The tales of Hansi, Book One

The sun sets on Mozambique and rises over South Africa. We wake up with endless tarmac stretching ahead of us, countless possibilities, but we already know. A roadtrip is not something you experience once. It's something that goes on and on and on, and even when it's over it still goes on in your head, and than it goes on to the next roadtrip. From the last roadtrip we were on in the country of the long white cloud, we brought Hansi. Or his name, at least, and gave it to our car, a baby Chevrolet Spark Lite. We picked it up three weeks ago at Kruger international Airport, just outside Nelspruit, and have been rubbing our arses against its seats ever since.

A giant crack in the earth, red ground like open flesh and dry bushes dressed in their autumn colors. Sun-baked earth and the miles of air beneath our tingling feet and the abbys. We get a taste of what flying could be like, breathing in a view that belongs to the Lord of the Rings. Blyde River Canyon opens up like a gentle mouth, blowing us away rather than trying to swallow us.

Sometimes we watch the South African horizon float beside Hansi's windows. We see mountains wrapped up in clouds that seem to disappear into nothingness and think, if the world was to end somewhere, this would be the place.

One of the most surreal experiences of this journey has to be driving our tame city Hansi into the wilderness. After a night spent in our tent listening to the odd warthog lurk around in the dark, the daylight shines though the clouds on a brave little buddy making its way through gravel roads, surrounded by zebras, more warthogs, wilderbeest, and the strangest antilopes one could imagine. One of them being again a sight belonging to the Lord og the Rings. We finally give Hansi some rest and dismount our destrier on four wheels to sit in silence and admire two sleeping hippos mirrored in the quietest lake since the calm waters of Buggala island. The whole world seems doubled, and as we drive away we're not sure on which side we are anymore.

Lesotho's an undisturbed spot of truly chaotic african life. Yet, as soon as we leave the towns behind the sounds fade away, choked by the presence of majestic mountains. Up on the top it's bitter cold, but minds forget to shiver when they flutter somewhere near the top of the world, or what feels like it. You end up wondering how all those mountains and all that hight can fit inside your eyes, or your mind.

How can all that past fit into a painting on the rock, or in the traces left after dinosaurs. We look up at the negative footprints of beasts millions years old. They hang from the ceiling like huge stone spiders and it's like being underneath the waters surface, looking up at hulls of a pirate fleet, only those ships have long since sailed. As long gone as the hand that drew orange and red lines on a rock fivethousand years ago. Still, the secrets of their nameless gods linger in the walls, the animal headed warriors still smell of the spirits of nature, and of fight for survival.

There we are, sipping seawind and poking at the sun on our plate. The air is hot and lingers on our shoulders like an overloaded backpack. The noise, the traffic, the crowd, everything bursts like a giant soap bubble when we cross the gates of the Gardens of Durban. It's a calm, distorted fairytale where Uncle Scrooges lurk in a shallow pond and plants pretend to be artworks. Well maybe they are. The smell of newly cut grass is like nothing else in the world. It's summer, over and over and over again. It's been summer for almost six months now, we realize.

We follow the thin, remote arms of the Wild Coast as they stretch out to hidden pearls more or less overrated. Chintsa takes our breath away. At least for a few seconds at the night of our first arrival, when menacing grunts are produced by unknown monsters in the forests. In the morning we find our tent surrounded by clumsy little pigs and curious monkeys. We're hidden by our own walls of clothes hung up to dry and by the wood itself. We're in an invisible, secret castle. Down on the beach horses trot and the wind whips sand into our clothes and salt on our faces. The bay curves like a soft spoon, a light fog dripping towards its end. Everything is silent, though something is happening in our minds. It's the wheels still turning, the hunger still burning. If you can't get behind your own life get behind the driving wheel. On, and on, and on.

The oldest town

We're in an island of the past. We're four hundred yeas old. Probably a million, and we don't know it. We might be dying off, or live for ever. Somehow, right now it does not matter. The colours are washed off, the wind's blowing. Portuguese ships left this place long ago. Still, the sand whispers their words.

The ghost of Vasco Da Gama strolls along the high whitewashed walls, waching over his crosses and cannons half-asleep in the sunlight, like good old friends. A guard pops up, out of nowhere. He's waving a bunch of keys while babbling something in portuguese. In the end we sort of understand what he's trying to communicate, and he unlocks the secret doors of inconquerable San Sebastian. I sacrifice my sunglasses to the gods in the depths of an old water tank. A more glorious end than the last pair, which I roughly sacrificed between the carseat and my ass.

Another gate and we find ourselves in front of the oldest church in Africa. The oldest European building in the southern hemisphere. Right beside the oldest believers, the waves of the sea. Minds become shipwrecks, laying still below the chaos of the waves, observing a world that once they only saw from above. The flying world has crashlanded into silence.

Eiffel's biggest wonder

From the architect who gave you The Eiffel Tower - France, The Budapest Railway Station - Hungary, The San Sebastian Church - Philippines and The Statue of Liberty - USA, we present to you... (drumroll)The Iron House - Mozambique.

The complete Oxford dictionary to East Africa (Part III)

Chapter VII, Common sense

Night bus from Nampula, 2.10 a.m.: A grown man walks down the isle holding the hand of a little girl. They are heading towards the small toilet at the back of the bus, undoubtedly so the girl can have her midnight brown-snake session. I only wish the man had the wits to see that wearing his favorite t-shirt advertising sensual lubricant might send off some mixed signals.

Back alley in Beira, 1.50 p.m.: An elderly woman sits outside her shack, enjoying a luke warm beer while cradling a little child on her lap. Upon eying us she clumsily wipes her cheek and blurts out in an uneven and little to loud voice: 'Need a taxi?' There are so many unsettling elements with that picture I don't even know where to start.

Bus station in Nampula, 3.20 p.m.: We're sweating our way across the street, each with a 20 kg backpack and a day pack on the belly, trying not to collapse before reaching our bus. A street seller, popping out of nowhere, decides to make his move and blocks our path while mumbling something like: 'Amigo. Buy buy. Good price.' In his hand he's holding a two meter tall, massive, blue teddy bear. 'Hold up Maria. I sense a possible bargain.'

Chapter VIII, Standing in line

The culture for standing in line is something that comes natural to most westerners, given the growing habit of organizing our lives. Not for africans. In the illustrations below we have tried to present the differences between our cultures on this particular matter as accurately as our artistic skills does allow.

As you can see the two illustrations differ in both obvious and slightly more subtile ways. The line in illustration 1 is straight and allows people to reach the front in an orderly and fair fashion, according to when they first decided to get into the line. The line in illustration 2 roughly takes on the shape of a fan, where who reaches the front is totally random and may depend greatly on your physical condition, timing, stealth and lack of social intelligence.

Chapter IX, Service

When seeking any kind of service in East and Southern Africa it is important to understand that the personell providing the services is by no means interested in actually helping you. Adjust yourself accordingly and you might keep your sanity, fail to do so and the concequences to your mental health will be unpredictable and severe. The following examples are unfortunately based on actual events.

Transport: After 20 minutes of getting shepherded around by random people, whose guidance and assistance is contradictory at best, we eventually jump on the back of a pick-up truck possibly headed for our destination. Half and hour of us repeatedly making ourselves comfortable only to get yelled into another position, and we're yet again part of a suspension killing pyramid of people, animals and random junk. The engine starts, we drive 50 meters, the engine stops. Before actually leaving we just have to pick up a pile of metal rooftop sheets, measuring approximately 1 times 3 meters. Did they know about it beforehand? Yes. Did they take it into consideration when they stuffed the car full with shit just 50 meters up the street? No. Everybody out, again. Half an hour later and we're back in business. Did we seriously expect a heads up? We drive 50 meters before stopping at the exact same spot as we started this increasingly provoking road trip. More people pour in, and the driver disappears. Possibly 25 people stuck in unnatural positions amongst the rubbish on the back of his truck, and he decides to run some random personal errand, for an HOUR! And the most frustrating part is, nobody cares. Ever. Except for us. Just another completely normal day in their lives. It's 2 p.m. and we still have an 8 hour journey ahead of us, on bumpy gravel roads, in the back of a pick-up, with both feet and arms already numb form our awkward positions. Just as we're preparing our escape the car jumps to a start. At least the freak show is finally on the road. 5 kilometers up the street an we stop at a police roadblock. An officer jumps in to ride shotgun, we do a u-turn and stop again. The officer thought she could bring the gun back home. 5 kilometers later and, sure as shit, we're back where we started. We both lose our minds and get of.

Accommodation: After regaining control we figure we might need a place to stay the night. By recommendation we head for a cheap place close to the bus station. The reception is empty as expected and we start roaming the hallways in search of an employee of some sort. An elderly woman lurks in the shadows and we actually get the impression she might be pleasant. We are wrong. We've obviously done her some wrong, and sure enough, some pissed off grunts later another servant of some sorts pops up. It takes some massive persuasion to actually get one of them to show us a room, but we eventually make it. The room is shit and we want nothing more than a ticket back to Norway. On the way back out the elderly woman has teamed up with some friends in the reception area, and in unison they start yelling at us, while pointing and laughing. Our local tribe language is a bit rusty, but it's obvious enough they're not blessing us. We politely put our backpacks back on, lose our minds and get out.

Food: We eventually find a place to get a mental break and order a long deserved dinner. Now, we haven't been around the world yet, but in the places we have visited, preparing a simple dish of chicken and chips doesn't require rocket science. Right? It takes them 1 hour and 50 minutes from when we place the order. In that time we could have actually gone to catch an average blockbuster, at the cinema! Seriously. On top of that, when they've finally hunted down our dinner, the chicken is served raw and the chips boiled. 'Thank you sir, may I pay please?' The meal is 280 local money, including some highly needed alcohol units. Of course they don't have change on 300. We knew that. The chef himself, without further explanation, races out the restaurant's main entrance on a bicycle. No longer able to feel anger, or any other feeling for that matter, we wait for half an hour on the lunatic, standing right where he left us in pure spite. We haven't recovered since.

The artist

The world is ruled by an invisible artist. We think. That must be the reason our veins are adapting to the climate, our insides being painted the colours of the ever evolving sky, shifting from golden dawns to the slow, pink drownings of the sun in the horizon. Because the artist has painted us into his masterpiece, it does take some time and countless miles to get how much bigger the world is than us. I don't think we've quite gotten it yet, or if we ever will. Than again, we're growing a personal, inside universe whose boundaries are yet to be defined.

When in Stone Town, the artist joins us in a cafe' by the waterfront, looking at the pink sun through the white sails of swahili dhows. The Zanzibari winds carry ocra dust and the smell of cinnamon and pepper and we're ideally resting on a gigantic December spice cake in space. But our bodies know, we're in Africa and it's the middle of June. Our thoughts are wrapped around us like thick, comfortable blankets. When we lie down on them side by side and look at the sun and the moon, both are so stunning and gigantic we can't tell the difference. He's mixing things up. He must be going mad.

Mushroom Farm wakes up at five in the morning to find us standing on the edge of a cliff, our lungs filled with diamonds. We watch the bright, blue lake Malawi being painted in a thousand shifting colours by the schizophrenic, genial artist. What we see steals all of the words we have in our mouths and behind our teeth and in the backroom of our thoughts. Even when the madman pulls out a revolver and opens up a thousdand holes in the sky, the only echo the valley can carry is silence. We taste the absence of speach and slowly sink into a world that doesn't need anything but light. We are bubbles of solitude that never burst, but eventually just melt into each other.

Tired of madness, the artist is lighting up the evening candles on Chizimulu Island with one hand, scratching the silver and gold off the sky with the other. We disappear behind a corner in our kayak, paddling it into the last whispers of daylight. The fishermen are waiting to build their ghost city at night, their floating pirate empire. They are slowly dragged away by friendly streams, and the sun's just another of their sinking ships.



The artist lies in bed and turns around to watches the back of his lover, the land of the thousand oddly shaped mountains. She's falling asleep, drawing a blanket of mist over her naked rocks and wild forests. So it's goodnight Mozambique, he whispers. Just like that. And some part of us, of our eyes are stuck there forever. We are breathing fully in this world a billion times bigger than us. Learning to draw endless frontiers around our tiny lives. Shaping infinity inside nothingness.