I knew I should've taken that left turn at Alberquerque..

Instead, I'm back in Dodoma after a month on the road. I think I'm happy about this, although the drama circulating around my return is enough to make anyone have second thoughts. I'll go into this later, but first a couple of the highlights (with a few character builders thrown in for good measure) from my time in Malawi/Mozambique/Zanzibar.

Christmas! Christmas was spent in a tiny backpackers lodge (Zombie Cucumber) in Vilankulos, a town on Mozambique's coast, with a motley assortment of various wanderers. We could have been an advertisement for world peace and harmony, as despite the huge range of nationalities represented, (England, Germany, Norway, Canada, Italy, Australia, and of course me from the U. S. of frickin' A) we were all on our best behavior. All of us, that is, except for John (otherwise known as "Bad Santa.") A relic from the Great White Hunter days, complete with khaki shirt, hat and pipe, John has a remarkable talent for saying exactly what is on his mind with as little tact as possible. In short, he's awesome. He'd tell expansive tales of his African exploits over bottles of brandy, growing more and more florid as the hours progressed until even his crisp English accent had degenerated into a mumble of syllables. You'd expect him to be hung over for days, but sure enough, come 8 a.m. the next day he'd be lounging in a wicker chair next to the bar, smoking his pipe, absentmindedly rubbing his belly (which was remarkably like a bowl full of jelly) while reflecting that he probably should have taken it easy the night before. He'd be offensive if he wasn't so gosh darn likable- who else could get away with calling me a "good old common girl!" and live to tell about it? Come Christmas (after an amazing dinner from the woman running Zombie- naan and chutney, dal, garlic shrimp, crab legs, bananoffie custard and chocolate cake -who needs this fruitcake stuff right?) he played Santa making all of the girls (and some of the boys) sit on his lap while he handed out the secret santa presents and vaguely obscene advice. My presents were a pair of wooden braclets (beautiful and not at all attractive to thieves) and a cap gun so's I could "bust a cap" on any other would-be muggers. But I haven't told you about my mugging yet have I? (This one falls under the category of "experiences sure to put hair on your chest" or alternatively "proof that college degrees don't mean you're smart".) What can I say? I had just finished traveling the length of Tanzania and Malawi on my own using only the cheapest public transportation, had made numerous local contacts along the way despite not knowing the languages, had hitchiked across the malawi/mozambique border and had braved hotel rooms/bathroom more reminiscent of horror movie sets than places people pay real money to stay in. Yep, by that point I thought I was a bad-ass, having made it over 3000 miles without creature comforts, showers, or regular bathroom breaks (after going 32 hours without a bathroom and living to tell about it you feel pretty frickin' invincible.) So of course this is the point where my decision making skills go on hiatus and, well, I'll just tell you what happened. I arrived in Beira (Waterloo) in late afternoon, just in time to find a room, an internet cafe, and a ticket south to Vilankulos where at long last I'd be meeting up with Jason et al. Because time's an issue, I forego walking it and instead enlist the aid of a cab driver to find the "Hotel Morocco," which was recommended, I might add, in my Lonely Planet guide to Southern Africa. He gives me a puzzled look when I ask about it (a bad sign- cab drivers know nothing if not the hotels of the area) and stops to ask a policeman where it's at. After a long discussion full of gestures and head-shaking, he comes back to the cab and explains (in very broken English) that the hotel does indeed exist, and he knows where it's located, but that I was strongly advised not to stay there. This is the part where a normal person would take the local advice, but as I'm not a normal person, (I'm a badass remember?) I shrug off his concerns and insist that we take off for the "Hotel Morocco." I could tell almost immediately that something was off...maybe it was the fact that the management looked surprised if not downright baffled when I asked if they had any rooms available. Maybe it was the sign above the door stating that "No minors under the age of 18 are allowed inside." Maybe it was the fact that the hotel's decorations consisted almost exclusively of condom posters or the fact that when I was shown to my room the manager asked me "how many men would be staying with me." Yep, I'd just checked into a brothel. Being a bit slow on the uptake, I realized this on my walk across town to an internet cafe, but decided to stay anyway as, well, at least it was cheap and I'd have to leave super-early in the morning to catch a bus anyway (the long-distance buses in Moz. leave between 4 and 4:30 am.) The next two hours went great; I checked internet, found that Jason et al were already in Vilankulos, met a friendly worker at the internet cafe who agreed to walk me over to the bus station (bus station= a big grassy field filled with junk yard rejects) to get a ticket for Vilankulos. We managed to get one of the last tickets available to Vilankulos and I was in great spirits walking him back to work. My mistake was refusing his offer of an escort and instead walking him back the whole way; by the time we got back to the internet cafe it was dark and while I'm pretty good with directions, I'd been in the city at this point for about 2 hours so, in retrospect, I suppose it was inevitable that I'd get turned around. It was also probably inevitable that I'd get mugged at knifepoint, seeing as I was alone, female, white and obviously lost, walking through seedy alleyways after dark. At least I did a few things right; save for the large wad of money in my pocket, I'd left everything else of value (passport, ipod, phone, etc.) in my room and I was wearing jeans and trainers- far better for running than my typical long skirts and sandles. It was almost a classic scene, cliche really- a dark alley, man walking from the other direction on my right, (me, aware of him but thinking about other things..."what should I have for dinner...bread or crackers?") and then a sudden hand on my arm. I started to struggle and opened my mouth to scream when I saw the knief...and believe me, nothing focuses your thoughts like 8 inches of steel glistening blue-gray in the street lights. My common sense miraculously reappeared at this point, so I did what the self defense guides recommend- I whipped the money out of my pocket, threw it as far as I could (although I'm sure they don't recommend throwing ALL of your money the way I did...a couple of dollars would've done the trick) and than ran like hell. He didn't follow and, well, I don't think he could have caught me anyway seeing as at this point I had figured out where I was and I sprinted the way only panic does straight to my room. Back in the friendly confines of the neighborhood brothel, I worked on holding it together, and kept reminding myself that I had a ticket out of town tomorrow, I made it out okay, etc. etc. I didn't sleep at all that night...just read, swatted mosquitos, ignored the sounds from the neighbors, and sweated continously (it had to be 40 C in that room- oh and there was no water and no working bathrooms and the whole place had this terrifically pungent smell- like years worth of sex and sweat and cigarette smoke and dust all congealed together, coating the whole place in one sticky layer. It was one of those places where you try not to touch anything- especially the blood spatters on the wall.) The hours passed so so so slowly... I counted down the time like a little kid waiting for santa (only 4 more hours until my bus! only 3 and 1/2! Only 2!) Come the final hour, I used the last of my precious bottled water and a hankerchief to wash up, (incidently Tom Ginay- this is the hankerchief you gave me along with plato's republic at my college graduation...just thought you should know it's going to good use) before stepping out into the pitch black hallway at 3:30 am to catch the taxi I'd had the foresight to hire. I felt my way down 2 flights of stairs (seriously, I don't get scared easy, but I was shaking walking down those stairs...you couldn't see a hand in front of your face and given recent events...) only to discover that the second door is deadbolted and my key won't open it. Yep, I'm locked in this Hotel California. I go back up to my room and am so desperate to leave that I briefly consider climbing down the drain pipe...I wisely just settled for hanging out my window looking pathetic, pleading with the watchman across the street (who doubtless thought I was crazy) to help me get out. Come 5 a.m. a cleaning man unlocks the door, (I'm free!) I grab the first taxi I see and get there to find out that I've missed my bus by a mere 10 minutes. The next one to Vilankulos is at 4:30 tomorrow morning and until then I'm stuck in this hellhole known as Beira. Yep...that was a low point. So low in fact that I decided to spend the night in the bus that evening, just to make sure I wouldn't miss it. There's more to tell (mostly uplifting- I promise!) but I'm out of time so they'll have to wait a day or two...until then (love) katie