We Can't All Come And Go By BUBBLE

Magic carpet. Yak. Dog sled. Enterprise. A yellow submarine. The Death Star. Cinderella’s pumpkin coach. Unicycle. Being shot out of a canon. Fred Flintstone’s feet. Piggyback. Centaur. Station wagon.

Of all the bizarre, paranormal, and unconventional modes of transportation that have ever existed in the history of the world, there is nothing…nothing folks…that quite compares to what we’ve got here in Mozambique. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to “The Chapa.”

A chapa, my friends, is basically any vehicle that is used to transport people and things from Point A to Point B anywhere in Mozambique. Like the word ironic (thanks Alanis Morissette) a “chapa” has a very loose definition. Semantics aside, the chapa is what anyone who wants to get anywhere in Mozambique uses to travel. It is the heart of the public transportation system. And unless you’ve got a car here, which most people sure as hell do not, then you are left to the mercy of the chapas. The typical chapa is generally a converted 12 passenger mini-van but because my site is a bit isolated, the chapas that run to and from my town oftentimes are big, open-back pickup trucks.

When it comes to traveling in Mozambique and chapas specifically, I have a very love-hate relationship. Each chapa ride I award myself 110 integration points--10 because it is such a big part of everyday life here and 100 because it friggin’ sucks. I have recently put in my petition to Jeff Probst and CBS for them to begin filming a Survivor 47: Chapa edition. It would be cutthroat because when it comes to riding in a chapa, survival is a testament to one’s tolerance level, threshold for pain, Job-like patience, and a robust sense of humor.

What I mean by sense of humor is that when it comes to chapas, you will see things so ridiculous and find yourself in situations so uncomfortable that the only thing you can do--the only thing that will possibly make the ride more bearable--is to laugh. One of my first chapa rides, I was in a large, open back transport pickup truck sitting on top of a lumpy bag of coconuts with three other people, fish juice flying in my face and my feet dangling over the edge because we had to make room for the goats. Throw in the fact that I was the only white person (I usually am the only white person on a chapa) tucked in amongst 40 other Mozambicans who looked at me like I was one of those Yao Ming-sized blue creatures from Avatar. On average, Mozambicans spend about 2 to 3 hours of our chapa rides discussing with each other just what exactly I am and whether I am lost or crazy. The eternal question, my friends. What can you do except laugh?

You know, it ultimately wouldn’t really matter if I was some sort of extraterrestrial creature because there is nothing, and I mean nothing, that they won’t allow onto a chapa. If more people and their things want on, people squeeze to make room. There is no capacity level. They have a verb here they use specifically to describe riding in a chapa. It’s called “sardinar.” Yes, that’s right. “Sardinar.” As in, to be like sardines.

When sardinar-ing in a chapa, proximics are uniformly ignored. I realized very quickly that like Scotcheroos, hygiene, and infrastructure, my penchant for personal bubbles was just something I was going to have to get used to living without.

Chapas are, after all, an industry and everything that you find on a chapa--whether it’s chickens, fish, small appliances, goats, charcoal, or large barrels of produce--it has a price. Anything that boards a chapa has to pay. Therefore, they want to fit as much on it as possible. If people have already squeezed so tightly sitting down, they will ask you to move your feet to make room for people to stand.

Now, I know I tend to have a hankering for hyperbole, but there is absolutely no way I could exaggerate “the chapa.” It is pure craziness. Not only because it is so awkwardly crowded--one ride someone’s armpit was so close to my nasal canal I nearly asphyxiated--but also because a lot of times the roads are so bad and the drivers are worse.

In Nebraska we have what we like to call minimum maintenance roads. Here I call them zero maintenance roads. It’s as if King Kong and Sasquatch decided to pound a bottle of Vodka each and then play drunken hopscotch up and down the road. That’s about the size and scope of the potholes. And because in Mozambique where vehicles rather than pedestrians, bicyclists, and little old ladies crossing the street have the right away, chapa drivers are usually Richard Petty wannabes with slightly better driving tract records than James Dean. Even atheists pray on Bingo night and on chapas.

Okay, so my site is about 4 to 5 hours by chapa from the provincial capital. What happens if you have to go to the restroom? Well, in my case I prefer to do anything, even risking extreme dehydration to ensure that I will not have to pee en route.

But if, perchance, a pre-journey Fanta proved to be too enticing for me and nature started screaming my name, I would not be entirely screwed. Usually, about halfway through the ride the driver pulls off on the side of the road and anyone who has to go literally jumps out and hightails it out into the bush to do their business.

Some of the lazier, less gun-shy pee-ers will just go right there on the side of the road in front of everyone. I once even witnessed a Mozambican who-can-pee-the-farthest-competition. Apparently when it comes to traveling in Mozambique what they lack in comfort and luxury they make up for in cheap entertainment. Kind of like Atlantic City. And ironically (it seemed a good time to pop that word in) people seem to emerge from both places in similar conditions: covered in dirt, sweat, rain, quite possibly fish juice or breast milk, sunburned, and exhausted.

As miserable as I am making chapa rides out to sound (and they usually are), in all honesty some of my best stories have arisen from these travels and the people I have met on them. I guess if it were easier it wouldn’t be such an adventure.

“And life is either a great adventure or nothing.” I’ll give you 17 of my integration points if you can tell me who said that. Nope, actually I won’t. Those points are too valuable. I’ll just tell you. It was Helen Keller.

And to tell you the truth, you’d probably be better off with her behind the wheel of a chapa than most drivers here. But what can you do? The Batmobile doesn’t make pit stops in Africa, and we can’t all come and go by bubble.

For right now folks, of all the crazy and bizarre ways to travel, I guess I’m in a chapa.