, he replies.

“Well, tell her to come here, and sit here”, pointing to the seat where the Boss lady was sitting,

The young girl comes. She is wearing a Hijab, young black girl who seemed either from Ethiopia or Somalia (guilty for profiling).

“Solve her case before the boss comes in”, the officer says.

“I only have 500 mts”.

The officer takes the money and looks at me. “Where is this one from?” He asks.

“He is Mozambican”.

“I am from here, don’t do that”, I comment in Ci-Cangana, a local language from the south. I don’t know why I used this language, maybe to show that I am really from here! Go figure what that means.

“What about that beard? He looks like Bin Laden, we are looking for Bin Laden here”, he jokes about my long beard.

I feel a huge impulse to respond to his joke. I want to tell him you are chasing ghosts but you could not catch Dhlakama? But I sense it would just make things worse and it was inappropriate. I pull back. He leaves the bus with a man who was sitting behind but didn’t seem to have a visa. They wait a while with him outside and then he comes back in. His visa (mastercard?) problem was solved. Off, the bus goes.

“They wanted to take everybody out of the bus”, the Boss Lady comments angrily.

“I am telling you those people are crazy, the other day there were lines of people until this place, and then they would open bag by bag to inspect it.” The bus Responsible comments.

“I called the director, that’s why they started changing their attitude”.

“Here there was a cleaning last week, the commander and some of his staff were moved from here”, the bus responsible comments.

“Did you see when I talk to the other one, he was afraid of coming inside the bus. He said people could take photos of me, I am not going inside the bus”, the bus conductor jokes. They all laugh.

“Wait until we arrive in Inhambane, there is a very mean old police woman”. She will not let us pass Inhambane.

Vilanculos, Inhambane: sweet road and the quasi clash of the Titans

“What lady, is she mean? I want to see that”, the Boss Lady says. One can feel that there is this eagerness to weigh Frelimo and government power between her and the mean police officer. After a while driving we are stopped by the police. The lady is there but she was talking with another driver. The police officer tells the driver that he must not drive past Vilanculos, and then instructs the driver to go.

“When it is between men, it is possible to reach an understanding”; the bus responsible comments.

We arrive in Vilanculos it was around 22h30.

“We will sleep here, everybody should be here tomorrow at 4AM”, the bus conductor yells. “Please, listen carefully, here we always leave behind two or three passengers, so be here on time”. The crew members leave, and a bottle of Chivas follows them. I go to sleep in a room which costs 500mts. It had a nice bed, hot shower, and even a TV. The looks of paradise is influenced by our level of privilege.

It is five AM, I am already in the bus after a night of rest in Vilanculos. The bus driver tells everyone to leave the bus because there is flat tire. The bust had problems with a tire on its way from Nampula. The driver tells everyone to leave the bus. One young mother of an infant complains that she shouldn't be out with a baby at that time. It was bad for the baby. People support her. They all start complaining about the lack of respect from the company’s representatives. They call them buruto- meaning rude. One of the passengers yells if they have money it is because we pay. Even the president if he is the president it is because of us, now they treat us with total disregard. This is nonsense; they complain.

However, everybody gets off the bus, only the Boss Lady and the three members of the crew. They leave for like 20 minutes and come back still with a flat tire. We all embark but one passenger who has had enough and yells at the bus responsible and driver telling him before going to sleep he should have looked at the bus. He comes this morning after a comfortable sleep and wants to look at the bus now. This is total disregard with the passengers. The crew readily dismisses him as crazy. The trip goes on. The road isn't bumpy in Inhambane, there are signs, no potholes, they all taken care of, once could say like all the N1 section in the south of Mozambique. I don't know about Nampula and Cabo Delgado since my trip started only in Mocuba, Zambezia where the roads are also fairly good.

We are in Quissico. We drive past the mass grave where a bus accident happened and killed fifteen people whose bodies the government said could not recognize. This raised a series of public outrage because according to some specialists it could have been possible to identify the bodies of the people. Maybe this is was a cheaper option for the state. The crew members say that the grave shouldn't be by the road. They should put it somewhere else. The driver says that the driver at least was identified and others disagree because everyone was just burnt. The Boss Lady adds that that they will dig up again the grave to identity the bodies. They will use teeth. Everyone seems to agree. “It is life”. The bus responsible says. A common expression in Mozambique to show resignation would also be “the country of Pandza” or the “Country of Marrabenta”, o just “Mozambique”. They all leave it to that.

We are now driving past Massinga and a girl is feeling sick. She says her stomach hurts. One passenger who is a foreigner and had to pay his way into Mozambique, yells this girl is not alright as he pulls her up with her hand and she follows like a boneless creature, gravity wins over her and she falls back to seat. All of sudden there are many people around her and commenting: “open the windows”, “give her water”, “let her sleep”, “try to talk to her”. The responsible of the bus is indifferent to the solution but one of his men tries to sort the things out. Give her a Paracetamol another passenger shouts with a pill in his hands. The girl is related to the Boss Lady, but now she seems powerless just going for all the tips shouted at her. But the girl refuses to take the pill. I try to check her temperature and it is normal. I tell them maybe you shouldn't give her a pill. Now the trip continues and no one who is related to her is by her side. Just a foreigner who must be thinking what the fuck is wrong with this country? The police only want money, the bus driver, and conductor and responsible don't give a fuck about their passengers, the relatives are nowhere near their sick one. The roads are bumpy. Oh well, he is African too. He knows!

We arrive in Zandamela. The bus is stopped again but this time the Boss Lady doesn't say anything. The driver hands over the documents and doesn't leave the bus, which is a sign that he doesn't want to pay. He then complains that the police is taking forever slowly looking at the documents. But when you give them money they are super fast. Just put the money inside the papers and they take and let people go. Before entering Zandamela a child was nearly hit by the bus. It was obviously doing more than the 60kms per hour allowed inside localities. But the kids took the blame. They shouldn’t be anywhere near the road. From here to Maputo, the ride was just smooth. No police officers stopping, no potholes, no burnt buses, trucks.

Finally in Maputo: the center of powers

One when sees the newly built circular road in Maputo wonders if he is in the same country. Maybe Save is a border, after which only some kilometers of bad road until Vilanculos are present. From Vilanculos to Maputo, the roads testify to what many people have been pointing out. The money, resources and power flow South in Mozambique. We arrive in Maputo at 3PM. It is rainy and cold with an unusual Sunday traffic. The bust responsible yells that everyone should leave at Junta. The bus conductor calls people to come and pick up their goods. We leave the bus at Junta, to a group of transport providers showing their keys while shouting taxi or tchopela. From here on, everyone follows their own bumpy roads, aspirations, dreams, and hopes.

This trip was indeed one that, in my understanding, linked the materiality of the N1, with its histories and legacies, to state working, migration, political parties, public services, citizenship in which the boundaries of right or wrong, lawful or unlawful, private public, formal and formal were continuously collapsed, and a greyer picture appears. This shows that while “the they-are-to-blame mentality prevails the deeper plot in which everyone is in a way involved will not be touched upon, just a vicious cycle of finger pointing, which will render the offended branded just crazy and readily dismissed. And so goes the N1.

Have a safe journey.