The Hitchhiker's Guide to Mozambique

At the end of Thelma and Louise, I was left with some serious lingering questions…

Are convertibles really that aerodynamic? So, exactly which one was Thelma and which one was Louise…I can‘t keep track! Where have all the Polaroid cameras gone? Are hitchhikers ultimately good or bad?

This last question I have been marinating on for quite some time. Sure, the hitchhiker in Thelma and Louise stole all their money causing them to commit armed robbery and eventually leading them to drive off a cliff in a show of female solidarity. But, come on, the hitchhiker was a young, sprightly Brad Pitt in a cowboy hat.

I’m torn.

Hitchhiking generally seems to be associated with bums, Jack Kerouac, hippies high on peyote, heartbroken wayfaring country singers, or serial killers. But in Mozambique, hitchhiking (or “boleia-ing”) is in fact the premier mode of transportation for many Peace Corps volunteers. For those of you who have regaled yourselves with my chapa blog, you are well aware of the horrors of public transportation. Hitchhiking, for all its bad connotations (I still think the Jack Kerouac one is the worse), has proven to be a safer, more reliable way to travel in Mozambique.

Now, you’re probably thinking that perhaps I contracted cerebral malaria that caused my brain to atrophy because one would have to be insane to stand on the side of the road in the middle of a tropically hot, recently war-torn, poverty stricken, HIV riddled country and ask for a free ride, right?

“Small town Nebraska gal hitchhiking it up in Mozambique“--sounds like the start of a bad torture porn movie cast exclusively with the stars of various CW television shows, I know, I know. But getting in a private car usually means seat belts, and a human capacity level, and functioning brakes and no car parts being held together with straw. So yes, while there are dangers in waiting by the side of the road for some random person to swing by and pick you up, the careening, accident-prone, badly maintained chapas have a far worse track record.

Now that I have sufficiently justified the whole hitchhiking culture here in Mozambique (please don’t worry Mom and Dad) I might as well get down to the nitty-gritty…how does one go about hitchhiking in Mozambique? What is the process? Well, folks, I must admit that I am a rookie boleia-er so I can only speak from comparatively limited experience. I have colleagues who have hitchhiked all over the country and only ever travel by boleia-ing. But because Angoche is a little bit off the beaten path, boleia-ing is quite a bit more difficult.

Recently, however, a friend and I took to the road (6 days on the road to be exact) to travel down south for a little Peace Corps shindig. It was on this trip where I gained some serious hitchhiking experience and a solid education in the art of boleia-ing.

One of the biggest lessons I learned was the motivation cars have for pulling over to pick you up. Understanding this is essential to getting a good boleia. I learned early on that most people who pick you up just want company on a long trip. Therefore, cars with only one person are prime boleia-ing candidates. The less people in the car, the likelier they are out of sheer boredom to pick you up.

Sometimes folks will pick you up because they are simply curious what this random white girl is doing on the side of the road. Sometimes they ask for money. Some people just want to practice their English. Sometimes they are Creepy McCreepsters and will try to put the moves on you (but this is rare in my case). But generally, cars are just trying to beat the loneliness of the road with a little company on their journey.

Once you have hailed down the car, agreed on a destination, and hopped on in, what next? There are no drive-thrus, books-on-tape, or trying to find all the states’ license plates, so usually we just chat. Most people who have given me rides love to know what the heck I’m doing in Mozambique, where I came from, what I think of the situation in Libya, where I learned to speak Portuguese, why I don’t have children, if I’ve ever been to California or Chicago (unanimously the two places Mozambicans know), and if there are black people in America. It was actually in a boleia where the driver gave me the news about Bin Laden. The people and levels of conversation are as different as Mozambique itself, and I have met some fascinating characters.

One man who gave 2 friends and I a boleia was a white man of Portuguese descent, born and raised in Mozambique who fought against the Portuguese in the war for independence. Eccentric and desperate for anyone to listen, he unleashed a torrent of disillusionments about the current Mozambican government, corruption, how everything he thought he had fought for went to hell and about being a white Mozambican. His wife, who had apparently heard this catharting before, quietly ate her bananas in blissful indifference.

Again, either loneliness, blatant curiosity, or lack of a listening ear seems to drive the whole system of boleia-ing.

There are cases where people will offer you a ride thinking you’re Rambo’s daughter or that you are a lost, rich vacationing South African, or they’re hoping you know someone who can get them a scholarship to study in America. I have encountered all these cases and as disappointed as they all are that I am just a lowly volunteer and not a personal friend of Brandy or Bryan Adams, they tend to forgive all this in light of my engaging company.

The only time I have ever felt worried or threatened in a boleia was when my friend and I, a little while into the ride, discovered that everyone in the car including the driver was diluting their Orange Fanta with whiskey. The best way to get out of these situations is just to say you have a change of destination (or you were confused where you were--geographical ignorance works well) and say you need to get out immediately. DUIs, Open Containers, and speeding tickets are nonexistent in Mozambique so drunk drivers and Speedy Gonzalezes are a reality. If the manner in which your boleia is driving is unsettling, the best deflection is just to make up an excuse and get out.

So now that you know the whole motivation behind boleia-ing (hopefully it doesn’t sound too reckless), it’s important to understand the actual mechanics. In America, mostly everyone is aware of the iconic, rather phallic hitchhiker thumbs up. In Mozambique, the universal “I’m-so-pathetic-but-I-don’t-smell-that-bad-so-please-give-me-a-ride” signal involves lifting your arm to a lateral position, whilst flapping your flaccid hand about like a small bass just fished out of the lake and dropped unceremoniously onto the deck.

The key though, like any recreational table tennis player will tell you, is that it’s all in the wrist.

It is also important to scout a good location on the side of the road, a little bit away from the crowds with enough space for cars to pull over. (It sounds like I am describing the strategy for some other tawdry transaction, but I’m not.) After you have picked a good spot to boleia, the rest is in the hand motion.

Ultimately, boleia-ing is a true test of patience. On our previously mentioned trip south, my friend and I spent nearly 16 hours total waiting on the side of the road for cars to give us a ride. Waiting for a car to stop and pick you up is the roughest part because it involves mostly waiting and mostly not knowing. While waiting, you have to fight against the emotional issues of rejection--(Why don’t these cars like me!), the physical elements of the road--(OMG it’s 113 degrees out here), as well as the always distinct possibility that no car is going where you want to go (I’m going to be stranded on the side of the road and a lion is going to eat me!). When boleia-ing, you tend to lose all sense of shame and rationality.

Yep, Mozambique has turned me into a connoisseur at doing nothing but waiting. Luckily, I have done most of my boleia-ing with friends, which means we have discovered all sorts of ways to entertain ourselves during dry spells with no cars. Such road-side entertainment has included synchronized dances with our umbrellas, playing “Date, Dump, or Marry” with Glee and True Blood characters, trying to invent new yoga poses, or composing Portuglish haikus. Still, there is only so much you can do, and on those extra slow boleia-ing days much of the time is spent just waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Yep, four years of college and a year and a half in Africa, and I am a hitchhiking vagabond and a professional waiter. Eat your heart out Brad Pitt.