sea and sky

I went to bed last Friday suspecting I might have an adventure the next day, if Lady Luck stayed on my side, that is.

But then I woke in the morning and drowsily sniffed around, inside, to see if Endangerment! and Pluck! were in the forecast. They weren't. So I fell back asleep, the neighbors didn't start broadcasting Beyonce as usual, and I reawoke, gloriously, at 8:30 AM.

Early morning minutes, stretched out semiconscious in bed, are among my happiest. There's an astounding clarity in my being, a kind of pre-vertical enlightenment when I understand the secrets of my soul, and comfortably bob along on a Jell-o pudding sea of peace. My best, (which is to say, least-selfish) prayers leak out at this time, trailing little bubbles behind them. I peruse the happenings of my life like an amiable factory inspector, and snatch up important fragments for a closer look. I smile kindly even at the deformed bits. Life is so easy! It's all so clear and hopeful! I know what to do!

So late Saturday morning I eventually scooted off my Zen inner-tube, opened my eyes, and got out of bed. I shuffled around the house in my pajamas. Noises were wafting in off the street. Perched on my ripped pleather couch eating yogurt, I could clearly distinguish that these were the sounds of neighborhood kids Having An Adventure. An adventure which is the Stuff that Life is Made Of. Like the one I'd forsaken in my weak bourgeoisie moment a few hours earlier.

I felt ashamed.

I also felt inspired. I decided to see if I could do what Trip and I had wanted to do a few months earlier, when he'd been visiting, which was to bike to Savane, a sort of island-beach paradise that rich people go to (this is very relative, it's very rustic). At Savane, there is ocean, seafood, coconuts, tiki lights, and grass-roofed barracas where you can sleep on the floor. Marina was there for the weekend and had been begging me to join her.

I know that compared to a blind man climbing Mount Everest (which happened recently), biking in the African countryside is a pretty puny adventure. Millions of Africans do this everyday. But it was mine, so don't knock it.

Savane is 34 kilometers outside of Beira, more if you depart from my house. It takes between 60-90 minutes to get there by car. I had no car and, like a French man - pah! - scorned the thought of one. What I did have was a $40 red bicycle with a basket and a bell, seemingly assembled by a child during an earthquake (things were always jiggling off). It was a one-speed, and the Indian manufacterer named it "Mona Lisa". (It's eyes seemed to follow me.)

I did the math. It would be 21 miles, one way, through the lonely African landscape, just me and Mona. 

Now is the perfect moment in this drawn-out tale to dramatically intone: "Will she make it? Hear the rest next week! Same bat-time! Same bat-station!" Because I'm getting tired of typing and my stomach is growling.

Well - I did make it. It took me about 4 1/2 hours on a dirt road, under the relentless sun, including two false turns that added a hour to the journey. The scenery was spectacular, a bird-watcher's paradise. Cranes, pelicans, other things with wings, everywhere. Rainbow-colored grass. Enormous bullfrogs. Sometimes I dinged and dinged my bell just for the sheer pleasure of hearing the sound in the expanse and being alive and biking in Africa.

Once, a lorry hauling 25 people (stuffed in the truck bed like a suitcase you have to bounce on to zip shut, vomiting out its contents once you reach your destination); a sweating Mozambican man riding an even more rickety bicycle than Mona, with 200 lbs of coal strapped on back; and myself all converged on a narrow, raised culvert at the same moment. It was horrible, classic physical comedy that, fortunately, did not kill anyone. 

SEE the giant truck barreling down the sandy road, growling like an angry bear!

SEE the noble laborer, trying to feed his family, peddle slowly over the concrete bridge!

SEE the hapless white girl wobbling dangerously right between them both!!!

I slammed on my breaks and squealed. The man with the coal careened off the side of the road and crashed in the grassy marsh. The truck ignored us both and hurtled past, dust exploding, and all 25 passengers pointing and chortling hysterically.

Quiet descended. I rushed to the coalman, apologizing profusely, though, really, it was just one of those things. He was visibly shaking. I helped him pull his bike back up to the road. The impact had torn open some of the sores that covered his legs, and blood was trickling down onto his bare feet. He started to mount the bicycle again, but I said to him in Portuguese: Oh no, you must clean your leg! Agreeing, he started for a puddle in the marsh. I could imagine a Swamp Thing taking root in his body, so I called out: No! Use clean water! and handed him mine.

That was at about mile 10.

There were smaller adventures too, including, on the next day's ride home, a full-fledged motorcycle crash (but I played no part in that, except by again supplying clean water).

It felt good to realize the feat could be done. Even better to dive in the Indian Ocean once it had been done.