This cover photo is the Post Office on Ilha De Mozambique. Now how do I know that? you ask; there are no signs nor logos. There is however a slotted red box on the street in front of the building that says “Correios” – mail. Once I step inside, the clerk immediately pulls out a packet of postcards of the island – yes, just what I’ve been looking for. With his two or three words of English and some sign languag
e I gather that the Big Man will have to return before I can even see any stamps (“stamp” is easy to pantomime, by the way). The next day the Big Man is still not available and I’m forced to leave the cards with the clerk after paying for the postage – he assured me that he would post them. Yet what I really wanted was to see the stamps – are they beautiful birds? Flowers? Shells? Guess that will have to wait until 
the next PO assuming I can find one.
Ilha (pronounced E-la) is a sun-bleached town of crumbling architecture reminiscent of Zanzibar. The 15th through 19th century Portuguese stronghold, the buildings were constructed using stone shipped all the way from Europe as well as local land coral. Hard to imagine why European stone was needed but much of what the 
early colonizers did stretches the imagination. The ramparts of the old fort are lined with cannons. Many, many cannons, some date stamped with 1539 on them. There is a Jardim de Memória (memorial garden) at the slave trading warehouse which does little to explain those horrors, real and unfathomable. The garden is more a tribute to the conglomeration of peoples that slavery created on Ilha and in Moz, a by-product of centuries of evil.
The enormous Governors Palace is well-preserved and sparkling clean, the many wood-planked floors shine without a speck of dust. In fact the entire island is remarkably tidy. The streets are neatly laid with pavers and are swept every morning. The people are polite if somewhat solemn; the island vibe is minimal here. Of course there are hustlers, their efforts easy to dispel although it 
would be nice to help each and every young man trying to make a living selling shell necklaces. There are just way too many young men, and even more small children. Good luck to them, they will need it.
Hydroplaning along the road in a vicious downpour, we travel south to Quelimani, past the endless parade of people who are 
walking, riding bikes, and piled on motorcycles. Mozambique is not giving up her real self easily. The language barrier is part of it and the north is not really on the tourist route unless you fly into Pemba to dive. We’ve been told that the biggest natural gas deposit in the world has been discovered near here and a ruby mine has opened, inspiring a “ruby rush” in the interior. But local life on the road is as slow-paced as it is everywhere we’ve been. We’ll keep going and see some more of it. We like what we’ve experienced so far.
…I’d like to spend some time in Mozambique, the sunny sky is aqua blue. . . Bob Dylan sang those words in 1976 and I am sure I’m not the only person who was romanced by the lyrics. From that time long ago in Jackson Hole Wyoming, I’ve not forgotten the song and here we are 42 years (!) later about to leave Malawi and cross into Moz. First, though, we must share our email with the many Malawian army guys who want to become friends – or better still, immigrate to the US. Good luck, we tell them, really meaning it too.
Just three kilometers through a no-mans land between borders, Mandimba Border Post displays the same interior decorator skills as other sleepy African border posts. Faded yellowed fabric of some sort is nailed over unscreened windows, fans move the torpid air around, and worn counters with stacks and stacks of journal books fill the small space. A shaded porch contains broken plastic chairs; a chunk of wood serves as a table where the security guards are engaged in a rapid game of bao. They motion for us to sit while we wait for the Big Man to return from wherever he is – he must unlock the door to the processing room so that the immigration officer can issue our visas. We wait, just like everyone else.
Once the Big Man arrives the process is swift; photos, fingerprints and then a neat official stamp sealed onto our passports. Our carnet is carefully filled out by the customs officer who obviously has seen a carnet before so we don’t have to walk him through it. Welcome to Mozambique.
Down the road the potholes take their toll. The back camper tie-downs snap off and the camper makes a frightening bang at every hole. The front tie-downs hold, thankfully, but we must find a welder asap. Slowly we make our way to our first stop, arriving 
at the only hotel in Cuamba town right at dark. Why aren’t we camping, you ask? Well, there is very little camping here in the Moz interior. We’ve routed ourselves through two towns where there is reasonable lodging as we push to the coast. In the second town is an impressive Toyota dealer who arranges for his man to do the welding while we walk around and find a coffee – and he doesn’t charge us. Africa is like that.
Portuguese is the language here and while to me most of it is jibber-jabber, we have been practicing the basics on our drive and can at least say good morning and such; Google Translate is quite handy right now. Welding finished (and very well-done) we move on. The coast is calling in all its tropical glory. The heat is intense, the air is thick and the water is Van Gogh-green with turquoise and violet streaks of the deeper water. It’s very nice to stay a week or two… Dylan said. A month or two will be more like it.
Back in Nairobi we reunite with the Beagle at JJ’s (Jungle Junction). Nestled in the suburb of Karen/Hardy, JJ’s is both a very pleasant place to camp and a working auto garage for any kind of vehicle repair you might imagine. The four dogs are just a bonus. Overlanders tend to gather here – Mike and Sue from Canada, Eiji and Chizu from US/Japan, the Germans driving the monster unamog named Simba (we met them back in Tanzania) and an English woman riding her motorcycle alone across Africa. South African expat Reggie, a musician living on a beach south of Mombasa, had many suggestions for places to camp along the Kenyan/Tanzanian coast. JJ’s pr
oprietor Chris cooked a braii for everyone on a Friday night, we shared stories and email addresses and we hope to meet these friends again.
The plan is to hug the coastline of the Indian Ocean from mid-Dec to the middle of January. Gee, what a trial to be camping on a beach enjoying sun, warm water, and a sea breeze 
in December (apologies to our snow-bound friends back home). Camping on the sand means sand in pretty much everything and tiny ants in everything else, not to complain of course. At Barefoot Beach north of Malinda we are parked right in the sand, the water is warm and inviting and the sand itself an unusual combination of red with gold sparkles of pyrite. Fantastic. There is something to be said for the coarser-grained 
sand. It does not tend to blow all over like the powered-sugar sand of Zanzibar but how amazingly soft that sand felt on your feet. And really, either kind of sand works for us.
Vasco de Gama in Malindi
Nearly a year ago, along the western coast of South Africa we came 
upon a monument to Vasco de Gama, the sea-captain who led the first Portuguese fleet to India, sailing around the Cape of Good Hope in 1488 or so. Months later (on our trip, not de Gama’s, haha) we find ourselves in a small apartment in Malindi, Kenya, and steps down the beach is yet another Vasco de Gama monument. That guy did get around. Imagine his surprise when finally arriving on the eastern African coast of Indian Ocean and finding cities and large villages already established by the Arabs and natives. Part of de Gama’s mission was to pave the way for Christianity but the Muslims got ahead of him. Still he was 
an intrepid man, not a sea-captain at all when he started; his was on the job training of the monumental sort. Portugal went on to become one of the greatest Old World powers until the catastrophic 1755 earthquake, combined with a tsunami and firestorm, all but destroyed Lisbon. The country’s fortunes have never recovered. The Vasco de Gama museum is housed in this alley. Yes, an alley, it is an outdoor museum. Worth a visit, the interpretive panels are well-done.
The apartment we stayed in is owned by Raj, a businessman we met in Eldoret. He said go ahead, make yourselves at home – how very African. In our wildest dreams we thought there might be hot water for a shower – it never hurts to dream, right? Well, there was water, a trickle, for the first three days, none of it hot. All of Malinda was without water. There were empty jugs around to fill when water did appear so it was comfortable enough. The beach was at our doorstep but too rough and brown to swim in – rivers were washing in silt from rains north of us. Malinda natives speak Italian, 
children call out a refreshing Ciao. Because of the many Italian expats living here there is delicious pizza in town as well as fresh seafood and an seemingly endless supply of a round type of mango, an “apple” mango, selling for a quarter apiece. Huge mango trees are dripping with fruit – we didn’t put even a small dent in the supply despite eating four or five per day. There’s plenty left if anyone is headed to Malindi.
South of Mombasa
Leaving Malindi heading south we tried hard to avoid downtown Mombasa, Kenya’s second largest city. A bypass route that looked good on Garmin turned out to be one of Garmin’s little jokes – instead of a short city bypass, it routed us three hours back to a small village and then another two hours back to the far side of the Mombasa. Fortunately we caught on to the trickery before going too far and with the best of u-turns we made it to our destination, the ferry across the Kilindini Harbor. Mid-day, hot, muggy, we sit with
the windows down and the engine off waiting our turn to board the ferry. Cold-drink sellers, as well as the far-from-fortunate, approach all the vehicles, not just us. Coins goes to the surprisingly many blind people. As with so many countries (including the US) there are disenfranchised adults just trying to get by everywhere we go. I cannot help but feel sorrowful for them; as adults they are aware of how difficult life is and will likely continue to be. Children have a bit of an advantage – family, orphanages, churches tend to them, at least until they are emancipated. Adults have few
options and that is a shame no matter what country is responsible.
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