What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

So, in a burst of manic energy, a triumphant puff of exhaust fumes and only eight months later than planned, the Croeser family, honorary member Kevin and Ozzy the dog, began their long-awaited-much-anticipated journey to Mozambique. It was a blur of stressful organizing, tearful goodbyes and Covid test swabs stuck up our noses but eventually we were ready to get out on the open road – music blaring (but only just discernible) over the roar of the ancient Land Rover.

Unfortunately, not everything went exactly to plan, and we literally ended up having to "leave a man behind" - my mom! Because of border/covid restrictions and her British passport, she could not come with us and so would have to meet us at Casa Msika (our new home) at a later stage. For the second time in 2020, I was separated from one of my parents. That being said, I think it was possibly a blessing in disguise as mom may have had a heart attack (or five) on a few stretches of Mozambican roads. Somehow - over the four days of travel - on the potholed roads, whilst swerving around stark raving mad truck drivers and amidst heavily armed soldiers at the military stops every five kilometers - we managed to keep our cool. We also tried not to seem too ecstatic (for my mom’s sake) about the glorious swims we took in the crystal-clear-blissful-bath-water-warm seas as we traversed the coastline, or our amazing accommodation and unbelievably good luck along the way.

The first thing that I noticed after crossing the Mozambique border, was the friendliness of the people. The smiles, waves, greetings and blown kisses (obviously aimed at either me or Ozzy – more than likely Ozzy if I’m being honest) followed us through the South and I am happy to say, continued North until we reached our destination of "Casa Msika" about a forty minute drive from Chimoio. Casa Msika wasn’t how I’d imagined it at all. It was bigger, a green treed stretch of land on the bank of Lake Chicamba, with a more exaggerated sense of wide open space than I could ever have predicted. A return to nature was what I had wanted, and between the gargantuan crocodiles, the majestic giraffe, herds of zebra and the sheer amount of insect life, it was most certainly what I got.

As I settled down to sleep that first night, I recalled with excitement how my parents had described the almost eerie silence to me – the complete lack of electronic noise, industry, cars and people – it was something I had longed for in Cape Town and Stellenbosch where the noise of the world had often left me tossing and turning. You can imagine my surprise when as I drifted off, I realized that they were wrong, and it wasn’t silent at all! There was the slap of the giant moth’s wings near the light outside, the distant trill of Nightjars and the occasional hoot of the owls around us. There was the holiday themed ringing of crickets and Christmas beetles, along with the hum of a thousand other insects - all singing backing vocals - to the chorus of frogs whose songs grew and grew in crescendo. Add in the stomping of Zebra’s hooves on your front lawn at 3 am and then the dawn awaking what seemed like the rest of the planets bird life and you have the soundtrack of Africa folks!

Surprisingly, even though the area is a red zone for Malaria, it was days before I heard my first mosquito and more than a week until I received my first bite! That may have something to do with the embarrassing amount of repellent we all applied (in terror) every morning and night as well as the sanctioned yearly governmental spraying of DDT. Despite all that and the anti-malaria tablets we were drinking daily, in the second week of being here, in this beautiful and exotic place, Kevin’s luck ran out and he began to feel ill. At first, he was certain it was food poisoning - I wasn’t as convinced and placed my vote on heatstroke - and so with differing opinions circulating around his condition, he spent some undignified time in the bathroom and then lay down to rest.

I was doubtful when a local man told us to watch out for symptoms of malaria – I mean, we had taken all the precautions and barely been in the country two weeks (which means due to the normal incubation period, he would have to have been bitten on the first day!) – and scoffed when he predicted that Kev would be projectile vomiting in the next two hours. At least I was doubtful, until two hours later almost to the minute, I was rubbing Kev’s back as he spewed out torrents of yellow liquid. On hearing about the alarming colour of his bile (a telltale sign of liver distress – and a classic malaria symptom) we were advised to give him the first dosage of the treatment, not even four hours after he started feeling sick. The rest of the night was a hard one.

Between nausea, fever, immense back pain and mild hallucinations – Kevie was straight up not having a good time. I did my best to comfort him, keep him hydrated, bring him back to reality when necessary and bring his fever down with what he likes to call “a good old clothing”. As he lay there burning up, I wrapped ice in my softest scarf and tried to sooth his hot body – head, arms, hands, feet, back and all over again until he had melted all the ice in our room and finally fallen asleep. I was then suddenly struck with an intense sense of déjà vu and was taken back to two years ago, to my tiny room at university, where Kevin had asked to spend the night after coming down with a terrible fever.

He was being pulled in and out of consciousness, mumbling and moaning, tossing and turning in my singe bed as I made him chicken and vegetable broth. Later, with a wet cloth and much complaining from him, I brought his fever down until he was cool enough to sleep and then lay there, barely on the bed, making sure the fever didn’t spike again and careful not to disturb him. That memory still fresh in my mind, I asked myself, what had really changed from then till now? From Stellenbosch in South Africa, to Manica in Mozambique. From submitting academic essays to feeding crocodiles in the bush. Some things were completely different, like the colour of my hair and the depth of my feelings for the sick puppy lying next to me, but in that moment I was both versions of myself all at once and I could appreciate where I had come from as well as how far I’d come.

There is no telling what this adventure has in store for us, but I think maybe that is the best thing about it. There is room here for so much – space to make mistakes, space to build, space to scream and breathe and love. If nothing else, in this environment where having a decent mosquito net is much more important than having decent net worth and a good fishing net trumps network reception, there is space to change and time to reflect on what really matters. Have you ever heard the term “African time” used? It often comes along with a complaint about business not being done quickly enough in Africa. Well, I actually think it’s a compliment of sorts. When you’re truly on African time, and you have adjusted your institutionalized body clock settings and recovered from the mental jet lag, you realize that your days can be so much fuller than before. When you stop equating a nine to five job with stability and faster with better, you realize that progress can be measured in a myriad of different ways.

For me, this adventure’s success will be measured strictly on the scale of quality time spent with my loved ones (don't worry mom, we'll be seeing you soon!), and the amount of new experiences had, held and savored. And with that criteria in mind, I really don’t see what could go possibly go wrong.