Aaaagh! I'm covered in bees! Covered in beeees!
Things began to hot up though once the heavily armed SA border cops came into view. Despite already being drenched in sweat, I noticed that dreaded, cooling "fear sweat" that you only get a few times in your lifetime creeping up on me and creeping down my lower spine, goosebumping as it travelled. You may have experienced it if you have ever tried to buy bottles of Alcopop during daylight hours on Paddy's day when grossly underage and there's plenty teachers lurking about. Or if you've ever knowingly had 103ml of shampoo in your hand luggage while queueing for the scanner at JFK airport.
Why, one may wonder, was I a little jittery at a a standard African shed of a border crossing? Well, a grand scheme had been set in motion - one which, like all grand schemes of yore, had been hatched the previous night over a few alternate snifters of rum, brandy and whiskey. Talk had turned to the renewed popularity of Mozambique as a tourist destination among South African holidaymakers. Indeed, it was well reported that on the 23rd and 24th of December the queues at the border to get into Moz stretched over 17km long. Around 25km long at its worst. So we would aim to avoid such delays, obviously. But how could we ensure a smooth passage on our side, assuming when we cross over the lines are a lot shorter? Make sure everything's in ship-shape obviously. Give the bureaucrats very little or no excuse to detain us for more than STRICTLY necessary (10-20 seconds I reckon). Easy so then - just make sure our visas are in order. Not a problem - South African citizens can pass freely between any SADC nations, no visa required. But lo! - I'm not South African! And if memory served me correctly (from my travels 1.5yrs previous with Derry agus POK) a visa cost around R1000 just for passage into Moz. And another R500 odd for Swaziland. A little outrageous for a transit trip?...yes, we all agreed. What's more, I could not determine whether or not a visa could be obtained at the border or if one had to apply at Nelspruit. Guide books and internet clashed on opinion here. As did suggested opening hours of the embassy - some saying it only re-opened on 3rd Jan - entirely ruling out a Moz trip. A little unfair, wouldn't you say? Yes, yes, of course, yes. Thay all agreed. Racist against Europeans even. Yes, crazy, unfair... Pass the rum. Yes, terrible really.
It did not take much more of this sort of lubricated talk before we unanimously agreed on the only logical solution. I would not, nay - I could not possibly travel as an Irishman into the neighbouring states. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare! Not to mind cost an arm and a leg. No, no, the only solution was that I travel as a South African - a hearty white well-built Afrikaans speaking gentleman of a boer of a South African. Slán go fóill Padhraic O' Connor, en baie welkom Adriaan Smuts (Jnr)!
In fairness, the resemblance was uncanny. Adriaan was only 8 months my junior, roughly my height and weight and build and sported a fine head of silky brown hair with blue eyes. And what's more, he didn't need his passport over the coming month. Great.
Absolutely uncanny: both passports were almost identical in dimension.
So, the first test was upon us! Would some fat little woman behind the counter really take a long hard look at our faces before contrasting with those likenesses on paper? Well, no. She didn't care at all really. Nor the the short fat little woman on the Swazi side. In & out. The first Face/Off test passed with flying colours.
At the SA customs side of things the officials were quite keen on the wooden sea chest in Betty's trunk and her contents got a good gawping.Interestingly the engine was inspected and the engine number was phoned in to check for authenticity. To be honest I hadn't a clue if she was a former getaway car or not so I was nervously curious abut the result. In the end I was relieved to find out that the engine wasn't hot, if you will**.
15km down the road into Mswatiland and a uniformed chappie at a roadblock insists my right rear reverse light and brake lights are blown. I rebooted the system and jumped out for a look by which time the problem seemed to have sorted itself out, luckily. Fortunately he didn't realise my International drivers licence was 1yr out of date. Luckier still he didn't ask for my (Adriaan) passport which had a slightly odd looking photo inside.
Anyway, belted on without issue in this notoriously relaxed country. Quickly realised that LRP was non-existent, so had to make do with unleaded til we got back into SA. Bang in the middle of the wee Kingdom we pulled in by a sugar plantation for a spot of grub leftover from the night before. Lovely toasted sandwiches (actually braai broitjies - a staple Africaans food - toasted cheese, tomato, onion and Mrs Balls sandwiches done on the braai) and a right load of lambchops, all heated up on Betty's now warping 80°C bonnet. Perfect.
Toasted sarmies griddled to perfection on Betty's bonnet
Not much ever really happens in Swaziland and to be honest not much really did happen during our c.200km transit trek. Plenty mealies, sugar and fertile earth as far as the eye could see. Thankfully we eased our way through the exit border post without any issues and popped out not too far from Nelspruit. After a long long long day on the road and a few kilos of sweat lighter we reached the Smuts family residence in Whiterivier.
From l to r: Adriaan, Christiaan and Garmin, the short lived and quite unnecessary GPS system aboard Betty
Following a well deserved and crucial kip and shower combo we headed down to The Keg & Java at 17:00 for a few scoops. Quite the goldmine here and the epicentre (or only centre) of Nelspruit nightlife it appears. Here we met up with good ol chums Thea and Boeta from Stellenbosch - Van der Stel Rugbyklub stalwarts - and now proud parents of a bonny babby girl. With the little one in the care of granny they were only delighted to get out of the house and join us for our "one or two" sups. Needless to say we left the joint at 02:00 a little worse for wear.
The noggin was a little soft the next day alright but blame there lay squarely on the amphibious army that annihilated the eardrums at the Keg the night before. It's pretty bizarre when you have to shout at the fellow next to you just to make your point heard above the din of ten thousand frogs. I'll be in no rush back to the place after that eerie encounter.
Feckin' Frogs. Click to play.
**I think that's one of the better engine-theft based puns I've ever seen published.
