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 ...
Showing posts with label mozambique. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mozambique. Show all posts
Monday, June 21, 2010
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 ...
South Africa - Mozambique Border Crossing
SA – MOZAMBIQUE BORDER CROSSING – 09 JUNE
Just prior to the border is a large BP station with forecourt full of various shops and roadside entry blocked with dozens of money sellers keen for currency exchange. Off to the left of the pumps is a small tin-roofed shed housing Global Alliance; in it, Henry will sort you out for 3rd party insurance prior to hitting the border and, being a bit of a fixer, is available for any other requirements you may have – he also has a colleague there from the Moz side who can accompany you through both sides of the border, translate documents and just generally smooth the way through for about 100 Rand (negotiated and paid on successful clearance of the Moz side). We agreed on all services, as well as Henry’s choice of money seller picked out from the crowd, a large matronly woman in a huge flowered ‘best for church’ hat who bustled into the already crowded shed and pulled out a six-inch wad of notes kept safely stashed within the vaults of her (ample) bosom, offered at an exchange rate 2 points better than the Bureau de Change (4.3 versus 4.1). That sorted we were off in convoy, us in the lead followed closely by the Church Lady driving the Moz fixer, as we’d no room for a passenger and he’d no car but was certainly not losing the business for it.
Then things got interesting.
The SA side was packed, heaving with a mix of aggro’d holidayers (in the minority) frustrated with the delays and traders who crossed the border daily to purchase cheaper SA goods for mark-up and sale on the other side trying any angle to dodge the queues and get moving through quickly (I “Oi, get back in here, we all wait in the same line”’d one young guy who made a dash under the barrier behind me to get to an open kiosk faster than the head of the queue could react ... To his credit he did reverse but I now had Mr Surly behind me for the next 30 minutes ...). The system (seems wherever you go and whatever the circumstances it’s always the fault of ‘the system’) was running slow “but scheduled to be upgraded soon” and it took about an hour total to get the entry pass stamped (first queue) then passport stamped for exit (queue two). Then we went to get our VAT refund outside and it all went to hell in a handbasket for the next six hours ...
The process: have agent lounging about outside the office (really a trailer) take receipts and go through each line by line to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected (our Macro receipt alone was about 4 feet long ...). Realize we are owed more than 3000 Rand and the border office cannot process such receipts. Do u-turn in border car queue (despite now being stamped out of country) and head for airport for commercial customs clearance centre some 30 minutes back down highway. Have agent there go through each receipt line by line (again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Get receipts stamped and return to border. Have same original agent still lounging about outside the office take now stamped and duly-authorized receipts and go through each line by line (again again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Discuss in detail. Agree on total eligibility and join queue at office for payment processing. Wait. Finally get to one of only 2 out of 6 kiosks operating and have agent there go through each receipt line by line (again again again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Have them photocopy passport and applicable credit card used for any purchases (ensure to insist on crossing out all visible numbers of card save for final 4). Get cheque issued for very small amount purchased on Clare’s card, which we are informed can – now this is very helpful – be deposited and paid out at the local bank back in town (process seems to have lost focus that at this stage recipient is out of SA and heading into Moz, not having day’s outing for fun at border ...). Have agent say I must return in 2-3 weeks to pick up cheque as it exceeds amount they can issue (again, that above 3000 Rand rule appears, but in a new context ...). Inform agent you will probably be in Zambia in 2-3 weeks time and, as obvious from passports she is holding, you are not South African so would have no intention of returning there to pick up cheque that should be issued on the spot. Have agent leave desk to confer with all other agents in room – all work now ceasing – and stall queue behind for further 10 minutes making you Most Hated Man at South African Border for those who clutch one single, simple receipt behind you, not wad of two dozen obviously problematic ones as you have handed across an hour before. Have women in queue 15 places behind you – but directly behind due to snake of ropes – burst into tears on mobile phone, obviously explaining why it is taking her so long to a very unsympathetic authoritarian figure on other end of call. Agree to solution – and only solution - with agent that cheque will be posted to UK address once processed; provide address on small slip of paper and lay poor odds it actually gets somehow connected to stack of receipts. Lose possession of all receipts and therefore record of all purchases as they must be held by VAT office for cheque to be issued and are never returned, making re-sale, warranty’s, etc, a bit of an issue (issue for future confrontation). Depart deflated by process yet giddy with victory over bureaucracy. Approach Mozambique border six hours off initial timings and without fixer who has given up and left. And in the dark, of course ...
Just prior to the border is a large BP station with forecourt full of various shops and roadside entry blocked with dozens of money sellers keen for currency exchange. Off to the left of the pumps is a small tin-roofed shed housing Global Alliance; in it, Henry will sort you out for 3rd party insurance prior to hitting the border and, being a bit of a fixer, is available for any other requirements you may have – he also has a colleague there from the Moz side who can accompany you through both sides of the border, translate documents and just generally smooth the way through for about 100 Rand (negotiated and paid on successful clearance of the Moz side). We agreed on all services, as well as Henry’s choice of money seller picked out from the crowd, a large matronly woman in a huge flowered ‘best for church’ hat who bustled into the already crowded shed and pulled out a six-inch wad of notes kept safely stashed within the vaults of her (ample) bosom, offered at an exchange rate 2 points better than the Bureau de Change (4.3 versus 4.1). That sorted we were off in convoy, us in the lead followed closely by the Church Lady driving the Moz fixer, as we’d no room for a passenger and he’d no car but was certainly not losing the business for it.
Then things got interesting.
The SA side was packed, heaving with a mix of aggro’d holidayers (in the minority) frustrated with the delays and traders who crossed the border daily to purchase cheaper SA goods for mark-up and sale on the other side trying any angle to dodge the queues and get moving through quickly (I “Oi, get back in here, we all wait in the same line”’d one young guy who made a dash under the barrier behind me to get to an open kiosk faster than the head of the queue could react ... To his credit he did reverse but I now had Mr Surly behind me for the next 30 minutes ...). The system (seems wherever you go and whatever the circumstances it’s always the fault of ‘the system’) was running slow “but scheduled to be upgraded soon” and it took about an hour total to get the entry pass stamped (first queue) then passport stamped for exit (queue two). Then we went to get our VAT refund outside and it all went to hell in a handbasket for the next six hours ...
The process: have agent lounging about outside the office (really a trailer) take receipts and go through each line by line to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected (our Macro receipt alone was about 4 feet long ...). Realize we are owed more than 3000 Rand and the border office cannot process such receipts. Do u-turn in border car queue (despite now being stamped out of country) and head for airport for commercial customs clearance centre some 30 minutes back down highway. Have agent there go through each receipt line by line (again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Get receipts stamped and return to border. Have same original agent still lounging about outside the office take now stamped and duly-authorized receipts and go through each line by line (again again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Discuss in detail. Agree on total eligibility and join queue at office for payment processing. Wait. Finally get to one of only 2 out of 6 kiosks operating and have agent there go through each receipt line by line (again again again) to ascertain what is and is not eligible for a refund, then calculate how listed VAT is summarily affected. Have them photocopy passport and applicable credit card used for any purchases (ensure to insist on crossing out all visible numbers of card save for final 4). Get cheque issued for very small amount purchased on Clare’s card, which we are informed can – now this is very helpful – be deposited and paid out at the local bank back in town (process seems to have lost focus that at this stage recipient is out of SA and heading into Moz, not having day’s outing for fun at border ...). Have agent say I must return in 2-3 weeks to pick up cheque as it exceeds amount they can issue (again, that above 3000 Rand rule appears, but in a new context ...). Inform agent you will probably be in Zambia in 2-3 weeks time and, as obvious from passports she is holding, you are not South African so would have no intention of returning there to pick up cheque that should be issued on the spot. Have agent leave desk to confer with all other agents in room – all work now ceasing – and stall queue behind for further 10 minutes making you Most Hated Man at South African Border for those who clutch one single, simple receipt behind you, not wad of two dozen obviously problematic ones as you have handed across an hour before. Have women in queue 15 places behind you – but directly behind due to snake of ropes – burst into tears on mobile phone, obviously explaining why it is taking her so long to a very unsympathetic authoritarian figure on other end of call. Agree to solution – and only solution - with agent that cheque will be posted to UK address once processed; provide address on small slip of paper and lay poor odds it actually gets somehow connected to stack of receipts. Lose possession of all receipts and therefore record of all purchases as they must be held by VAT office for cheque to be issued and are never returned, making re-sale, warranty’s, etc, a bit of an issue (issue for future confrontation). Depart deflated by process yet giddy with victory over bureaucracy. Approach Mozambique border six hours off initial timings and without fixer who has given up and left. And in the dark, of course ...
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