a luta continua

At first I'm glad to be rid of the guy, who seemed drunk and whose feet were sporting a particular kind of B.O. Then she starts nursing away next to me. I noticed that of five or more babies on our trip (the bus, which holds 50 people, was full most of the way) not one cried for more than a few seconds. Judging by the woman next to me, that's because at the least cry the infants were offered a boob.

When the engine starts just after 4:30, the whole bus shakes. It´s a rattling old thing of indeterminate make, age and origin. There´s less leg and shoulder room than on your average domestic airline. The bus makes a spitting noise like an ATM dispensing cash every few hundred feet and seems to struggle up to 60 kilometers per hour. A chappa named Bugle Boy passes us as I notice a smell of burning electronics. The bus lights flicker ominously. We roll through the lamplit streets of Beira -- Oh Beira! City of dream and disillusionment! I forsake thee. So far I am lucky. No one in the middle spot.

The extra shanty (beer + sprite) last night was a bad idea, me winking at the wendies coyly. Not because I feel hung over, but because I realize any bowel situation will not resolve itself well on this trip. I don´t eat or drink for the first few hours just in case it primes my system for action.

Around five we stop to kick someone off the bus who doesn't belong or didn't pay. Shortly after that we hit the part of the road from Beira to Chimoio that's never been repaired since the 2001 floods washed it away. The road goes to dusty, potholed gravel. The sun's not up and that's a good thing. We'd cook if we drove with windows closed. Someone's luggage falls during this stretch of road but I'm too close to sleep to figure out what happened.

At 6:45 it's raining and we take our first bathroom break; everyone heads for the field as we get mobbed by kids selling fruit, nuts and drinks. Back on the bus, the kid in front of me stands up and it smells like he crapped his pants.

The bus, which lacks windshield wipers, is steaming up. Fog. Rain. Pedestrians on the road. The baby next to me is burbling happily away but the mom seems disconnected and hauls out her boob again. So far, so good, though my banana was ruined when I fell asleep on it.

In Chimoio, at 7:40 a.m., we really get mobbed by vendors. They crowd the bus, shoving wares up and into the windows even as we pull away. I buy a yogurt through the window but then I realize it's warm and the bottom is all sucked in botulism-style, so I don't eat it. The hawkers get the worse deal, as banana peels and egg and nut shells fly out of the bus at them. Littering of any kind off this bus is accepted and encouraged.

We hit the main road to Tete around 8:15. It's a good road, two lanes, painted yellow and white. The bus smells like citrus after everyone lights into their unripe oranges from Chimoio.

At 8:45 we pick up more people, which leaves me in the middle seat between two nursing mothers. The new woman has a smaller child who is kicking me, while the other one just barely lacks the dexterity to grab my pen. Noticing this, her mother whips out the boob.

Around 9:10 the good road disappears and we stop again for a bathroom break. All the small towns we pass inevitably have a Frelimo flag, often in tatters, along the road. There's also an oil tanker, upright but quite clearly very stuck, on the side of the road. On the next bathroom stop I venture into a public toilet and regret that move very quickly.

The woman to my left mixes up some instant cereal and water and feeds it to her kid. Much of it gets tossed up almost immediately into her hand. But then he starts putting it away. She looks much younger than the other mother, and she's dressed more poorly, or at least more like someone from the rural areas. Her hair is dirtier, too, but she buys something at nearly every stop. (Most everyone buys huge bunches of bananas early in the trip, I presume to sell later at slightly higher prices elsewhere.) I wonder if she's not breastfeeding because of AIDS. Breastfeeding is a cultural necessity here, and if she's forgoing it on a bus it may be a very public statement of her HIV status. That would be unusual, given the stigma attached to the disease.

More people, more women with babies get on. The guy in front of me has four toes on his left foot. It's getting rockier, less flat, hotter. No real sign of people, even off away from the road. The settlements along the road are more dense than in the lower provinces. Withering among the scrub are the first baobab trees I see in Mozambique. About 100 students stand in front of an open-air corrugated metal shack. A Jehovah's Witness church bakes in the sun, one of the few concrete buildings in the towns we pass. A whirlwind of dirt and dust spins 10 thin meters in the air in a public square. Kids draw water from scummy pools, and the river beds we cross are mostly dry.

The kid to my left is coughing up some Super Maheu "energy food" drink. I hope it's not because he's sick of me making faces at him. The other baby, who has a rash all across her back, is trying to drink from the teat with no success, so her mom switches to water.

At 2:25, we're barreling down hill, heading into Tete proper. The city lies on the Zambezi River, still full of water. Just a minute ago each baby had a hold of me: The one on the right, my pen, and on the left, my notebook. There are big -- bigger than big-box -- warehouses going up outside town. Boys carry calves with all four feet bound together upside down and lay them out for sale. Every dog in sight is lying in the shade, and I wonder if each is alive. A huge suspension bridge spans the Zambezi, and that is where we turn away from the river, into downtown and the end of the journey.