The Hoogstede's Great African Roadtrip

“You know, this kinda feels like that one video game…umm, Grand Theft Auto!” my mom cackled happily from the back seat making pseudo break screeching noises. Like mother, like daughter I thought, grinning. My dad, conversely solemn and justifiably a bit stressed, was training his squinty eyes on the lanes ahead, and navigating our monster white 4x4 adventure truck through the free-for-all horde of Maputo commuter traffic - on the left hand side of the road no less. Chapas, mini buses, taxis, flashy white sedans of the rich (and infamous), swerved and honked around us. Pedestrians – women with huge baskets of fruit on their heads, men decked out in blue laborers outfits and reflective vests to a spectrum of suits and ties, and uniformed school children – took their chances needling their way through the sprawling urban badlands of a typical African city. 

Maputo, like so many other capital cities on the African continent, has grown too fast, supporting too many people with a complete lack of infrastructure and any strategic city planning or maintenance work since the Glory Days of Independence. To oversimplify the history of the last few decades, when Salazar was kicked out of his Portuguese presidential office and the government seized by the victorious communist party in the early 1970s, Mozambique was returned to its people nearly overnight. There was no transitionary government, no sharing of skills or education on proper resources regulation, budgeting, or governance. Rather, the quick transition demanded a fierce scramble between former revolutionary leaders within Mozambique for power which ultimately lead to a devastatingly destructive civil war. And Maputo, once known as the glamorous Lourenço Marques, became a hub as much for corruption and piracy as it did for enlightenment and liberation. Contemporary Maputo, nearly 40 years later, still remains an unbelievable conglomeration of striking contradictions and muddled histories. 

Paul Thoreux explains Maputo in his narrative Dark Star Safari: Overland from Cairo to Capetown (Thoreux was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Malawi in the 80s before becoming a journalist and author – for any of you wanting a crash course in the sights, smells, and voices of contemporary Africa, I highly recommend this book). He writes: 

“Maputo was a dreary, beat-up city of desperate people who had cowered there while war raged in the provinces for twenty-five years, destroying bridges, roads, and railways. Banks and donors and charities claimed to have had successes in Mozambique. I suspected they invented these successes to justify their existence; I saw no positive results of charitable efforts. But whenever I expressed skepticism about the economy, the unemployment, the potholes, or the petty thievery, people in Maputo said, as Africans elsewhere did, 'It was much worse before.' In many places, I knew, it was much better before. It was hard to imagine how much worse a place had to be for a broken-down city like Maputo to seem like an improvement.” 

I must admit to some degree, that after living in Mozambique nearly two years and having also traveled a bit to the central and some northern regions of this huge country, you start to get a bit desensitized to the chaos. It just is. This completely unorganized but somehow functional chaos is how Africa [insert flamboyant air quotations here] will always be. It’s dirty, fascinating, and diverse with a comic and perverse ambivalence to life-threatening everyday realities (ex. like commuting to work on public transportation – car accidents not AIDS is the number one killer in Mozambique). When Arsenio, my university-educated taxi driver friend picked me up to bring me to  the airport to meet my parents, his specific rants that morning were about the walls barricading the road to the airport from the horrible slums a stone’s throw away. “Those brightly painted walls are nothing but concrete monuments to our poverty,” he muttered resignedly as I nodded. “We’ll always be poor.” Silence. “But hey at least I have a job. And we’ll replace Guebuza with other one of his cronies soon enough.” He then showed me a photo-shopped picture on his phone of Guebuza, umm, going at it, with a donkey with a Mozambican flag draped across its flank. We laughed (sortof) then talked about the weather.

Least to say, Mozambique has the tendency to come off a little too strong.

Pop and I infront of the Samora Machel monument - Maputo, Mozambique

And so, perhaps it was unfair of me to expect my parents to just slip right into the stream of social and cultural norms with ease. I realize now I expected a lot from them – I wanted them to accept in a mere three weeks what had taken me at least a few months to acclimate to. Afterall I figured, my mom and dad are both experienced shoe-string globetrotters. My dad even had a taste of west Africa back in 1999 when he visited Guinea for a two week stint. And, they’ll have me as their translator! What could go wrong? But, from the very minute they stepped into Arsenio’s taxi, my parent were in complete shock and awe. “WOW, didya see that?!” my dad would explode, pointing in the direction with the jerk of his head toward a packed chapa bus with nearly two stories of beds, suitcases, tables, chairs, and random third world shit on top. “AND LOOK AT THAT!” as local drivers without warning turned a two-lane severely potholed road into a sketchy and dangerous three and a half lane game of chicken, going head on with an accelerating semi-truck. TIA – or This Is Africa – very quickly became part of their survival mantra. It allowed them to set aside the things they didn’t understand about this incredibly complex, confusing, overwhelming place, and just accept things as they were. No, no one is ever on time. No, orderly lines and waiting queues don’t actually exist here; you just have to elbow your way to the front like everyone else. Yes, you’re expected to barter for everything. And yes, it’s totally normal for children to act like you’ve run over their foot just to get you out of the car and ask you for money. TIA. No rules. And then of course, there are the police to deal with. Not even five minutes after we had driven out of the airport car rental lot, we were waved over to our lefthand shoulder by a cop – a typical blustering chefe with a huge belly and an eager tendency to bully his victims. As we encountered numerous times during our trip, it’s primarily the men in uniform locals fear and distrust the most here in Mozambique. Because cops aren’t paid a livable wage by the government, they habitually shake down motorists for bribes, pulling people over for whatever reason they want, justifiable or not. As most chapa drivers would attest, slip in a 200 meticais into your car papers and usually you get off without a hitch. Just don’t argue. TIA. Thankfully for us however, of the four times during our roadtrip that we were waved over, all it took was some smooth talking in Portuguese, a lot of paperwork shuffling (and once a little beer money) and we were once again on our way.

First stop? The wonderous Kruger National Park.

After clawing our way out of Maputo traffic, we crossed the SA-Mozambican border an hour and a half later at Rissano-Garcia, a border town erected to satiate the most primal of human creature comforts – food, water, shelter, sex… It was a town pumping with commerce and unapologetic hawking banditos, and brought back a memory of the time I hitchhiked to the crossroad town of Inchope in central Mozambique – the creepy guy I hitched with offhandedly mentioned (somewhat ironically) between gulps of beer that bordertowns and crossroads alike were the “armpits of the world.” Rissano-Garcia was no exception. But it was catchy. Like lions who often play with their prey before tearing them to pieces, one’s first-time African border-crossing gnaws at your nerves and makes you want to bolt. And yet, besides the guys walking around showing off their Ak-47s at the checkpoints and polishing their brass, everything went smoothly.  The minute we crossed the border into South Africa, the road hummed under our thickly treaded tires as we breathed sighs of relief, and in the blink of an eye passed from the third most undeveloped country in the world and into the relative bountiful plenty and sophistication of the Rainbow Nation.

Kruger National Park, after entering the Malelane Gate and on our way to Berg-en-Dahl Lodge for the night.

Mom and I, scouring the maps with some beers in hand at Ber-gen-Dahl rest camp.

We spent a day in Kruger Park and three more in the Timbavati Private Reserve. Driving through Kruger was much like what I would imagine driving through Yellowstone would be like except instead of buffalos, moose, and Grizzly bears, you get up-close and personal with the Big Five. Rhinos, elephants, giraffes, baboons, impala, we amazingly witnessed within our first few hours in the park. It took an additional 4 hour drive through the park and up the highway toward Hazyview and Hoedspruit to arrive the Timbavati Kambaku Lodge for our private safari. The Timbavati shoulders the Kruger to the west and is home to a concentration and unheard of abundance of not only the Big Five - lion, elephant, cape buffalo, leopard, and rhinocerous, so named for being the hardest African beasts to hunt on foot -  but also hyenas, warthogs, wild dogs, kudu, hippos, the occasional cheetah, and the last remaining pride of White Lions.

Kambaku Lodge gave us an intense but phenomenal three days.  Each day we enjoyed a sunrise and sunset drive, since dawn and dusk are the times when predator animals are especially active, and thus prey animals as well. Our Kambaku tracker team was two awesome guys named Albert and Evan, who communicated in their own “tracker” creole of Changana, English, and Afrikaans. Albert always perched himself happily on the front seat overhanging the road ahead, ensuring that he could scan for paw prints and fresh dung. Evan manned the radios, drove the LandRover and filled our heads with factoids. Albert has been tracking for decades, learning the trade as a child when he became old enough to begin guarding his family’s cattle, and Evan essentially comes from a background of formal schooling and practical field training alike.  Between the two of them, any question we had about the animals or the environment around us could be answered. It was like riding along with Steve Irwin on steroids.

There were many incredible, almost sacred moments of those drives… Seeing wild animals comfortable in their own habitat –  turning off the engine and just listening, watching, witnessing how they live and interact with each other, with their young, and what rules each species determines for their own little miniature societies… It makes you wonder why we as humans try so adamantly to purposely separate ourselves from nature. Are we all that different from the mother elephant who nurses her baby close to her heart to encourage familial bonding? Or the Bateleur Eagles who mate for life? Or the lioness that kicks her male cubs out of the pride once they’ve grown up? Or the bachelor clubs created by disillusioned impala after losing their mating battles? I often found myself giggling at the parallels between us “contemporary” humanoids and the animal kingdom at the end of each day, snuggling deep into my fleecy snuggie and looking up to the starry sky, swaying with the rhythm of the bush road as our Land Rover purred back to camp.

The GOREGOUS leopardess, Marula. She put on quite a little show for us!

Sunrise game drive with Albert, Evan, and the elephants!

Albert, in his element.

Our time at Kambaku ended too soon, but there were other pieces of the African experience I wanted my parents to enjoy. So, we headed straight back to Maputo and took a day trip to Namaacha to visit my host family. We arrived bearing gifts and were received with hugs, kisses, songs and dancing. I couldn’t stop grinning.

It was a chaotic and exhausting, yet very fulfilling day acting as translator between my two families. The process of shepherding stories, blessings, and punchlines across the linguistic lines, made my job a difficult but rewarding one. It blew me away the openness with which my Mozambican family received my American parents. And, how much kinship they felt toward me. The first thing my vovo – or Mozambican granny – said the minute she laid eyes on me when I got out of our truck was about how beautiful and gordinho I’d gotten. Surely I was turning all the men’s heads in Mapinhane. Once we were finally seated at the kitchen table, the shepherding began when sassy Mae made a joke about how I had my mother’s good looks, but she knew exactly who I’d gotten my big nose from, too. Instantly, the nearly 12 Mozambican brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and sole vovo that had packed themselves into our one roomed house erupted in laughter. Of course, my parents were shooting me curious stares so I found myself having to carefully and accurately translate the joke into English. Then when my mom and dad had their own laughs at Mae’s observation, everyone else in the room roared again. It was boisterous, chaotic, somewhat repetitive, yet… absolutely fantastic.

After gifts were exchanged, I went with Marina and Elias to the market to give Mom and Pop the big tour of our little PCV training town.  We picked up fruits, veggies, and bread to feed a small army and then made our way to the chicken vendors still parked in the same spot of shady orange soil that they were nearly two years ago. As I bartered and picked out chickens with the vendadores, Mom and Pop retreated behind me. “I hate seeing this,” I heard my dad mutter to my mom. “I know its normal, but it just sucks knowing these chickens are going to end up in my soup.” The little remark caught me off guard so I ignored it, willing them to toughen their stomachs to the reality of life here. The detachment we Americans have to our food is staggering… we are easy, happy consumers, yet if a fleck of blood makes it into our sanitized, over-processed, frozen meat packages at the super market we grimace with the reminder of where the squishy pink flesh came from. Here in Mozambique, you take ownership of your food. You know exactly where it comes from. YOU kill the chicken YOU eat. No, it’s not a nice reality, but I think if people understood better how food gets to their table, they’d be more grateful for the meat they do get, and realize how special it is. Afterall, it’s only Americans that expect meat with every meal. For the rest of the world, meat at any point during the week is a luxury. So maybe it’s hard/gross/sad taking an animal’s life – even a birdbrained relative of the dinosaur. Yet, it should be something done with respect..

In any case, we quickly dropped off the goodies and the doomed squawking galinhas with Mae, and drove off with Marina and Elias for a little hike to the Tres Fronteiras, my favorite. Mae would call us when the feast was ready, she said. And boy was it worth working up an apetite for! When we got back the table was packed with pots of matapa, grilled chicken, bean stew, sautéed pumpkin leaves, coconut rice, xima, and more. I was given the honor of serving everyone. And so, we ate and drank merrily filling our bellies till they were about to burst, laughing and chatting in such high decimals that I’m sure half of Swaziland could have chimed into our conversations.

After saying our goodbyes in Namaacha, we hit the road again, this time heading north up the coast, stopping only for a night in Xai-Xai to celebrate my parents anniversary at a local baraca where we dined on goat stew, chicken, coconut rice and cold beer. The next morning we drove on to Tofo, a spectacular beach on the Inhambane peninsula. It was there we rested for the next few days, easing the kinks in our necks earned from driving the national highway. We thankfully avoided all darting children, herds of cows, runaway goats, and stumbling drunk men along the way, but the vigilance had taken its toll on us all. And so, we checked into the Casa na Praia, a guesthouse right on the beach and proceeded to eat, drink, sunbathe, and relax in the hot, tropical rays.

One sip of Tipo Tinto, the local run, and the crazy starts coming out ;)

Looking East out over Tofinho Bay

Finally, after a few days of R'nR we made the last few hundred kilometers north to Mapinhane. In Mapinhane, my parents were welcomed as family. “She is my daughter too,” my school director said warmly as he shook my dad’s hand and waved us into his office. He proceeded to announce how big of an honor it was to host my parents, and then began to explain how thankful he was for my service, about everything wonderful I’ve done to help the school… My embarrassment in translating his incredibly kind compliments was thankfully short-lived as Chefe Samuel burst into the office, squealed like a 13-year-old girl, and proceeded to give our well-practiced great big American-style hugs to us all.  “Meester Hoogstede, I have waited my lifeeee for this moment,” beamed Chefe Samuel as he continued grasping my dad’s hand in the typical Mozambican lingering style. Oops. Yep, he's stillllll holding his hand. Should have told Pops about that, I thought. Oh well, surprise! Within minutes we set Mom and Pop up in the extra room in Chefe Samuel’s house, and invited him and the Director over for a dinner at the Hut of Pringles, beer, and spaghetti. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Bringing my two worlds together.

We only had a few short days in Mapinhane, and we packed them full.

I brought them along on my daily water carrying chore routine.

They gave Professora Angelica (best friend and mother to Junior) our old family laptop so she has it for studying at university next year!

They watched me teach.

They made friends with all my village neighbors, colleagues, and friends.

Dir. Adelaide and Dir. Marculino gave Mom and Pop a pumpkin! A very nice gift from Mapinhane :)

We also took an afternoon bush walk to Mujavange. Had dinner at the estalagem with my amazing site mates, Sarah and Maria. They checked out my almost-functional library and met mana Joana, mother of the primary school. They learned how to make coconut milk from scratch and then ate coconut bean stew for dinner under the crystal clear starry sky of the southern hemisphere. They made friends with my dog Fenda, and the local village criancas. My dad even took them with him on a beer run to the local baraca, and they loved him for it. All in all they had a great taste of village life. The sights, sounds, and smells of Mapinhane are now much more real for them. I am so so thankful that my parents are now able to personally relate to the people and places I tell them stories about.

The final stop on our grand Mozambican tour was Vilankulos and Chibuene to introduce mom and pops to Pat and Mandy Retzlaff and their beautiful horses. Our first night we were welcomed with a fantastic braii that Jay whipped up for us all on his own. The wine flowed, the stories lengthened, the laughs became contagious. The next five days were amazing: riding horses on the beach, sailing in a dhow to Margaroque Island, snorkeling, storytelling over Amarula coffees, and canoeing/birdwatching on the river. Despite the fact that some unseasonably cloudy weather that came our way, it didn't dampen our fun too much. It just gave us more time to do as the Mozambicans do. Slow down, stop keeping a to-do list, and meet the cast of characters around you. As I've learned time and time again in the last 20 months of service, it's not necessarily where you are or how you live, but rather the people you're with that make a place as special as it is.


Our Great African Roadtrip was far from perfect, and it certainly wasn't a trip destined to be relaxing. But for Africa, I'd say we did pretty damn well. I can only hope I got my parents as hooked on this beautiful region of the world as I am. I know even now, that we've barely scratched the surface.