For 15 years Mozambique was embroiled in a bloody civil war. Foreign sponsored guerillas waged a campaign of destruction on the country's infrastructure and people attempting to destabilize the radically socialist government. The peace agreement was only signed in 1992 and the ravages of the war are still quite evident.

Like a lot of Mozambique, Tete has a ghost town feel. Big colonial buildings with beautiful lines, but everything dirty and run down. The hotel where I stayed was obviously once a grand place to be. But now, there are only few patches of paint left on the walls, the doors all show evidence of being jimmied and the bathroom is a museum. Still present was the clawfoot tub, but the only functioning fixture was a bare pipe delivering cold water into a bucket.

Heightening my sense of isolation in Tete, nobody spoke a word of English. It took me a long time to find the bus station and even longer for them to convince me in sign language that the only bus going to Beira was leaving at 2 a.m. In the restaurant for dinner the menu was entirely in Portuguese, Mozambique's official language, and I was completely in "guess and point" mode. I fortuitously ended up with a nicely grilled chicken.

Midway down the coast, Beira is Mozambique's second largest city after the Southern capital, Maputo. My guidebook listed the sidewalk cafes of Beira's central square as one of the highlights of the country. I found only a squalid little coffee shop alongside gutters running with human excrement. They did make a decent cappuccino though, the best I've had in Africa.

Arriving at 2 p.m. Saturday, I went through my usual "new city" routine: find a place to stay, then figure out the money, phones, and fun. In Mozambique money would turn out to be a huge problem. Most places only accept Mozambiquan meticais (pronounced "meta-cash"), credit cards are unheard of, travelers checks are frowned upon and all of this might have even mattered if anything was open on a Saturday. As it was, I was a prisoner to my dump of a hotel until I could find a way to change enough money pay the bill. Since I usually rely on plastic and don't carry a lot of American cash, running out of money would haunt my whole visit to Mozambique.

It's a pleasant enough beach and the huge wrecks that line the shore are oddly decorative. They certainly maintain the decay motif. Another sad theme are the cripples and amputees, victims of the millions of land mines still strewn throughout the country. With missing limbs, withered limbs, bent and twisted limbs they work the streets on makeshift crutches begging everywhere. Many of them are in terrible shape and they cracked my usual resolve against beggars.
Land mines are a bad thing.

Late in the day I discovered Biques, a nice South African run resort on the beach that changed a traveler's check for me. Yeah, cash! I spent the rest of the day researching the bus situation in pantomime and Portuguese. I got three different answers so just chose the one the best suited my schedule.

The 10 a.m. bus I was promised didn't exist. Instead, I was to make due with a 3 p.m. departure giving me another afternoon to kill in Beira. I passed my time watching the locals partake in the national pastime of shitting and pissing in public. Modesty is not a big thing in Mozambique.

The bus turned out to be a completely non-African experience. All the livestock had to ride on the roof, the aisles had to be kept clear, excess baggage had to be paid for and -- believe it or not -- the seats were assigned. The conductor spent vast amounts of his time chasing people around the bus trying to explain and enforce assigned seating. very un-African.

At midnight, the bus dropped me at the turnoff 20k from Vilankulo. Yikes!

No sign of the transfer lift I'd been promised would be "no problem," and no sign of any traffic to hitch on. I started to scope out the possible sleeping arrangements. The junction area is seedy little market. Thatched huts that might be shops, bars or restaurants, but of course, only the bars were open at midnight. These markets are ubiquitous in Africa and range from ok to really scary. I didn't relish the thought of sussing this one out in the dark, but of course, wandering off into the bush isn't safe either with the land mines.

I was a few minutes from throwing my sleeping bag down on the median when a local guy asked me in English if I needed a ride. "Oh yeah..." These guys were heroes.

I should have known something was wrong when they didn't recognize the name of the place I'd picked out of the guide to stay. "No worries," I thought though, "I have some vague directions." For the equivalent of less than a US dollar they drove me not only the 20k into town, but also another few kilometers up the coast on a treacherous sand road. I thought for sure we were going to get stuck, but those guys could drive!

Now it was getting close to 1 a.m. and I made the discovery that the backpacker joint I was expecting had transformed itself into a five star resort. I don't have the heart to tell my ride we were in the wrong place. I hop out and decide to go upscale.

After a swim in the Indian Ocean I wandered up the hill to my luxury chalet and watched the sun set. I sat there with my feet up on the deck railing and thought, "You know, this is pretty ok. I should write about it."

I booted the laptop but as I hit the first key, the screen went dark. I listened as the fan wound down, the dyeing breath from a CPU cooling into rigor mortis. I worked on it for hours, with no luck. I couldn't get the slightest sign of life out it. Plugged into the wall and trying with each of my three of my batteries I couldn't even get the "charging" LED to blink never mind anything more promising. Ratz!

Finally I succumbed to my Y-chromosome and took it apart with my Swiss Army knife. No sign of any obvious problems inside although there were a bunch of loose screws. Double Ratz! Now I'm really really alone in Mozambique!

I'd come to Vilankulo to dive the Bazaruto Archipelago, but the weather started to go bad and the money issues were weighing me. That the only bank in town wanted US$15 to cash a traveler's check was the final straw. I made plans to leave.

I ended up not thinking much of Mozambique, but what many people tell me is that it gets nicer the further south you go. Vilankulo was far nicer than Beira, so maybe I believe this theory.

The guy in Zimbabwe customs had a friend who'd take me into Mutare for only US$10. Outside, the first cab I asked offered $US 1. I made it into town just in time to buy a ticket for the overnight train to Harare, capital of Zimbabwe and a big, modern city.

Leave Mutare at 9 p.m.

First order of business, find the Tanzanian high commission and get my visa processing started. Second order of business, get someone to look at my computer. It took me till 4 p.m. to find someone who felt confident enough to even look at it. Of course, as I pulled it out to show him the problem, it booted just fine. Sigh.

Of course, when I brought the laptop to a phone to download my messages it again wouldn't boot. Sigh. I head for an internet cafe and send a pleading message, to Sony customer support:

Back to the internet cafe, no sign of any help from Sony. I send them another pleading message and confess the sin of taking my laptop apart.

This is really a drag because it contains not only my plane tickets, back-up credit cards and diving card but also my brand new cache of American dollars. I called the hotel and they had found it! (I'd put it someplace "safe" and then forgot about it). If you are ever in Harare, the Elizabeth Hotel (753-437) might be a bit noisy, but the people are fabulous.

Now, how to get it to me? Going back isn't a great option because it will cost me a fortune in visas as well as lost days.

A solution to the wallet issue. DHL will fetch it from the hotel for me and then ship it to the DHL office in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

Great! I'm back on schedule, so I buy my tickets for tomorrows 36 hour train journey to Tanzania.

Still no word from Sony, but the laptop again decided to boot. I'm going to save this update off to disk and try to upload it. at the I-Cafe.

Where's my apple pie? On the excuse of getting some new pages stapled into my passport, but really just to check it out, I visited the American Embassy in Lusaka. I somehow expected to flash my passport and be served a bit of apple pie. Instead I was subjected to my first real search in Africa, and this by Zambian soldiers, no US Marines in sight. They confiscated my pocketknife and escorted me into an office with the thickest bulletproof glass I've seen since eating in a Harlem Kentucky Fried Chicken. Using a phone out of a bad prison movie I communicated my simple request and sat down to read some tax literature while I waited. Far from being the little Yankee oasis I'd expected the embassy turned out to be a veritable fortress catering mostly to foreign nationals in search of visas. As cars enter, their hoods are raised to check for explosives (I presume). Then, a little mirror on wheels is used to similarly inspect the undercarriage. As a direct result of the bombings of the Tanzanian and Kenyan embassies the whole compound is now surrounded by a fence of thick concrete and steel barriers. An formidable sight, but not the warm reassurance I was looking for. As she delivered me my thickened passport the attendant called for a guard to escort me back to the gate. On the way I did something they obviously don't get very often, "Umm, excuse me, is there a toilet here?" The Zambian guard gave his best effort at blushing, but clearly didn't know what to do. After confirming that I was indeed an American he walked me over to the "real" embassy. Ahh, this was what I'd expected-- plush carpets, wood paneling and honest to goodness American Marines complete with southern accents and crew cuts. "Umm, hello? I've got to take a leak." Of course, they didn't seem very excited to see me, but then what marine ever has? I was run through another battery of scanners and to my embarrassment this one turned up my Chinese manufactured knockoff of a Leatherman Tool. Ooops. Then, with his hand on his pistol, marine #2 came out from behind even more bulletproof glass and escorted me to the bathroom. He stood in the next stall while I did my business and tried to chat him up about the bombings and what it was like to be a redneck stationed in Zambia. That didn't go so well and shortly I was relieved in more than just the obvious way to be back on the streets of Lusaka.

I enjoyed Zambia, but in addition to being one of the poorest countries in Africa, it's just a bit odd. I had one cabbie who was all flustered about making sure I was in compliance with the seat belt law while the door was tied shut with a shoelace and the road looked like a minefield. That's Zambia.

Another of my favorite Zambian things are the billboards that, to me at least, fall a hair short of making complete sense:

I didn't hold my breath.

Built in the 1960s by the Chinese to connect Zambia's copper belt with the sea, the TAZARA line was once the pride of East Africa. These days it's a bit run down, but full of history and the scent of its former glamour still lingers.

Our journey was halted for 45 minutes around 1 a.m. when the train hit a hippo.

Toto, I don't think we're in New York anymore.

I checked into a place with some folks I'd met on the train and went in search of DHL to inquire about my wallet. Of course, they had no idea what I was talking about and had no record of any package being sent under my name. The best they could do was to send an e-mail inquire off to the folks in Harare. Fabulous...

Good news: DHL heard from the folks in Harare.
Bad news: They haven't done anything because don't accept COD shipments.
(why they didn't mention this while I was still in Lusaka is beyond me)
Good news: We can try a credit card.

This is all actually a bit worrying. You can't get cash from a credit card in Tanzania. My plan had been to use personal checks and my American Express card to purchase traveler's checks. But of course, both my checkbooks are in the wallet mired in DHL bureaucracy and still setting at a hotel desk in Harare. I'm limited to the amount of cash I have on hand, about US$200, until my wallet shows up. Scary given the amount of progress shown so far.

Good news: I heard from Sony about my laptop.
Bad news: It may be singularly most unhelpful piece of e-mail I have ever received.

The only place in the world my laptop can be serviced is Fremont, CA. If I send it to them though, I need to back it up first, because export restrictions require them to format the disk before sending it outside the states. Just how am I supposed to back up a 6 gigabyte drive on floppies? In addition, I have to pay for all the insurance and shipping and then want untold amounts of paper work all of which is probably buried in a Boulder, CO storage locker. Fabulous.

On the brighter side of things, despite all the admonitions I'd received to the contrary, Dar is a really fun town. It's a confluence of African, Arabic, and East Indian cultures and the mix is really working for me. I have never before been in a place where knowing three words of the local language (Swahili) buys you such incredible amounts of good will. If you can do the greetings it's as if you've made a friend for life.

Instead of getting upset, I took the ferry to Zanzibar.

Part of my plans for Zanzibar were to catch up on my writing, but of course my laptop decided not to boot again. It seems to change state from working to not working when I carry it about, so trying to think positive thoughts, I took my laptop for a walk.

I found a place where I can get cash off my Visa card, I wont starve!

I changed from the dump of a place I was staying to a pleasant guest house with flush toilets, hot water, and a good breakfast all for the same price as the dump, 8,000 shillings (US$10).

I found a great bookstore with an amazing selection of English novels.

I finally figured out how to jiggle my laptop for it to come to life, I no longer have to take it on indeterminate walks.

I discovered the best Indian restaurant in town.

My only failure, DHL discovered there is money in my wallet and shipping cash internationally is a big no no.

The highlight of the day was lunch. As we munched samosas, chili fried potatoes and other Zanzibari snacks a group of dolphins frolicked only 20 or so meters from the boat. We watched for close to an hour as they would explode out of the water launching their entire bodies into the air then do a half twist before crashing on their backs into the water. It was an impressive display with no obvious purpose besides maybe good clean dolphin fun?

I took a "spice tour," an organized visit to several of Zanzibar's plantations. The tour ended in warm, gentle rain on a gorgeous white sand beach. I went for a swim with a lawyer from London I met on the tour. This was her first trip after recovering from a coma and other serious injuries sustained in a rollerblading accident. We compared head injury stories as we drifted on the crystal-clear jade-green waters, the rain drops texturing the surface reminding us to swim and not fly.

Life in Nungwi -- wake up, have breakfast, go for a swim, lie on the beach and wonder why it is I'm rushing from here to the snow on Kilimanjaro. At dusk the candles and kerosene lamps come out to light the beach-front restaurants. It's a 20 minute stroll down the beach to see what each is serving that night. After dinner everyone gathers at the campfire to sip a beer, watch the stars and listen to the waves. Maybe I'm not in a hurry.

Just up the coast from Nungwi you can watch them building the dhows. Logs sawed into planks are treated with fish oil, pegged to a frame and sealed with pitch. Masts are made by lashing a few poles together and we were told the entire process takes only three weeks (which I'm not sure I believe). The sail is hung from a single spar supported by a mast. Tacking is a complicated affair where the spar is tilted to vertical and then pivoted around the mast.

With the sail up and the boat rolling with the occasional gust of wind we watched the sun make it's daily journey to the horizon. At that perfect, but fleeting, moment with the sun's ocher disk half set I scanned the horizon for another boat hoping to get the archetype Zanzibari photograph of a dhow under sail at sunset. Glancing to shore I saw battery of cameras trained in our direction and realized that we were the token sunset dhow.

Goodbye to Zanzibar

Arrive Dar and make the fateful phone call. I'm amazed to find that my travel wallet is here. On pick up I find the contents intact, sans only US$100 which I've internalized as a stupidity tax.