Don’t pay the taxi man
A groundbreaking mission ends in a timeworn lesson for one adventurous voyager
CRUISE ships are starting to call in greater numbers at East African ports. I read recently that a German cruise liner had called at Beira, Mozambique. Good luck to them, I thought, as I sincerely hope they got a fair deal on their sightseeing.
I was not so lucky some years ago. A South African shipping company had invited me to be a guinea-pig passenger aboard one of their cargo ships. The route from Durban to Maputo to Beira would take 13 days, an unlucky number for some. I was the first passenger.
The voyage started on an ominous note. The Polish captain — this was a chartered vessel with an all-Polish crew — made it quite clear that I was not wanted on board. He tried every trick in the book— visa checks, immigration stamps — before he realised I was aboard to stay.
I had already been informed by the dear captain that the voyage would be a quiet one. There was no bar (he did not allow his crew to imbibe), no library (I had brought books to read), and no television (it had been nicked).
However, I settled in as best I could. My cabin, the former radio officer’s cabin under the ship’s previous history, was a marvel. She had been an East German ship and I located the listening and recording devices hidden in the cabin, where the radio officer used to eavesdrop on the crew’s conversations. This was all in the dark days of European Communism.
Maputo came and went as a brief stop, uneventful and pleasant enough. Drinks at the Polana Hotel were a treat. Then we sailed on to Beira.
We spent three days outside the port before we were allocated a berth, so I was looking forward to a run ashore at a new port of call.
As we had docked towards evening, I
Captain made it clear I was not welcome
waited until after breakfast the following morning to start my exploration of Beira. I first walked over to the impressivelooking railway station near the harbour gate and hailed a taxi. Bad move.
It was the start of my great circulartour experience. My driver wanted local currency (meticais) up front. We entered central Beira’s business district and stopped off at a bank on a square so the driver could be paid. Next bad move.
I asked for a bottle store, in order to stock up on some hooch for the ship, so we found a suitable store a short drive around the square.
And that is how we continued. Postcards of Beira … surely, just around the square. Coffee … just around the other corner. And so it reminded me of Sunday afternoons in a Free State town, where the good folk drive around and around the town square in search of fun.
After a few more rounds of that darn square I had had quite enough. Back to the ship, please, I ordered the driver. No, he would not budge. I was asked to leave right there, on that soulless square. There was no alternative.
Fuming, I found the nearest hotel, the Ambassador, and headed in for a beer. This gave me enough Dutch courage to walk back to the ship. I looked out from the hotel’s crumbling roof-garden terrace to choose my route back to the harbour, carefully. I ran the gauntlet — did not dally — and made it back safely. The locals living in the run-down apartment blocks nearby did not appear that friendly. I knew I was being watched.
For the next two days I looked at Beira from my deck-chair aboard ship, the view being infinitely nicer. Eventually, we sailed.
The voyage home provided some cheerful sea days. The attitude of the captain improved and an enjoyable at-sea braai was held in my honour. I think they felt sorry for me being the only passenger aboard.
Just after that strange voyage, the company abandoned the idea of carrying passengers. Not a surprise at all.
Moral of the tale? Take a cruise ship if you intend calling at Beira — and buy a shore excursion.