I’ve caught a boleia to make my way back home. After loading the two new bikes and settling on a price with the driver I climb aboard the truck and sit with two young men amongst the fruits, chairs, and bicycles. After exchanging pleasantries one of the men tears off a hunk of soft bread and tosses it to me. I hand him and his friend some powdered drink mix and the smiles stretch from Mozambique to Arkansas. They’re headed farther north to Nampula; a long ride on this hard truck bed. It is clear these two men are not of means but they buy and share a chicken dinner from a street vender without hesitation.

Children begin to collect around the truck to tease me and I tease back. They ask for my money. I ask for their shirts in exchange. As we pull away the children flip their thumbs in the air and yell something in xitswa that I don’t understand. I toss them a peace sign.

We’re moving fast now down the EN1 and I think that I may make it home before dark. The wind is strong and beats my head on all sides like a pillow fight. The air is the perfect temperature. Only the wind tells me where my skin ends and the world around me begins.