Chuanga
We disincrusted our backpacks from inside of the truck. We get out of the vehicle leaving the obrigados to the companions of the trip. Catapulted onto a sandy bed, besieged by swarms of mosquitos and a cloud of dust raised behind the chapa, we allow to be guided by our own instincts. First gulp of beer, unbeatable, breaks the shell that attests the concluded route. A rough experience between Cuamba and Lichinga falls behind, a learning to pay attention to the tires of a vehicle and to prefer trucks for shaking tracks. Later on, once the route is taken up again, obstinacy to make out the sapphire of lake Malawi when approaching Metangula, mystery of a puff flying over the lake, series of dusty plunges, lodged on us as a breadcrumb coating by unsuspected showers while passing hills. It is a precious moment of feeling a golden balsam in our mouths, of exposing the sight to the eyewash of the humid turquoise of the lake, letting us to be flooded by breeze flurries.
Days in Chuanga consist of a distance of some thirty meters that spaces out our hut from the lake shore, of wake ups induced by beats of dawn that predict midday stifling heat and sparkling dips in the lake. Culinarys options are between peixe and peixe. Infectious joy of children, warnings at the top of their mother's voice to not to beg us anything… Amazing normality of a town that muffles the squeak of tortuosity of kilometers that separate us from Maputo.
