Dag 14: Nzeto

​​(English translation below)

Dag 14: Nzeto
  
Nzeto is 'n vis-plek. In die baai en op die strand lê honderde skuite. Mense krioel om hulle hande op die dag se vangs te kry. Dit ruik net vis en die klanke is dié van woelende vis-mark mense, kinders wat kruis-en-dwars die oor die strand hardloop, 'n swerm zoem-ponies wat heen en weer deur die sand swiep om mense en visse heen en weer te vervoer.
 
'n Paar koppe draai as ons twee swaargelaaide Europese ysterperde stadig en onvanpas arriveer, half-versigtig op die sand verby die geroesemoes hou, en dan so half eenkant, langs die twee skeepswrakke, parkeer. Twee maanmanne met valhelms en stewels en gepantserde klere. Hulle moet dink ons is óf gek, of heeltemal verdwaal. Behalwe vir die handjievol tieners wat die motorfietse kom bewonder, is die res té besig om hulle nog aan ons ook te steur.
 
Tóg hang daar 'n sweempie weemoed oor die baai. Die verslete wrakke. Die brawe voortbeur ten spyte van die daaglikse gesukkel. (Het ek genoem dat die klein motorfietsies buite die dorp kilometers lank staan en wag vir 'n bietjie petrol? Dat die enigste ander petrolstasie droog is? Dat die teerpaaie aan die wegbrokkel is?)
 
En hier staan ons twee. Vors en wit op die einste strand waar die Portugese destyds mense kom oplaai het. Ons neem fotos vir ons genot en kruie dan weer half-onvas die vismark verby dorpie toe. Verby die verslete huisies en kaalvoetkinders. Verby die pienk kasarm van 'n goewermentsgebou. Verby die plaaslike disko waar die reuse-luidsprekers deur ons derms doem-doem dat dit nou Vrydag is. Die naweek begin en die Cuka's word geknak om die skerpkante van eeue se onthou effe sagter te maak.
 
Ons hotelletjie se bo-stoep loer oor die huisies se dakke om die see te sien. Ons drink 'n bier en gesels oor die foon met 'n Ier wat tans byna in Cameroon trek op dieselfde roete as wat ons beplan. Hy verseker ons dat die paaie rybaar is en dat ons moet ophou bekommer oor die reen. Dit reen nie. Ons maak grappies oor die rugbywêreldbeker, sê totsiens en maak klaar om by 'n restaurantjie in die straat af vis te gaan eet. Bewus en dankbaar vir die voorreg wat ons het om iets van hierdie wêreld te beleef.
 
Die volgende oggend toe ons wakkerword, reën dit.
 
Day 14: Nzeto
 
Nzeto is a fishing place. Hundreds of boats in the bay and on the beach. People flocking to get their hands on the day's catch. It smells of fish and the sounds of bustling fish market people, children celebrating the beach and swarms of zoom ponies carrying people and fish back and forth fill the air.
 
A few heads turn when our two heavily laden European motorcycles arrive slowly and out-of-place, carefully balancing through the sand, past the hubbub, and then park half to the one side, next to the two shipwrecks. Two aliens with helmets and boots and armoured clothing. They must think we are either crazy, or completely lost. Apart from the handful of teenagers who come to admire the motorbikes, the rest are too busy to pay attention to us.
 
A hint of melancholy hovers over the bay. The worn wrecks. The courage despite the daily struggle. (Did I mention that the little motorbikes park for miles outside of town, waiting for gasoline? That the only other petrol station is dry? That the asphalt roads are crumbling?)
 
And here we stand. Tall and white on the very beach where the Portuguese once came to take loads of people away. We take photos for our enjoyment and then depart, half-steady on our big bikes, past the fish market towards the village. Past the shabby houses and barefoot children. Past the huge sore thumb of a government building. Past the local disco where the giant speakers boom-boom through our guts. It is Friday. The weekend begins and the Cuka's are cracked to soften the sharp edges of centuries of memories.
 
Our little hotel's upper veranda peeks over the houses' roofs to see the sea. We drink a beer and talk on the phone with an Irishman who is currently almost in Cameroon, on the same route as we are planning. He assures us that the roads are passable and that we should stop worrying about the rain. It's not raining. We joke about the rugby world cup, say goodbye and get ready to go eat fish at a restaurant down the street. Aware and grateful for the privilege to experience something of this world.
 
The next morning when we woke up, it was raining.

https://www.backabuddy.co.za/expedition-h2o-back-to-basics​