Travel in Mozambique can prove a trying affair, and certainly not for the faint-hearted. Minivans are no different. They are compact and squashed and tight and enervating. Privacy and personal space become alien concepts.
There’s a unique type of order, perhaps inevitable in such cramped conditions. Minivans designed for 15 passengers – at a squeeze – often carry 20 or more. A passenger will soon employ bodily manipulations worthy of a contortionist to reach their seat. Many acquire the skill of lithe dexterity.
Everyone knows their place. A pattern soon emerges. Getting in and out alike follow a slick, divined form. Everyone instinctively knows the attendant order. Any deviation, and discomfort and disorder soon prevail. It’s often a physical impossibility to alight before or after those around you.
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Imagine living in a petri dish and watching as life unfurls. Then try and picture the microcosmic get-up as a rudimentary society that applies only to that time and place. This grouping then grows and takes the form of a highly localised human settlement. An unseen space where the passengers exist on the same level. They acquire a singular thought pattern and inhabit the same mind. They have a hive collective. And they think and ebb and flow with the same objective. The minivans’ drivers, naturally, take on a celestial role. This character takes control of the passengers’ destinies. They choose where people get on, and where they get off.
Time and Space
The traveller encounters such a ritual. They seek Lichinga in the mountainous hills of Mozambique. All around are blotches of brown and beige. This sandy country desperately needs rainfall. Floating columns of sand rise and fall on the currents like mini hurricanes.
The van lies at a halt. It has done so for the last 10 minutes, the result of procedural police checks. Passengers pass their passports and identity cards through the window for inspection. These documents return, somehow, in the right order. The traveller may attempt to blend in. But here, in an obscure corner of Mozambique, they stand out. Rumours of incorrigible and corrupt police officials cast an uneasy gloom over the confines of the minivan. Passengers’ heads remain low. Their eyes watch the floor.
The policeman barks. Where is the traveller going? ‘Cobooay’, they respond. A slight sea change in the air. The other passengers, of a single voice, correct the mispronunciation: ‘Cobway’. It seems a wrong word can bring a bodily response from the authorities.
A slight intake of breath and then release. The officers, satisfied, step away. The van has started and trundles away from the checkpoint, its malodorous intent still heavy in the air. The traveller maintains no illusions. Say the wrong thing in Mozambique, and you may live to regret it.
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