GABON
Ah, Gabon ... Land of a President named Bongo; so enamored of himself he has renamed his home village ‘Bongoville’ (seriously: how good a name is that for a town ...?? And one which we duly pass through on day one and find to be both unimpressive in its reality and completely overdeveloped for its requirements - the true measure of a town versus the ego of its patron. One of those, as is to be found across the continent, ‘why the hell is there a huge bank, hotel and planned golf course complete with tar roads and street lighting out here in the middle of nowhere, flanked by nothing more than local material shacks for housing and people idling under trees’ kind of towns ... Answer: ‘It’s the President’s hometown is it? Ahhh ... Of course it is ...’
Though, admittedly, this is not nearly as good as is to be found in Oyo, northern Congo, where rising bizarrely up and out of endless mile of undeveloped jungle like some utterly false Hollywood set designed as lair for The Evil One suddenly appears a full-sized international airport complete with surrounding brightly decorated, and highly modern, resorts and hotels, where there be no other person nor tourist to be found for hundreds of kilometres in all directions (nor any reason for their needing to be one there - save for it being the President’s hometown of course and one, with the roads being so completely shite from Brazzaville on up north, he insists on flying up into on visits and not driving ...).
And where we confront daily the most bone idle of local cultures met yet, best personified by the manager at a lodge in the Lope National Park who, on our enquiring about camping on the grounds for the night, cannot be arsed in any way to stop talking on her mobile and addresses me in grunts mid perturbed-to-be-disturbed sentence whilst simultaneously scratching her large exposed belly, straining out from under a two-sizes too small Ed Hardy knock-off t-shirt ,and who, on finding out we required water for our shower – how bizarre a request, I know – proceeded to give me a bucket to fill and that, when I did, bled out like a stuck pig through the gaping hole in its base ... Then duly disappeared for the night and, on failing to return to the grounds next morning, I gave up on after 30 fruitless minutes searching and so drove off on without paying - as my friend Caren notes on her ‘favourite quotes’ section of Facebook: “Lazy, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life” and I think she personified that caution perfectly. And more the shame for it being the national park and gem of the country. But, we were to find repeatedly, unfortunately typical ...).
Sceneries nice though ...
Gabon is also home to some of the most bastard driving yet confronted: like 200 km’s of corrugations and potholes where decent roads should be leading into Lope; or endless miles of mud-clogged mires of vertiginous logging roads carved out knife-edge wide into the claustrophobic rainforest, conveying by their very design – or lack thereof - that no man really need aim to be passing through unless paid to be doing so (and ‘so %$ck him if he can’t make it through the track, some other will ...’). All round, a real grind.
We are also met with a new welcoming cry in Gabon: “White!!” Every small child, in no matter how remote a village, has apparently learned this one word of English – bless those missionaries - and they scream it at us on our passing by with a passion ranging from Beatlesque hysteria to football hooligan vehemence - we never know to wave back in happy accord or fight back with either belligerence or maybe a more neutral, go-with-the-obvious shout back salvo of “Black!!” in return (though Clare tries a proud “Yes I am!” after several days bombardment, which is indeed a fine reply if not that by the time it is delivered by her meek (though indignant) self we are usually some hundred yards down the track and so well out of their ear-shot ...). We also begin to notice that we are stared and/or pointed at like aliens here on our passing – both in rural nothingness as well as in developed towns and villages – and so must quickly accept we really aren’t anywhere near the ‘beaten path’ on this route and it IS, if not crazy, then certainly a very rare occurrence for the locals to see white folk in this area (driving by in great hulking white Land Rovers) and that we must accept both the good for that (full Glee greeting) and the (far less prevalent) less-than-friendly (or often more wtf’ish??) glare in return for our smiles and waves in passing ... And, yes, you’re right, we’re “white!!!”
We did, however, have a very special moment in Gabon (which Glen was going to leave out). On the road heading to Cameroon, we passed several villages having some ceremony. After about the third village, I insisted on Glen stopping so we could find out what was happening.
Everyone was extremely helpful, and explained that the ceremony was in remembrance of an elder that died a year ago. His family ruled that area, and it was a way of paying respect to him and the family.
I think the photos show better than I can describe the ceremony.. But it was very emotive, and energetic, with it being more of a celebration of life, and the village culture. Being in that village, with all the villagers was really a turning point for Glen and myself, as it turned the last couple of days impression of Gabon: of corrugated roads, and surly people.....Into a heart warming impression of community, and culture, that we felt truly privileged to be allowed to visit, and be a part of.
Glen also failed to mention the extremely friendly, and helpful security guard that came with us to show us round Franceville ( and pictures of his dog and family...we instantly all bonded over the love of our canine companions)... Without whom we would still be driving in circles round that town.
So, yes Gabon may not have been our favorite country, but with all places we have visited... we are left with so many fond memories of the people there....
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label africa. Show all posts
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
DRC- Congo, Heart of Darkness
DRC
Right, so it’s now 03 Sept and we’re halfway across Nigeria and I’m trying to write journal entries by ever-fading memory and sparse notes so I think it best I make these entries a heck of a lot more succinct ... Maybe I’ll fill in the blanks later, but as I’m now 4.5 countries down and finding it annoyingly difficult to get free time to write after the long days we’re putting in you’ll have to forgive me for the Cole’s Notes versions that’ll have to suffice from here-on in ...
Into the Heart of Darkness we go; ground zero for Ebola and AIDS; site of Goma in the 90’s, the largest refugee camp ever required and one Dante could not have designed any more Hell’ish; the still-roaming bands of Intrahamwe, of Rwandan genocide infamy; of leopard-skin hatted (now ex) President Mobuto in the 70’s who lead a dictatorship so corrupt it coined the term “kleptocracy” and that, since his overthrow, has descended rapidly and without hesitation into a country almost mythical in being so incredibly ‘effed up’ and that has seen so little peace in the past 30 years it has gone back in time, one without roads, rails or rules. This will not be a transit to be treated lightly ...
The first thing we note on crossing is the border guards, who all look like they’ve been styled as the baddies for a Hollywood movie: tight pressed fatigues, berets at very cocky angles, mirrored sunglasses (despite it being 0800 on a cloudy morning ...) and a whole lot of att-i-tude. But it’s all for show it seems as they are all exceedingly friendly and the Immigration process and Duane stamping a breeze. But within 30 minutes we are at our first roadblock where 1) money; then 2) beer; then, finally (exacerbated by our refusals and crap French) cigarettes are demanded. We fear this will be the norm for the rest of the way across to Kinshasa but – while it is – we find none are ever anything more than just give-it-a-go’s and by the time we cross over the Congo to Brazzaville the dozens we have passed through have required nothing more in total than 4 stale ‘bought for just such a purpose’ cheapy cigarettes that have sat in the dash since SA. But, man, they are persistent ...
Another 30 minutes down the road from the border and we see our first dead body. Well, I do: Clare remains blissfully unaware though it’s a fairly obvious sight on the side of the road, gone rigid and halfway through the smashed windshield of a car that obviously lost a contest against something far larger going the other way. A stark reminder of just how insane driving these roads are, body-less crash sites having previously become so commonplace now they have barely raised a seconds’ glance on passing ...
The roads though are good, winding up through endless rounds of rolling hills and offering vistas across miles and miles of stunning, dense green. Kinshasa, however, arrives like a bomb’s gone off: a sudden descent into utter chaos, dirt and mayhem. Inching our way through the crazy gridlocked traffic we – quite by sheer blood luck/chance – find our destination, Residence Mutchimba, which has been reco’d on the blog of a couple who’ve passed through a few month’s previously (how the hell they ever found it originally defies understanding ...). Bit of a budget blower at $80 US per night but a nice break (hot water!!) and, also, certainly safe for the truck, closed-in behind high walls and a vigilant guard. Given high marks on the blog we meet a bit of an unexpected – and truly piss-me-off’ish issue after a days’ hard drive – issue with our anticipated service levels on arrival: the Manager seeming to not quite understand the difference between ‘having’ a restaurant (“Yes sir, we have a restaurant, it opens at 7 for dinner”) and having an ‘open’ restaurant (on seating at the required time for dinner after whiling/wasting away a few hours in our room, happy to have not had to sort out leaving: “No sir, this restaurant is not open, it has no food.”) but soon overcome - after a fairly strong response of “WTF!!??” by me and my rudimentary French - by the Manager back-stepping rapidly and – realizing he’d likely pressed his aloofness a step or 12 too far – quickly sorting us a taxi and escorting us there and back to a local resto which serves us fine ‘family resto’ food with terrific friendly service (so enjoyable, in fact, that though the menu is limited we return each of the 3 nights we’re in town and, in the end, have the “verrrrry Frayyynch” Maitre D’ insist we exchange email addy’s as “we must stay in touch” if we are not to return back to Kinshasa soon ...).
The Manager also organizes a great, non-touristy city tour for us for the next morning which – though hindered somewhat by both he and the driver speaking only French and us both still staggering unfamiliarly along with high school skills and tin ear only – offers us a great insight into the city, including Mobuto’s former house (never since lived in yet still heavily guarded to – I would guess - avoid it becoming any sort of memorial for a President whose legacy internally seems to remain somewhat confused still ... To the Manager and driver during the tour: “Are there any monuments to President Mobuto in the city here?” “No, no, no for Mobuto, no.” “Why does nobody live in his house?” “In his house there? No, no, nobody must live in his house, no.”) and the riverfront, where we set up for a beer in a restaurant straight out of a Scarface-style 80’s, all mermaid fountains and pastel colours with stupid-priced cocktails only the local Big Men would not balk at, overlooking a stunning vista of the second set of cataracts below Stanley Pools (and a large gathering of poor below, breaking rocks on the shoreline who, when I take a photo of the river, react angrily would they be included in it and quickly has a local heavy at my side, intimidating me to delete my file card as “this is not a good thing here and people do not like it.” Fair enough, but – for whatever reason there be for their toil - there are piles of broken rocks being sold street side all over the city so surely the locals do know where they come from, how and by whom ... And I am in no position, and have no interest, in passing any judgement one way or the other ...).
They also take us past the ferry terminal – “The Beach” – for a pre-departure recce which proves very beneficial the next day when we rock up to head over to Brazzaville as everyone, from security guard to police to Customs & Immigration, recall us from the day before and are all smiles and welcomes. It also prepares us for the utter chaos that is the terminal area.
So on arrival next day I am told at the ticket wicket there is no “big boat” today, and that I must speak to “The Chief.” Up to Chief of Police I am escorted to introduce myself, then to Chief of Customs, then Chief of Immigration (“I am Chief of The Beach”); apparently the word is correct: the big boat is broken and is not available today. We must return tomorrow at 1000 and I must present myself to The Chief at that time. So, somewhat dejectedly, we head back for another night in Kinshasa, choosing though to pinch pennies for the night and stay at the Baptist Mission close by The Beach. A convenient choice, and one with a fascinating story as they run a series of hospitals for Aids orphans and are very pleased to give us a tour of their HQ and, later, the medical clinic – all a very impressive operation and run by a very dedicated team who seem quite overwhelmed that we have taken such an interest in their activities. The site, however, as a place to camp for the night, really is a complete shit-pit with cows, goats and chickens wandering about and shared toilets in a house on the grounds a local family are living in that truly defy imagination and are beyond anything I have ever tried to use before (though for Clare, apparently still nowhere near as bad as her ‘Hell Toilets Of India With Midget Attendant’ she will be happy to expand upon given anyone’s further interest in the tale ...).
Back the next morning and I sit for 90 minutes awaiting The Chief’s arrival, still not sure what the purpose of our meeting will be. When he finally rocks up at the office on spotting me he sets his arm around my shoulders and we are off together to get the boarding requirements sorted. The Duane is duly stamped for 100 USD, quickly pocketed by the sweaty Agent-in-Charge, but we are then directed by The Chief – still my closest personal friend for no apparent reason (and for no associated ‘fee’ either) - to seat ourselves in the VIP trailer and wait out the Big Boat. At noon we are directed back to the truck, at 2:00 we are still there, first in line for a boat that has yet to dock (though it does still keep arriving, look at The Beach, and then depart out of sight on the river, only to return again an hour later to repeat the same odd game ...). At 3:00 The Chief comes over to announce, quite apologetically, that the Big Boat is broken and will not be operating; and when it may be is very much an unknown.
Shhyit!! We have nowhere else to go, no possible alternate route north, and this is NOT good news. The driver next to us is very unimpressed and begins to press his case en Francaise. Seems he is the Namibian Ambassador to DRC’s driver, and he must be in Brazzaville for the next day to pick up said Ambassador, who will be in country for the 50th Anniversary of the Independence celebrations. Much deliberation (argument/arm-waving/bowing to the Big Man) ensues amongst all required Chiefs. Finally – and for whatever reason – it is decided that, yes, there will be a Big Boat today, at 5:00, but no others for the foreseeable future.
It docks – finally not just sniffing at the port as it has all the day so far – and all of 2 trucks, ours and the Namibian Ambassador’s, along with 4 walk-on passengers who I think have simply nothing better to do and are along for the ride only, load a boat designed for 400 pers and 22 vehicles and we’re off – finally - across the mighty Congo River.
Right, so it’s now 03 Sept and we’re halfway across Nigeria and I’m trying to write journal entries by ever-fading memory and sparse notes so I think it best I make these entries a heck of a lot more succinct ... Maybe I’ll fill in the blanks later, but as I’m now 4.5 countries down and finding it annoyingly difficult to get free time to write after the long days we’re putting in you’ll have to forgive me for the Cole’s Notes versions that’ll have to suffice from here-on in ...
Into the Heart of Darkness we go; ground zero for Ebola and AIDS; site of Goma in the 90’s, the largest refugee camp ever required and one Dante could not have designed any more Hell’ish; the still-roaming bands of Intrahamwe, of Rwandan genocide infamy; of leopard-skin hatted (now ex) President Mobuto in the 70’s who lead a dictatorship so corrupt it coined the term “kleptocracy” and that, since his overthrow, has descended rapidly and without hesitation into a country almost mythical in being so incredibly ‘effed up’ and that has seen so little peace in the past 30 years it has gone back in time, one without roads, rails or rules. This will not be a transit to be treated lightly ...
The first thing we note on crossing is the border guards, who all look like they’ve been styled as the baddies for a Hollywood movie: tight pressed fatigues, berets at very cocky angles, mirrored sunglasses (despite it being 0800 on a cloudy morning ...) and a whole lot of att-i-tude. But it’s all for show it seems as they are all exceedingly friendly and the Immigration process and Duane stamping a breeze. But within 30 minutes we are at our first roadblock where 1) money; then 2) beer; then, finally (exacerbated by our refusals and crap French) cigarettes are demanded. We fear this will be the norm for the rest of the way across to Kinshasa but – while it is – we find none are ever anything more than just give-it-a-go’s and by the time we cross over the Congo to Brazzaville the dozens we have passed through have required nothing more in total than 4 stale ‘bought for just such a purpose’ cheapy cigarettes that have sat in the dash since SA. But, man, they are persistent ...
Another 30 minutes down the road from the border and we see our first dead body. Well, I do: Clare remains blissfully unaware though it’s a fairly obvious sight on the side of the road, gone rigid and halfway through the smashed windshield of a car that obviously lost a contest against something far larger going the other way. A stark reminder of just how insane driving these roads are, body-less crash sites having previously become so commonplace now they have barely raised a seconds’ glance on passing ...
The roads though are good, winding up through endless rounds of rolling hills and offering vistas across miles and miles of stunning, dense green. Kinshasa, however, arrives like a bomb’s gone off: a sudden descent into utter chaos, dirt and mayhem. Inching our way through the crazy gridlocked traffic we – quite by sheer blood luck/chance – find our destination, Residence Mutchimba, which has been reco’d on the blog of a couple who’ve passed through a few month’s previously (how the hell they ever found it originally defies understanding ...). Bit of a budget blower at $80 US per night but a nice break (hot water!!) and, also, certainly safe for the truck, closed-in behind high walls and a vigilant guard. Given high marks on the blog we meet a bit of an unexpected – and truly piss-me-off’ish issue after a days’ hard drive – issue with our anticipated service levels on arrival: the Manager seeming to not quite understand the difference between ‘having’ a restaurant (“Yes sir, we have a restaurant, it opens at 7 for dinner”) and having an ‘open’ restaurant (on seating at the required time for dinner after whiling/wasting away a few hours in our room, happy to have not had to sort out leaving: “No sir, this restaurant is not open, it has no food.”) but soon overcome - after a fairly strong response of “WTF!!??” by me and my rudimentary French - by the Manager back-stepping rapidly and – realizing he’d likely pressed his aloofness a step or 12 too far – quickly sorting us a taxi and escorting us there and back to a local resto which serves us fine ‘family resto’ food with terrific friendly service (so enjoyable, in fact, that though the menu is limited we return each of the 3 nights we’re in town and, in the end, have the “verrrrry Frayyynch” Maitre D’ insist we exchange email addy’s as “we must stay in touch” if we are not to return back to Kinshasa soon ...).
The Manager also organizes a great, non-touristy city tour for us for the next morning which – though hindered somewhat by both he and the driver speaking only French and us both still staggering unfamiliarly along with high school skills and tin ear only – offers us a great insight into the city, including Mobuto’s former house (never since lived in yet still heavily guarded to – I would guess - avoid it becoming any sort of memorial for a President whose legacy internally seems to remain somewhat confused still ... To the Manager and driver during the tour: “Are there any monuments to President Mobuto in the city here?” “No, no, no for Mobuto, no.” “Why does nobody live in his house?” “In his house there? No, no, nobody must live in his house, no.”) and the riverfront, where we set up for a beer in a restaurant straight out of a Scarface-style 80’s, all mermaid fountains and pastel colours with stupid-priced cocktails only the local Big Men would not balk at, overlooking a stunning vista of the second set of cataracts below Stanley Pools (and a large gathering of poor below, breaking rocks on the shoreline who, when I take a photo of the river, react angrily would they be included in it and quickly has a local heavy at my side, intimidating me to delete my file card as “this is not a good thing here and people do not like it.” Fair enough, but – for whatever reason there be for their toil - there are piles of broken rocks being sold street side all over the city so surely the locals do know where they come from, how and by whom ... And I am in no position, and have no interest, in passing any judgement one way or the other ...).
They also take us past the ferry terminal – “The Beach” – for a pre-departure recce which proves very beneficial the next day when we rock up to head over to Brazzaville as everyone, from security guard to police to Customs & Immigration, recall us from the day before and are all smiles and welcomes. It also prepares us for the utter chaos that is the terminal area.
So on arrival next day I am told at the ticket wicket there is no “big boat” today, and that I must speak to “The Chief.” Up to Chief of Police I am escorted to introduce myself, then to Chief of Customs, then Chief of Immigration (“I am Chief of The Beach”); apparently the word is correct: the big boat is broken and is not available today. We must return tomorrow at 1000 and I must present myself to The Chief at that time. So, somewhat dejectedly, we head back for another night in Kinshasa, choosing though to pinch pennies for the night and stay at the Baptist Mission close by The Beach. A convenient choice, and one with a fascinating story as they run a series of hospitals for Aids orphans and are very pleased to give us a tour of their HQ and, later, the medical clinic – all a very impressive operation and run by a very dedicated team who seem quite overwhelmed that we have taken such an interest in their activities. The site, however, as a place to camp for the night, really is a complete shit-pit with cows, goats and chickens wandering about and shared toilets in a house on the grounds a local family are living in that truly defy imagination and are beyond anything I have ever tried to use before (though for Clare, apparently still nowhere near as bad as her ‘Hell Toilets Of India With Midget Attendant’ she will be happy to expand upon given anyone’s further interest in the tale ...).
Back the next morning and I sit for 90 minutes awaiting The Chief’s arrival, still not sure what the purpose of our meeting will be. When he finally rocks up at the office on spotting me he sets his arm around my shoulders and we are off together to get the boarding requirements sorted. The Duane is duly stamped for 100 USD, quickly pocketed by the sweaty Agent-in-Charge, but we are then directed by The Chief – still my closest personal friend for no apparent reason (and for no associated ‘fee’ either) - to seat ourselves in the VIP trailer and wait out the Big Boat. At noon we are directed back to the truck, at 2:00 we are still there, first in line for a boat that has yet to dock (though it does still keep arriving, look at The Beach, and then depart out of sight on the river, only to return again an hour later to repeat the same odd game ...). At 3:00 The Chief comes over to announce, quite apologetically, that the Big Boat is broken and will not be operating; and when it may be is very much an unknown.
Shhyit!! We have nowhere else to go, no possible alternate route north, and this is NOT good news. The driver next to us is very unimpressed and begins to press his case en Francaise. Seems he is the Namibian Ambassador to DRC’s driver, and he must be in Brazzaville for the next day to pick up said Ambassador, who will be in country for the 50th Anniversary of the Independence celebrations. Much deliberation (argument/arm-waving/bowing to the Big Man) ensues amongst all required Chiefs. Finally – and for whatever reason – it is decided that, yes, there will be a Big Boat today, at 5:00, but no others for the foreseeable future.
It docks – finally not just sniffing at the port as it has all the day so far – and all of 2 trucks, ours and the Namibian Ambassador’s, along with 4 walk-on passengers who I think have simply nothing better to do and are along for the ride only, load a boat designed for 400 pers and 22 vehicles and we’re off – finally - across the mighty Congo River.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Harare: When you are not waiting!
Harare: when you are not waiting
We are based at Small World Backpackers, Avondale, which is a small suburb northwest of the city. From here we can walk to the shops at Avondale, which are quite pleasant, unless you get distracted whilst shopping for cheese. Avondale is a 20 min walk into town or a taxi ride for $5
The backpackers provides refuge for all sorts of travellers that are coming though Zimbabwe, and we have met lots of interesting people here. We have taken a room here, and enjoy the benefits of a real bed, and our own shower, and make good use of the kitchen but t $45 it isn’t the cheapest break.
We have visited the National Archives in the far northern suburbs, and for a person interested in the history of Zimbabwe, it is a must, Glen was in heaven. I, however, enjoyed looking at their comprehensive archive of photographs of ‘Old Zimbabwe’ when the colonials were here.
The Lion and Cheetah Park is a must see. It consists of 3 areas:
1. A small lion game park you can drive through that has 5 male lions in it. Here you literally have lions only a meter away from you, and you can really appreciate the size of these majestic beasts. Surrounding this area, are 2 other enclosures containing lions and lionesses.
2. Another game park, a kilometre long, containing zebras, wildebeests, ostriches, baboons, and a variety of deer.
3. Lastly, a zoo area.
Although, a bit dilapidated this is an amazing experience. We paid our entrance fee of $10, and made our way to the Lions. Windows firmly closed, we drove in through a rusty gate, and sat in the car next to these creatures. Wonderful. Huge lions with their red manes, just a breath away from us, going about their daily routine. Just an honour to be so close to such an amazing creature.
From there we made our way past the other lions to the game park. Ostriches running in front of us like drag queens late for their show, and a real zebra crossing. A small park, but great for viewing.
Then to the zoo. I am not too keen on zoos, but this privately own zoo is just so unique it is a must see. We were greeted by a friendly guide, who took us to meet Tommy, a Galapagos Tortoise who was approximately 300 years old, and who had been at the park for 45 years. As big as a coffee table, we were allowed to scratch his neck. He graced us with his company until he decided it was to time to go to bed, so he ambled off to his own ronval house and took to his bed.
We were then escorted through the zoo to meet the many residents: more lions, cheetahs, crocodiles, hyenas, jackels and much more. The animals here are hand raised, and many come from a disadvantaged backgrounds, for example the jackel was a victim of a hit and run, and came to the park to give it a second chance, as it sustained a leg injury, that would have surely marked the end of its days in the wild.
The lions are hand reared, so, they can be used for walking with lion’s tours, education, and movie work. We were fortunate enough to actually go in and meet two 11 month males; to get up so close is just so incredible.
Faradales, the Selfridges of Zimbabwe, was a bit of a disappointment. Once the flagstore of Zimbabwe, located in a lovely colonial building in the centre of Harare, it has been relocated to a suburban mall in Barrowsdale, and is hard to distinguish between any other camping/ shooting store. It was a pilgrimage for Glen as the legend that is John Simpson always goes there when he is in Zimbabwe to buy his shoes. So, off we went, and spent an afternoon in the suburbs. Barrowsdale is a glimpse into what Harare probably once was, clean, organised and predominately white.
Although we have been stuck in Harare, and are incredibly frustrated, we have met some amazing and positive people. Our troubles are so small in comparison to what they have all gone through. The hyper inflation of 2008 left so many with nothing, lives have been rebuilt, again and again. Hopes have been raised and dashed...but yet, the overall outlook is one of optimism. You walk down the street, and always are welcomed with a smile, and a greeting. When I tell people of Mum’s history here, and that we are going to Kariba, I have been again and again welcomed Home. Even yesterday our taxi driver implored us to come and live here, as ‘our country need people like you’. We pointed out that the current government weren’t too keen on the British, and he replied that his government, the peoples government wanted us there, which we thought was a lovely sentiment.
The Heart of Harare
The Heart of Darkness Harare
So, we have now been in Harare for 2 weeks, and judging by how today went at the embassy, we will be here for another week. Aghhhhhhhh!!!!
We arrived on the last Thursday in June, time to stop, apply for our Angolan visa, and prepare for the trip ahead. Of course we arrived in the dark of night, but found a suitable backpackers...little did we know it would become like a home for us!
Friday morning, armed with all possible relevant paperwork, we ventured to the Angolan Embassy (Doncaster House, Speke Ave... an address that will be forever etched in my brain)... The lady behind the counter explained to us that we:
a. Needed to be a Zimbabwean resident to apply or a visa
b. We required a letter of invitation to Angola
We were and had neither... So, she suggested that this could be overcome by us writing a letter for ourselves, explaining the trip we wanted to take, and why we needed the visa....Simple!
So, back we trot to the backpackers, so get all sorted. Stopping at the supermarket to restock on the way...This turned out to be the biggest mistake we have made so far on the trip. I had packed my bag with all the vehicle papers, the carnet, maps and books to explain our route, and to justify the need for the visa... I had also packed Glen’s hard drive, as I wanted to print off another blog from a couple that had completed a similar route that we wanted to take.
So, we were in the dairy aisle looking at cheese possibilities, when some guy came up to Glen, and asked him the difference between white and yellow cheese. A simple and stupid distraction, that took our eyes off the trolley for seconds, but that was quick enough for his friend to remove my bag from the trolley. Fu@k!!!!!!! I realised in seconds, but our friends were long gone, as was my bag and all its contents.
Glen hurried out, and began searching all the dodgy areas that one could possibly look, and dump a bags contents. I spoke to the manager, security guard, and went to report it at the police shed that was in the car park. Everyone was hugely sympathetic, and sorry that this had happened to us, and all vowed to keep a look out for my bag and contents. All were under the impression that as there was no money in it, it would get dumped in the nearby area...So, off we went to put the word out that a handsome reward would be given for the return of the bag’s contents. Glen stumbled on some guys selling statues, and smoking some colourful cigarettes, who promised if such a man ran through their area with a bag, he would not leave standing.
The Zimbabweans that we met could not have been nicer, truly. Even when Glen started searching in the darkest corners of downtown Harare, he managed to make friends with the local ‘resellers of dodgily acquired goods’ and they were very impressed with the big white man who wants to repurchase his lost goods. So now, we are both greeted by Taps and his crew, who always assure us that they are working to get our things back to us.
So, this started the nightmare......
Thanks to Callum, we were quickly able to have the carnet replaced. Amazon provided my replacement books...at a hugely inflated price due to shipping...and then customs ....and then clearance. However, the hard drive, and the vehicle registration are proving to be far more difficult to obtain.
Glen has been faxing, emailing, and hounding the Randburg Licensing Department to try and get an original copy of our Registration papers sent out. Even using a specialized service to try and get the process moving.
Taps and co, are still looking for our hard drive... 4 years of Glen’s photos.
So, all this has been going on, whist we are getting the White Rhino serviced, and whilst we are still applying at the Angolan Embassy.
Every day we go there to see the lovely ladies behind the glass counter. We handed in the letter, which promptly got lost. We handed in another letter that after several days got 2 levels of clearance. After 10 days we even managed to get an interview so we could explain our case. However, this interview consisted of few words, other than we have to get a letter from the British embassy to support us and our trip. We were led to believe that this letter would expedite the process, and get us a visa. Yeah! A breakthrough! ( So, we thought)
So, off to search for the British Embassy. I have to say, the smartest building in Harare, and the toughest security. They were more than helpful and faxed and printed a copy of the letter, all whilst being so amazed at the Angolan process.
Handed in the hard copy, made sure they had the fax, and then waited for the phone call to confirm that we could apply for the visa... Yes, that is right; we haven’t actually applied for it yet. We were still waiting to find out if we could apply for it. Ridiculous!
So, today Friday the 9th July, Glen wakes to bad news, our friend in J’burg that is supposed to be sorting out our vehicle papers has hit a wall and thinks that we will have to travel back to complete the paperwork.
Off to the embassy, and the diplomatic cars are not outside, so that means no one has looked at, signed or approved our letters, that have been sitting on the desk for 3 days....but, maybe, maybe they will be in this afternoon. But flights come in from Angola on a Friday, so maybe their friends have arrived...which would mean no work!
Oh, and if the papers do get signed by Monday, and if we are allowed to apply, then maybe, maybe we can have the visa on Thursday... 3 weeks after we arrived in Harare.
So that’s it, that is the frustration of Harare.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Zimbabwe!!! - Baboons and Baobabs
ZIMBAWBE BORDER – 18 JUNE
About 70 kms to the border and most obvious are the queues at the petrol pumps – obviously you’d best fill up prior to crossing over so we do. The border itself proves simple, in and out of the Moz side in minutes and then into the Zim side after only a few minutes of jostling about with tankers trying to force their way ahead in the bottleneck of the entrance. I enter with docs in hand and leave Clare to guard the truck as we’d done in Moz – though here there is nobody loitering about and police a’plenty so am confident vehicle security will not be a concern. Having filled out Visa applications for us both I arrive at the desk of the most stern-looking woman I have ever been confronted with. I smile, she scowls dismissively; I greet, she ignores. I hand over both applications and passports and she studies each carefully; on Clare’s she looks at the passport, then at the application, and demands “Who is this woman?” My wife. “Where is she?” In the truck I say, indicating, as it is parked in plain view of the door. “Did you sign this for her?” Yes. “Can she not write?” Uh, no, she can write. I am met with silence. Shall I bring her in? Silence, but she does scratch out my signature on her form (this is allowable on the Moz docs). I’ll go and get her then, shall I, going all schoolboy in the face of her unrelenting scorn. Silence. So go and get Clare, only to return and find the agent’s chair empty; she has obviously had quite enough of ridiculous tourists for today and has gone into the tea room adjacent, leaving passports and docs scattered on her desk. In her place though is the world’s friendliest guy, who cares not who signs what and Clare is shortly back out at the truck and I am lightened by 110 USD for both single entrance visas.
Next desk over for third party insurance and Temporary Import Permit; sorted quickly, as is the paying of all applicable fees totalling a further 55 USD. The issue is, however, nobody has any change and so we go round in circles for some time trying to put together the 15 USD I am owed (plus additional 50 Rand I am asked to throw in to try and make things easier by raising the amount of return required to a large bill not several small) – it takes two versions of a detailed funds-transfer diagram produced by all parties cooperatively to finally clarify what has been paid to whom and for what – and what has been returned as required - before I can leave assured all has come out on top (they insist I must not leave until I am clear so have no cloud of doubt about them in any way ...). All is laughs and smiles through it all though, no hassle at all just a bit of embarrassment on their part for not being able to cover the funds easily enough – especially with the lights going out repeatedly throughout the process, adding to the sense of folly and degraded states ...
In need of air for one of the tires we begin the fruitless search for a service station either a) still operating; or, b) with electricity to operate the pump. We pass a few very rudimentary stations: some with unleaded only, some with diesel only and many others, although open, having neither on offer ... At writing we’re now in Bulawayo and have still not found an air pump operating – it’ll have to be the compressor instead (with some degree of trepidation given first workings with it, and I will definitely be heaving it if it melts out the fuse again ...); diesel though is fairly prevalent now.
300+ k on and we arrive at the Great Zimbabwe Ruins campsite outside of Masvingo, having first driven through some of the most beautiful scenery along Lake Mutirikwi and across the Dam (where we come across a column of over a dozen vintage Mercedes Benz’s parked on the wayside and at the tail end of a 3 week circumnavigation of Zimbabwe). The campsite is operated by the national parks board the site and is fine, though with some fairly aggressive baboons and very cheeky Vervets who succeed in stealing my breakfast sandwich just prior to our departure after Clare turned her back for one second ... After setting up we are shocked at how quickly it becomes exceedingly cold, given how nice the day has been, and even though we have plenty of firewood provided by our guard – who will be sitting under a tree 100 yards away from us for the night – we are frozen by 1800 (I in thermal undershirt, light thermal second layer, quilted puffa jacket under windstopper fleece and hat and am shivering uncontrollably until I can stoke the flames up high enough to ward off the freeze ...). But it is World Cup and we must find it, so we trudge off to find the lodge, where we have been told at reception they will be showing England versus Algeria at 2000. We find not a lodge but a frozen night watchman under a tree, who on several takes of explanation finally gathers what we are asking about and ushers us into an empty guest cottage, where another watchman is set up on the couch with the game ready to go. Huge greetings, much laughing about why we would be out and about in such cold weather but we’re all soon set in and well into the spirit of it all together (though we do not find the local commercials near as funny as our new friend does, who gales, snorts and slaps his thigh through each one while we exchange quizzical glances ...).
After a surprisingly decent and warm in the tent night’s sleep huddled in thermals under a sleeping bag and poncho liner each we set off to explore the ruins (circa 1200-1500 AD) – the largest stone buildings south of the great pyramids of Egypt. Stunning; really, absolutely incredible, and a very well run site as well with informative guides available for 3 USD and an excellent, though small, supporting museum displaying just how extensive the trade routes through the area were at the time, with pan-African beads, European coins, Chinese pottery and Arab copperworks found in abundance.
Not willing to face another night’s freeze in the park we struck out at 1300 for Bulawayo, 280 km southwest, arriving at 1800 – in the dark, of course - after a great run through stunning scenery of baobab trees and bougainvillea bushes huge as the trees they stand beside and along perfect tarmac roads – marred only by the direct west route for the final 30 minutes into Bulawayo that places the setting sun directly into driver’s eyes and makes the road ahead disappear like some mean-prick-of-a-conjurer’s trick ...
There are two campsite options within town lines, and we chose Packers, a private house that allows both B&B as well as camping options (on the grass out front and in the gravel lot in back). At 10 USD pppn it’s a decent deal, with lovely lounge, kitchen and toilets/showers shared between all guests (how nice to be able to eat at a table!). Bulawayo itself proves very quiet on the Sunday when we head out, the streets pretty much roll up for the day with the exception of the numerous churches competing to send their sermonizing out into the masses, but it is lovely with many old colonial buildings still retaining some of their original charms despite looking a bit sad around the edges now, and the people all prove very pleasant and friendly ...
About 70 kms to the border and most obvious are the queues at the petrol pumps – obviously you’d best fill up prior to crossing over so we do. The border itself proves simple, in and out of the Moz side in minutes and then into the Zim side after only a few minutes of jostling about with tankers trying to force their way ahead in the bottleneck of the entrance. I enter with docs in hand and leave Clare to guard the truck as we’d done in Moz – though here there is nobody loitering about and police a’plenty so am confident vehicle security will not be a concern. Having filled out Visa applications for us both I arrive at the desk of the most stern-looking woman I have ever been confronted with. I smile, she scowls dismissively; I greet, she ignores. I hand over both applications and passports and she studies each carefully; on Clare’s she looks at the passport, then at the application, and demands “Who is this woman?” My wife. “Where is she?” In the truck I say, indicating, as it is parked in plain view of the door. “Did you sign this for her?” Yes. “Can she not write?” Uh, no, she can write. I am met with silence. Shall I bring her in? Silence, but she does scratch out my signature on her form (this is allowable on the Moz docs). I’ll go and get her then, shall I, going all schoolboy in the face of her unrelenting scorn. Silence. So go and get Clare, only to return and find the agent’s chair empty; she has obviously had quite enough of ridiculous tourists for today and has gone into the tea room adjacent, leaving passports and docs scattered on her desk. In her place though is the world’s friendliest guy, who cares not who signs what and Clare is shortly back out at the truck and I am lightened by 110 USD for both single entrance visas.
Next desk over for third party insurance and Temporary Import Permit; sorted quickly, as is the paying of all applicable fees totalling a further 55 USD. The issue is, however, nobody has any change and so we go round in circles for some time trying to put together the 15 USD I am owed (plus additional 50 Rand I am asked to throw in to try and make things easier by raising the amount of return required to a large bill not several small) – it takes two versions of a detailed funds-transfer diagram produced by all parties cooperatively to finally clarify what has been paid to whom and for what – and what has been returned as required - before I can leave assured all has come out on top (they insist I must not leave until I am clear so have no cloud of doubt about them in any way ...). All is laughs and smiles through it all though, no hassle at all just a bit of embarrassment on their part for not being able to cover the funds easily enough – especially with the lights going out repeatedly throughout the process, adding to the sense of folly and degraded states ...
In need of air for one of the tires we begin the fruitless search for a service station either a) still operating; or, b) with electricity to operate the pump. We pass a few very rudimentary stations: some with unleaded only, some with diesel only and many others, although open, having neither on offer ... At writing we’re now in Bulawayo and have still not found an air pump operating – it’ll have to be the compressor instead (with some degree of trepidation given first workings with it, and I will definitely be heaving it if it melts out the fuse again ...); diesel though is fairly prevalent now.
300+ k on and we arrive at the Great Zimbabwe Ruins campsite outside of Masvingo, having first driven through some of the most beautiful scenery along Lake Mutirikwi and across the Dam (where we come across a column of over a dozen vintage Mercedes Benz’s parked on the wayside and at the tail end of a 3 week circumnavigation of Zimbabwe). The campsite is operated by the national parks board the site and is fine, though with some fairly aggressive baboons and very cheeky Vervets who succeed in stealing my breakfast sandwich just prior to our departure after Clare turned her back for one second ... After setting up we are shocked at how quickly it becomes exceedingly cold, given how nice the day has been, and even though we have plenty of firewood provided by our guard – who will be sitting under a tree 100 yards away from us for the night – we are frozen by 1800 (I in thermal undershirt, light thermal second layer, quilted puffa jacket under windstopper fleece and hat and am shivering uncontrollably until I can stoke the flames up high enough to ward off the freeze ...). But it is World Cup and we must find it, so we trudge off to find the lodge, where we have been told at reception they will be showing England versus Algeria at 2000. We find not a lodge but a frozen night watchman under a tree, who on several takes of explanation finally gathers what we are asking about and ushers us into an empty guest cottage, where another watchman is set up on the couch with the game ready to go. Huge greetings, much laughing about why we would be out and about in such cold weather but we’re all soon set in and well into the spirit of it all together (though we do not find the local commercials near as funny as our new friend does, who gales, snorts and slaps his thigh through each one while we exchange quizzical glances ...).
After a surprisingly decent and warm in the tent night’s sleep huddled in thermals under a sleeping bag and poncho liner each we set off to explore the ruins (circa 1200-1500 AD) – the largest stone buildings south of the great pyramids of Egypt. Stunning; really, absolutely incredible, and a very well run site as well with informative guides available for 3 USD and an excellent, though small, supporting museum displaying just how extensive the trade routes through the area were at the time, with pan-African beads, European coins, Chinese pottery and Arab copperworks found in abundance.
Not willing to face another night’s freeze in the park we struck out at 1300 for Bulawayo, 280 km southwest, arriving at 1800 – in the dark, of course - after a great run through stunning scenery of baobab trees and bougainvillea bushes huge as the trees they stand beside and along perfect tarmac roads – marred only by the direct west route for the final 30 minutes into Bulawayo that places the setting sun directly into driver’s eyes and makes the road ahead disappear like some mean-prick-of-a-conjurer’s trick ...
There are two campsite options within town lines, and we chose Packers, a private house that allows both B&B as well as camping options (on the grass out front and in the gravel lot in back). At 10 USD pppn it’s a decent deal, with lovely lounge, kitchen and toilets/showers shared between all guests (how nice to be able to eat at a table!). Bulawayo itself proves very quiet on the Sunday when we head out, the streets pretty much roll up for the day with the exception of the numerous churches competing to send their sermonizing out into the masses, but it is lovely with many old colonial buildings still retaining some of their original charms despite looking a bit sad around the edges now, and the people all prove very pleasant and friendly ...
Mozambique - Beaches and Bullet Holes
From R. Garcia we headed east on the EN4, a decent tarmac road but with a few fairly hectic and madly-congested, potholed and/or dirt-only spots due to road works on the surrounds of Maputo, then headed north on the EN1. Many radar traps as well, though fairly easy to spot as a pack of bright white shirts and blue trousers on the roadside ahead (usually converged under a large – and obvious - shady tree or some overhang for shade). We’d been warned of four traffic police issues that would have to be regularly contended with in Moz: bored police looking for a ‘spot fine’; radar guns with suspect calibration; and spot checks to ensure the vehicle has a blue background/yellow triangle decal on front right bumper (and corresponding, larger one, on rear of any trailer in tow); and a yellow high-viz jacket not just in carry but placed in sight over the drivers chair and worn anytime out of the vehicle in a mechanical issue or accident. Apparently any of these were all fairly flexible hassles at one time or the other but so far – and to the experience of everyone else we have met so far – the only stops have been for legitimate speeding infractions and nobody has had the slightest hassle in any way other so all agree there must have been a (surprising but highly-welcomed) decree from on high to leave the tourista alone unless truly justified. Though in trying to drive legally it can be a bit maddening to just hit top cruising speed in a clear 120 Kph zone (about 105-110 for us) only to have a random downturn to 80, then 60 be required (always the two in tandem, about 200-300 metres apart) and have to slow for no apparent reason but seems easy enough to avoid the fines if you just play the game and drive as demanded (note to all those ZA-registered vehicles with trailers, convoyed up to 5 in total regularly roaring past us in a grouped right-side pass at 160+ ...).
From all the warnings and prior generalizations we continued to be impressed with the quality of the roads and were able to hit a decent stride and sit back and enjoy the passing, stunning scenery; all long lazy climbs and descents across rolling hills lush with palm though admittedly spare of much else (unless you count piles of hardwood stacked road side to be sold as firewood as an arboreal sight ...). Oddly enough there are also few birds, and many times I’ve started as a butterfly wings past my windscreen, realizing I’d not seen anything else fly by in hours ... A lot of fruit though: papayas and oranges arranged in pyramids of bright colour at roadside vendors, or cashew nuts bagged up and held aloft to attract the passing trade by young guys pulling off odd dance moves as an eye-catcher and appeal for his trade over those of the competition strung out along the road (though no matter how appealing the individual’s act it’s tough to get down from 100 to zero in enough space to stop direct at the chosen vendor and not instead about 8 others down the line ...).
We stopped for lunch at Manhica, nice a break from the usual routine of a boervors-stuffed bun on the go, and Clare enjoyed her first round of Mozambique prawns in a mild curry, while I went for a Portuguese-style beef casserole as we were still far from the coast so I thought I’d hold out til I could smell the sea. Both excellent – a relief, as Clare has been looking forward to Moz prawns since arriving in SA and as the rest of the trip is going to be fairly non-vegetarian friendly it was good to see the seafood here was going to live up to the hype.
We camped that night at Praia do Xai-Xai, arriving at Xai Xai Beach Camp to see John and Lynda set up ahead of us. A fairly dismal place with ablutions you felt dirtier leaving than on entering so we had a nice night’s wine drinking in their camper but were both underway early – them far earlier than us as all they had much to do is start the truck whereas we must collapse the tent, fire up the kettle on the gas burner etc and it all takes time regardless of sense of urgency to get away and on the move ...
On leaving, the GPS seemed very confused and directed us not back up to the main road but instead to turn on ourselves and head onto the dirt road bordering the beach used more for ATV’s between lodgings than any vehicle traffic. Turns out that dirt rack was in fact the main road and cleanest route north. So in second we dug into the sand and began to bang along the beautiful coastline for a kilometre or two, rolling with the potholes and dips in the road, soon in a ‘like being at sea’ rhythm and was even able to proceed along with coffee mug in hand, thinking this was actually a very pleasant route when on turning up at the abandoned hotel (which the GPS uses as a route marker) I in one frantic move swore in surprise, shot the coffee mug over at Clare and threw the gears into diff lock low as I faced an immediate very steep, very thick with sand gradient up and right which we hit with perfect speed but were soon ground to a halt two thirds of the way up. Back down and gave it another go but made it only a few feet further. Back again and walked back up lugging the rubber sand mats to give it a proper ‘dune driving’ effort but that too was for nowt and we had to admit defeat and turn back along the road to our campsite and then up to the main road as seemed the logical route to me in the first place. Lost 90 minutes for it all but did get in some good, if completely unexpected, sand experience ... Lesson number whatever number it was by that time: ignore the Garmin if it just doesn’t seem to make sense when measured against your own common sense ...
The road up between Xai Xai and Chissibuca is under construction (by a Chinese company, of course – though for a change with local work crews employed for labour, not imported in as is apparently the norm in most other Chinese projects ...) and is a huge mess, torn down to bare earth and badly rutted, potholed and corrugated; do not attempt in the rain and luckily the 90 minute dune battle had allowed the road to dry out from the pre-dawn shower we’d woken to so that thick mud was not also added to the mix which we’d been warned would make it virtually impassable. Hard going, running the gears from 2 through 4 and back down again repeatedly, slaloming the obstacles and very competitive against the oncoming traffic with often single track being the best way through it all but when it does clear up and you hit the tarmac of the finished areas it is very smooth sailing and will be a terrific stretch of road on completion (should it last the next rainy season ...).
We made it up to Pandene, 350 km’s north, muddy but unscarred, and banged down the corrugated road from the highway for a few kilometres towards the beach before fatefully choosing the more “scenic” of the two routes into the campsite – from ‘normal’ road to diff lock low and a ridiculous narrow, rolling, thick sand road in through the local village housing before emerging somewhat ‘wtf??’ from that unexpected change of driving requirement to the Pandene Beach Resort, which greeted us with a large sign stating “4WD only beyond this point; drop all tires to 1 bar before proceeding.” However the road was downhill to our spot so no issue other than the usual sand wrestling but on getting to the bottom had no choice but to drop all down to 1000 psi to make it the final 5 feet in to set up. After getting the tent up and camp sorted I set up the compressor to re-inflate the tires, which proved easy enough and had all back up within 30 minutes; however – and there’s always an however to such tales – in doing so the plug, set into the cigarette lighter for power, got so hot it fused the fuse into a solid bright red cap of solid plastic and shorted out all of our required plug-in points for GPS, snack fridge, etc. Much swearing; but the camp itself is on an incredible stretch of beach though we were the only ones staying on the entire site the neighbouring resort’s bar was bar lively for the World Cup and SA vs France rugby so overall a decent spot and a nice 2 nights chilling out.
Up next towards the hub for north/south travel at Vilankulos, on the worst road experienced anywhere outside of the legendary stretch between Siem Reap, Cambodia and the Thai border, where whole vehicles get swallowed in the sinkholes – and I didn’t have to drive that one ... Just had to laugh through it, over 120 kms of total disaster; drove most of it on the dirt soft-shoulder, the road itself pitted like moonscape and so beyond repair it doesn’t even look like a road but just random tarmac in between potholes ... Made a mess of timings and got into town late, settling in on the beachfront at Complexo Turistico Josef e Tina, which though recommended (and locally run) is about as spare and spartan as you’d want to actually have to pay for ... Yes; there is an ablutions block; but, no, though, there is no water ... With no fresh on board and no re-supply available en route we need to, unfortunately, head out for dinner. Where’s best to eat, we ask? Across the road we are told, though we should go over there now and wake up the staff and ask they go and “find some seafood” so we can order dinner in “about 3 hours or so.” Uhhuh, I think we’ll just go for a walk and see what else might be available ... Safe around here? Sure, no problem at all unless you’re a single female we’re reliably informed by the South African woman who runs the fairly swank guest house next door. The coastline was badly hit by a cyclone in “2006 or 2007” according to everyone we spoke to (why then, being such an obviously catastrophic event, did nobody know exactly what year it had happened in ...??) but appears to be well under re-construction though still quite a ways away from being fully back on its feet (if in fact it actually ever was there ...). Nowhere though to eat and on we truck, first in one direction and then doubling back on ourselves back the other. Finally after about 90 minutes – in the dark – we find Smugglers and collapse in for a few beers and very good prawn curry. A welcome respite and not at all the pumping sports bar we thought it might be from the way it is advertised. Having (suitably/almost) recovered, we head back rejuvenated, accompanied by two local dogs who obviously find us to be the most entertaining action going in town and provide a good perimeter escort, veering alternately left and right as people appear from the shadows and giving a bark or two announcement that they were there on guard and they’d best give us some distance and they walked us right to our gate before peeling off without ceremony, task done and more adventures certain to be found elsewhere. Only on meeting other travellers later on the route were we told that was actually a very bad stretch of road nobody would recommend anyone ever walking on after dark as muggings were commonplace ...
The next morning we went off in search of a mechanic with electrical expertise and at the local supermarket, just past Smugglers, and while Clare shopped for dry stores I struck up a convo with a local guy who pulled up in a CARE-logo’ed Land Cruiser. He was working HIV awareness programmes in the area and knew everyone – we must go and speak to Dodo, a left turn down off the Barclays on the high street, of which we are currently at one far end of, with the market anchoring the other (and an area best avoided unless you want money changed, carry an aggro don’t-mess-with-me-attitude on display and have a firm hold of your wallet at all times ...). Dodo has our fuse issue sussed and sorted within 90 minutes, and for 400 Meticos (less than 10 GBP) - the best deal in labour yet ... We turn back down the high street to Taurus for fresh goods and find John and Linda in the parking lot. We’ve not been receiving any of their texts so have no idea they’ve been providing road updates and travel schedules for us along the way and so, once shopped and stocked up on good Glen-foods like steaks and boervors head north 60 km to camp with them at the lovely Hotel Seta in Inhassoro, the nicest campsite yet in Moz and a rival to the best anywhere else we’ve stayed at so far on our travels. With the exception of too many children about (not an issue if everyone is from Natal I am told by a number of holidaying South Africans – only those not from Natal don’t know how to camp without disturbing others, or how to control their children in public ...) we pass a very enjoyable 3 nights at the site, doing little more but journal-updating, greeting those passing by, vehicle maintenance and reading ... Wonderfully relaxing – though not for J&L, who escape the mess of children early and are (sensibly) gone after 2 nights ...
Underway early, with a quick stop at the local bakery for hot-off-the presses buns at 2.5 Meticos a piece we’re off northeast, aiming to get as close to the border as possible for an early run at it for the next day. We rocked up at Chimoio for a solid Shoprite re-supply in the CBD just prior and before 2k’s of rolling road to a surprisingly-decent site complete with crocodile enclosure next to reception and a croc-infested lake to camp beside and electricity but with warm water on one side of the ablutions only – male – and a very friendly staff: Paul soon sorted us out with best location to set up at plus tp, soap and hot water for the loo and dry fire wood for the braii. A very good option on the road to the border (and not sure if there is anything else other really ...).
From all the warnings and prior generalizations we continued to be impressed with the quality of the roads and were able to hit a decent stride and sit back and enjoy the passing, stunning scenery; all long lazy climbs and descents across rolling hills lush with palm though admittedly spare of much else (unless you count piles of hardwood stacked road side to be sold as firewood as an arboreal sight ...). Oddly enough there are also few birds, and many times I’ve started as a butterfly wings past my windscreen, realizing I’d not seen anything else fly by in hours ... A lot of fruit though: papayas and oranges arranged in pyramids of bright colour at roadside vendors, or cashew nuts bagged up and held aloft to attract the passing trade by young guys pulling off odd dance moves as an eye-catcher and appeal for his trade over those of the competition strung out along the road (though no matter how appealing the individual’s act it’s tough to get down from 100 to zero in enough space to stop direct at the chosen vendor and not instead about 8 others down the line ...).
We stopped for lunch at Manhica, nice a break from the usual routine of a boervors-stuffed bun on the go, and Clare enjoyed her first round of Mozambique prawns in a mild curry, while I went for a Portuguese-style beef casserole as we were still far from the coast so I thought I’d hold out til I could smell the sea. Both excellent – a relief, as Clare has been looking forward to Moz prawns since arriving in SA and as the rest of the trip is going to be fairly non-vegetarian friendly it was good to see the seafood here was going to live up to the hype.
We camped that night at Praia do Xai-Xai, arriving at Xai Xai Beach Camp to see John and Lynda set up ahead of us. A fairly dismal place with ablutions you felt dirtier leaving than on entering so we had a nice night’s wine drinking in their camper but were both underway early – them far earlier than us as all they had much to do is start the truck whereas we must collapse the tent, fire up the kettle on the gas burner etc and it all takes time regardless of sense of urgency to get away and on the move ...
On leaving, the GPS seemed very confused and directed us not back up to the main road but instead to turn on ourselves and head onto the dirt road bordering the beach used more for ATV’s between lodgings than any vehicle traffic. Turns out that dirt rack was in fact the main road and cleanest route north. So in second we dug into the sand and began to bang along the beautiful coastline for a kilometre or two, rolling with the potholes and dips in the road, soon in a ‘like being at sea’ rhythm and was even able to proceed along with coffee mug in hand, thinking this was actually a very pleasant route when on turning up at the abandoned hotel (which the GPS uses as a route marker) I in one frantic move swore in surprise, shot the coffee mug over at Clare and threw the gears into diff lock low as I faced an immediate very steep, very thick with sand gradient up and right which we hit with perfect speed but were soon ground to a halt two thirds of the way up. Back down and gave it another go but made it only a few feet further. Back again and walked back up lugging the rubber sand mats to give it a proper ‘dune driving’ effort but that too was for nowt and we had to admit defeat and turn back along the road to our campsite and then up to the main road as seemed the logical route to me in the first place. Lost 90 minutes for it all but did get in some good, if completely unexpected, sand experience ... Lesson number whatever number it was by that time: ignore the Garmin if it just doesn’t seem to make sense when measured against your own common sense ...
The road up between Xai Xai and Chissibuca is under construction (by a Chinese company, of course – though for a change with local work crews employed for labour, not imported in as is apparently the norm in most other Chinese projects ...) and is a huge mess, torn down to bare earth and badly rutted, potholed and corrugated; do not attempt in the rain and luckily the 90 minute dune battle had allowed the road to dry out from the pre-dawn shower we’d woken to so that thick mud was not also added to the mix which we’d been warned would make it virtually impassable. Hard going, running the gears from 2 through 4 and back down again repeatedly, slaloming the obstacles and very competitive against the oncoming traffic with often single track being the best way through it all but when it does clear up and you hit the tarmac of the finished areas it is very smooth sailing and will be a terrific stretch of road on completion (should it last the next rainy season ...).
We made it up to Pandene, 350 km’s north, muddy but unscarred, and banged down the corrugated road from the highway for a few kilometres towards the beach before fatefully choosing the more “scenic” of the two routes into the campsite – from ‘normal’ road to diff lock low and a ridiculous narrow, rolling, thick sand road in through the local village housing before emerging somewhat ‘wtf??’ from that unexpected change of driving requirement to the Pandene Beach Resort, which greeted us with a large sign stating “4WD only beyond this point; drop all tires to 1 bar before proceeding.” However the road was downhill to our spot so no issue other than the usual sand wrestling but on getting to the bottom had no choice but to drop all down to 1000 psi to make it the final 5 feet in to set up. After getting the tent up and camp sorted I set up the compressor to re-inflate the tires, which proved easy enough and had all back up within 30 minutes; however – and there’s always an however to such tales – in doing so the plug, set into the cigarette lighter for power, got so hot it fused the fuse into a solid bright red cap of solid plastic and shorted out all of our required plug-in points for GPS, snack fridge, etc. Much swearing; but the camp itself is on an incredible stretch of beach though we were the only ones staying on the entire site the neighbouring resort’s bar was bar lively for the World Cup and SA vs France rugby so overall a decent spot and a nice 2 nights chilling out.
Up next towards the hub for north/south travel at Vilankulos, on the worst road experienced anywhere outside of the legendary stretch between Siem Reap, Cambodia and the Thai border, where whole vehicles get swallowed in the sinkholes – and I didn’t have to drive that one ... Just had to laugh through it, over 120 kms of total disaster; drove most of it on the dirt soft-shoulder, the road itself pitted like moonscape and so beyond repair it doesn’t even look like a road but just random tarmac in between potholes ... Made a mess of timings and got into town late, settling in on the beachfront at Complexo Turistico Josef e Tina, which though recommended (and locally run) is about as spare and spartan as you’d want to actually have to pay for ... Yes; there is an ablutions block; but, no, though, there is no water ... With no fresh on board and no re-supply available en route we need to, unfortunately, head out for dinner. Where’s best to eat, we ask? Across the road we are told, though we should go over there now and wake up the staff and ask they go and “find some seafood” so we can order dinner in “about 3 hours or so.” Uhhuh, I think we’ll just go for a walk and see what else might be available ... Safe around here? Sure, no problem at all unless you’re a single female we’re reliably informed by the South African woman who runs the fairly swank guest house next door. The coastline was badly hit by a cyclone in “2006 or 2007” according to everyone we spoke to (why then, being such an obviously catastrophic event, did nobody know exactly what year it had happened in ...??) but appears to be well under re-construction though still quite a ways away from being fully back on its feet (if in fact it actually ever was there ...). Nowhere though to eat and on we truck, first in one direction and then doubling back on ourselves back the other. Finally after about 90 minutes – in the dark – we find Smugglers and collapse in for a few beers and very good prawn curry. A welcome respite and not at all the pumping sports bar we thought it might be from the way it is advertised. Having (suitably/almost) recovered, we head back rejuvenated, accompanied by two local dogs who obviously find us to be the most entertaining action going in town and provide a good perimeter escort, veering alternately left and right as people appear from the shadows and giving a bark or two announcement that they were there on guard and they’d best give us some distance and they walked us right to our gate before peeling off without ceremony, task done and more adventures certain to be found elsewhere. Only on meeting other travellers later on the route were we told that was actually a very bad stretch of road nobody would recommend anyone ever walking on after dark as muggings were commonplace ...
The next morning we went off in search of a mechanic with electrical expertise and at the local supermarket, just past Smugglers, and while Clare shopped for dry stores I struck up a convo with a local guy who pulled up in a CARE-logo’ed Land Cruiser. He was working HIV awareness programmes in the area and knew everyone – we must go and speak to Dodo, a left turn down off the Barclays on the high street, of which we are currently at one far end of, with the market anchoring the other (and an area best avoided unless you want money changed, carry an aggro don’t-mess-with-me-attitude on display and have a firm hold of your wallet at all times ...). Dodo has our fuse issue sussed and sorted within 90 minutes, and for 400 Meticos (less than 10 GBP) - the best deal in labour yet ... We turn back down the high street to Taurus for fresh goods and find John and Linda in the parking lot. We’ve not been receiving any of their texts so have no idea they’ve been providing road updates and travel schedules for us along the way and so, once shopped and stocked up on good Glen-foods like steaks and boervors head north 60 km to camp with them at the lovely Hotel Seta in Inhassoro, the nicest campsite yet in Moz and a rival to the best anywhere else we’ve stayed at so far on our travels. With the exception of too many children about (not an issue if everyone is from Natal I am told by a number of holidaying South Africans – only those not from Natal don’t know how to camp without disturbing others, or how to control their children in public ...) we pass a very enjoyable 3 nights at the site, doing little more but journal-updating, greeting those passing by, vehicle maintenance and reading ... Wonderfully relaxing – though not for J&L, who escape the mess of children early and are (sensibly) gone after 2 nights ...
Underway early, with a quick stop at the local bakery for hot-off-the presses buns at 2.5 Meticos a piece we’re off northeast, aiming to get as close to the border as possible for an early run at it for the next day. We rocked up at Chimoio for a solid Shoprite re-supply in the CBD just prior and before 2k’s of rolling road to a surprisingly-decent site complete with crocodile enclosure next to reception and a croc-infested lake to camp beside and electricity but with warm water on one side of the ablutions only – male – and a very friendly staff: Paul soon sorted us out with best location to set up at plus tp, soap and hot water for the loo and dry fire wood for the braii. A very good option on the road to the border (and not sure if there is anything else other really ...).
Mozambique Border - Into Moz
MOZAMBIQUE BORDER (R. GARCIA)
Not so much just en
tering another country as dropping into another world within 50 feet of crossing over; an immediate, in-your-face, get-on-guard and plow on through, hand-clutching passport in vice grip to deter swell of eager-to-be-helpful-really-you-have-no-choice-it’s-all-in-Portugeuese-give-me-your-passport-and-I-will-get-it-stamped-for-you jump into the deep end of Real Africa after the easiness and ‘sortidness’ of South Africa. But friendly.
Leaving Clare to guard the car I immediately saw the value in having Henry’s fixer on site – if he’d still been there, mind – as there are dozens of his clones swarming about the crossing, insisting on assisting. Picking one of the lot by instinct alone – but keeping all docs firmly in hand – he got me over to the right counter for visa processing (which, admittedly, I would have struggled to have found solo as there are no signs indicating what desk does what and this one was tucked into the close right hand corner to the entrance and very easy to overlook – plus the agent there spoke zero English and my Portuguese is ... uh, fairly rusty) and so issued the correct docs to complete. I had to repeatedly turn over the docs and stand up straight and firmly shoo multiple helpers away from the left and right as what they need are your passport details in order to fill out the vehicle registration forms concurrently. Seemingly a helpful – to be at a cost, of course – gesture but 1) I don’t provide passport details to anyone other than someone in uniform; and, 2) it just smelled of scam. Which I then quickly identified on subsequently being led over to the vehicle registration counter, still under great chatter from both sides. One of two accompanying me tried to distract with ‘where you from/going’ convo while the other passed the docs across the counter to the very bored-looking agent there. A quick stamp and that was done without issue but then the claim the one had paid 150 Rand “out of my own pocket” for the stamp to go through without issue and I would need to cover that processing fee “when we’re all done.” Easy, easy scam to fall for if you’re not watching closely, as no, no funds were involved at all, his or anyone else’s. Back across the floor for visa’s (174 Rand pp) and out in 20 minutes total.
Then, Scam Part II: on arriving back at the truck I am met by both initial fixer and “his friend” (note all wear official-looking id badges on chains from their necks and act the part of being part of the process very well) who wants to see my entry pass (as issued by the security staff as you drive in). No. But he has a friend who will stamp it with the Customs stamp here at my car; otherwise, if I try and leave, Customs will stop me and go through every inch of my car and if I have not listed something they find that is not on my registration docs they will confiscate or fine. No. I will be sorry I am not cooperating. No. Ok, how about a fee for helping? No. No? No I say, you’ve not been helpful you’re being a pain. You will not give us anything? No. Start engine, have guys realize this really hasn’t worked out well in their favour at all. They then start to laugh, deflated: “You are clever man, very clever. Ok, maybe just something for us?” I hand 10 Rand out the top inch of open window of the truck and we’re off into the inky black of a no-power Mozambique night (and without a Customs agent in sight ...).
The biggest real issue with crossing at R.Garcia is that between there and Maputo, about 90 kms from the border, there is just one option for camping (or overnight stay of any sort) so if you’ve crossed anytime from about 1630 forward you’re in for a dark drive for lodging in, or after, Maputo (which in and of itself is not the best place to be aiming to stay over in – like any major city it’s got its fair share of issues better to be avoided and certainly best not tackled in the dark of your first night in-country). But 6 km from the border is Casa do Campo Lodge, a farmhouse converted into private rooms with shared bath, a small camp area (but without ablutions, though you are free to use the ones in the house), and restaurant, run by a gregarious Afrikaaner married into a Portuguese-Mozambique family who have owned the property and surrounding farm for generations. Though a bit run-down and in need of a woman’s hand (the wife gave up on living there a bit ago after husband shot at for third time, this time successfully ... Though he laughs , as within a few weeks of her moving across into SA the house was invaded and she was tied up while it was ransacked and “not only that but they had the cheek to choose a very nice bottle of my wine for their dinner the buggers – made it up in my kitchen!” so “might as well be here as there” ...) it is a safe refuge and more than adequate for a night (and the chicken from his farm outstanding). The most amusing anecdote he told was that, when the war was on they had their farm nationalized and they were kicked out; on it finishing the army, who’d used the grounds as a base, blew up all the boreholes and had killed off all the livestock long before so left behind “complete and utter devastation”; however, the new Moz government invited anyone who had lost property, especially commercial enterprises, to return if they could produce substantiating documentation. So back across he and the wife moved, generations of papers in hand. They got the farm back – and then were presented with a bill for 25 years of back taxes on the property to cover the years when it was nationalized! He just shrugged it off with a huge laugh, saying it’s a “damned corrupt country but there’s nowhere else I’d rather live.” So, bit dirty, bit spartan, but an entertaining night’s stopover.
It’s probably worth throwing in a bit of background here for context: Mozambique has only recently come out of over 25 years of war, first for independence from Portugal followed immediately after by an east-supported versus west-supported civil war shocking in its savagery (east-supported - Cuba, Russia and China, with only China being the economically-important ally now - coming out on top, with the Marxist Frelimo party still maintaining the government since independence despite a strong - political now not military - opposition from the previously west-supported Renamo). Portugal has had a footprint here for over 500 years and during its colonization considered Moz, and it’s (white) citizenry, to be not a colony or a territory but as much a part of Portugal as the European homeland itself; the battle for independence was vicious and protracted and lead to the Portuguese government’s overthrow (national service of Europeans for wars in Africa do not a happy citizenry or Army make ...); however, for it all the country retains a strong European flavour, with Portuguese still the official national language, everyone you meet a Pedro and some stunning obviously mixed blood people on the streets ... But it is just a bit disconcerting to have a very black African start conversing with you in what sounds like Italian with a lisp ...
Not so much just en
tering another country as dropping into another world within 50 feet of crossing over; an immediate, in-your-face, get-on-guard and plow on through, hand-clutching passport in vice grip to deter swell of eager-to-be-helpful-really-you-have-no-choice-it’s-all-in-Portugeuese-give-me-your-passport-and-I-will-get-it-stamped-for-you jump into the deep end of Real Africa after the easiness and ‘sortidness’ of South Africa. But friendly.Leaving Clare to guard the car I immediately saw the value in having Henry’s fixer on site – if he’d still been there, mind – as there are dozens of his clones swarming about the crossing, insisting on assisting. Picking one of the lot by instinct alone – but keeping all docs firmly in hand – he got me over to the right counter for visa processing (which, admittedly, I would have struggled to have found solo as there are no signs indicating what desk does what and this one was tucked into the close right hand corner to the entrance and very easy to overlook – plus the agent there spoke zero English and my Portuguese is ... uh, fairly rusty) and so issued the correct docs to complete. I had to repeatedly turn over the docs and stand up straight and firmly shoo multiple helpers away from the left and right as what they need are your passport details in order to fill out the vehicle registration forms concurrently. Seemingly a helpful – to be at a cost, of course – gesture but 1) I don’t provide passport details to anyone other than someone in uniform; and, 2) it just smelled of scam. Which I then quickly identified on subsequently being led over to the vehicle registration counter, still under great chatter from both sides. One of two accompanying me tried to distract with ‘where you from/going’ convo while the other passed the docs across the counter to the very bored-looking agent there. A quick stamp and that was done without issue but then the claim the one had paid 150 Rand “out of my own pocket” for the stamp to go through without issue and I would need to cover that processing fee “when we’re all done.” Easy, easy scam to fall for if you’re not watching closely, as no, no funds were involved at all, his or anyone else’s. Back across the floor for visa’s (174 Rand pp) and out in 20 minutes total.
Then, Scam Part II: on arriving back at the truck I am met by both initial fixer and “his friend” (note all wear official-looking id badges on chains from their necks and act the part of being part of the process very well) who wants to see my entry pass (as issued by the security staff as you drive in). No. But he has a friend who will stamp it with the Customs stamp here at my car; otherwise, if I try and leave, Customs will stop me and go through every inch of my car and if I have not listed something they find that is not on my registration docs they will confiscate or fine. No. I will be sorry I am not cooperating. No. Ok, how about a fee for helping? No. No? No I say, you’ve not been helpful you’re being a pain. You will not give us anything? No. Start engine, have guys realize this really hasn’t worked out well in their favour at all. They then start to laugh, deflated: “You are clever man, very clever. Ok, maybe just something for us?” I hand 10 Rand out the top inch of open window of the truck and we’re off into the inky black of a no-power Mozambique night (and without a Customs agent in sight ...).
The biggest real issue with crossing at R.Garcia is that between there and Maputo, about 90 kms from the border, there is just one option for camping (or overnight stay of any sort) so if you’ve crossed anytime from about 1630 forward you’re in for a dark drive for lodging in, or after, Maputo (which in and of itself is not the best place to be aiming to stay over in – like any major city it’s got its fair share of issues better to be avoided and certainly best not tackled in the dark of your first night in-country). But 6 km from the border is Casa do Campo Lodge, a farmhouse converted into private rooms with shared bath, a small camp area (but without ablutions, though you are free to use the ones in the house), and restaurant, run by a gregarious Afrikaaner married into a Portuguese-Mozambique family who have owned the property and surrounding farm for generations. Though a bit run-down and in need of a woman’s hand (the wife gave up on living there a bit ago after husband shot at for third time, this time successfully ... Though he laughs , as within a few weeks of her moving across into SA the house was invaded and she was tied up while it was ransacked and “not only that but they had the cheek to choose a very nice bottle of my wine for their dinner the buggers – made it up in my kitchen!” so “might as well be here as there” ...) it is a safe refuge and more than adequate for a night (and the chicken from his farm outstanding). The most amusing anecdote he told was that, when the war was on they had their farm nationalized and they were kicked out; on it finishing the army, who’d used the grounds as a base, blew up all the boreholes and had killed off all the livestock long before so left behind “complete and utter devastation”; however, the new Moz government invited anyone who had lost property, especially commercial enterprises, to return if they could produce substantiating documentation. So back across he and the wife moved, generations of papers in hand. They got the farm back – and then were presented with a bill for 25 years of back taxes on the property to cover the years when it was nationalized! He just shrugged it off with a huge laugh, saying it’s a “damned corrupt country but there’s nowhere else I’d rather live.” So, bit dirty, bit spartan, but an entertaining night’s stopover.
It’s probably worth throwing in a bit of background here for context: Mozambique has only recently come out of over 25 years of war, first for independence from Portugal followed immediately after by an east-supported versus west-supported civil war shocking in its savagery (east-supported - Cuba, Russia and China, with only China being the economically-important ally now - coming out on top, with the Marxist Frelimo party still maintaining the government since independence despite a strong - political now not military - opposition from the previously west-supported Renamo). Portugal has had a footprint here for over 500 years and during its colonization considered Moz, and it’s (white) citizenry, to be not a colony or a territory but as much a part of Portugal as the European homeland itself; the battle for independence was vicious and protracted and lead to the Portuguese government’s overthrow (national service of Europeans for wars in Africa do not a happy citizenry or Army make ...); however, for it all the country retains a strong European flavour, with Portuguese still the official national language, everyone you meet a Pedro and some stunning obviously mixed blood people on the streets ... But it is just a bit disconcerting to have a very black African start conversing with you in what sounds like Italian with a lisp ...
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