…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.