Good morning Cruiser!
Zzzz. Lovely. Twas a bit easier sleep in this morning as I tented under the shade of a reed roof and escaped the scorching 6am heat that tormented us back in Macanete. Furthermore twas a bit overcast this morning and not even that muggy - a welcome respite from the tropics, however long it may last. In true holiday style, for once, we got up at our ease and fried up a slow egg brekkie on the skottel before packing up.
Creepy naked German tourist reading graphic novel
The beach was but a hundred meters away at the foot of the large dune that propped up our Sunset Lodge. Plenty craic testing out the Cruiser on the vast expanse of foreshore that stretched, well, indefinitely as far as I could make out. A few other 4x4 tracks left by early morning (SA) fishermen made the speeding a bit tricky as once she popped into a rut there was very little steerage whatsoever. Several km down the beach (going North) a wee muddy byroad revealed itself in the dune and I pulled off. Chris's pa had an interest in a property being developed in a new lodge estate nearby - essentially a collection of holiday homes stuck right out in the sticks miles away from any amenities whatsoever. The perfect holiday break from the woes of career life. We had been burdened with the task of locating and photographing the teach beag in question - a small ask really considering the free rental of our snazzy set of wheels.
Early misty run on the beach. Watch out for them turtles.
Grand in the sand
We had some difficulty in locating the gaff but eventually found that it was the more neglected looking abode of the unfinished units. There had been some delays and other issues with the work and the photodocumentary of these issues formed part of our scope of detective work. It seemed that the tigín had at one stage been near-finished, albeit to a questionable standard, but work had obviously been halted abruptly, almost with gusto. In the months since some floorboards have gone missing, window panes lost and frames warped and siezing due simply to a lack of TLC and a very salty, hurricaney environment. The finish of the work though is not ideal - and unlike a few floorboards, cannot be replaced. Still, there lay a few complete articles about the place that didn't look too bad at all at all, so all's not lost.
"Shoddy workmanship Ted. They're a bunch of cowboys!"
Shoddy!
Shoddy!
Shoddy!
"Right lads, be sure to squeeze the downpipe inside the house, that's it, right back there behind the jacks. No, no, tighter against the toilet so that we'll never fit on a seat. That's it! Let's see the fella swing his elbows now! Right, now be sure to put the hot and cold water knobs right next to each other, pointing in and skew. That way we'll have to make a balls of only one tile. Great stuff."
However, with a bit of patience and TLC these wee little chalets can indeed turn out a gem!
Driving back to Chidenguele proper we were picking up a hunger so decided to call into the town's legendary attraction: the aforementioned bakery. But lo! fresh bread was not to be, the bakery shut for some reason or another. A few midday dops had to suffice at the nearby tavern to help dampen the appetite a wee bit til we passed a more suitable eatery.
Stopping off in Chidenguele for a liquid lunch (the bakery was closed unfortunately).
Between Chidenguele and the coastline there lies a 40ft container, once converted into a small shop, which has now grown in size to become a respectable supermarket. It is now roughly the size of two 40-ft containers side by side and stocks any conceivable item a fella could imagine or wish for in the western world. Beer cans next to condensed milk cans, paraffin next to toilet paper, aluminium pots next to poijke pots, toilet cleaner next to pipe cleaners, frozen fish heads next to fresh paw-paws. You get the picture. As a self confessed hoarder of goods it was fascinating to see so much stuff in one room, and all of it completely useful and desirable. Incredible work from the procurement department. Quality of merchandise was a bit interesting (courtesy of China) though as were the "English" instructions on the packets. Here we picked up some more 2M cerveza for the icebox and I spotted a pack of "2012 World cup Playing Cards" for meself. Can't wait for that one. I also picked up a few posthumous Michael Jackson schoolchildren's exercise copy books (2010).
It's here! 2012 World Cup - Starring at least two recognisable international teams.
We hit the splendid EN1 again rolling North towards our end-goal, Inhambane, or more accurately, Praia de Tofo. It seemed the EN1 was one massive construction site, with a new work gang every 40 km or so, staffed by hordes of local boys and led by one or maybe two Chinese foremen. All equipment was blatantly Chinese: rollers, compactors, asphalters, trucks, dumpers, diggers etc etc. Strange to imagine the Chinese economy is skyrocketing thanks to a "humanitarian" construction scheme in the heart of poor Africa. One speculates what the long term benefit will be for them Orientals on this end.
Spot the high tech, high viz traffic cones to stop you ploughing into some local worker or the front end of a made in China steamroller. In fairness this "bushes in the road" early warning system worked in the daytime alright but I dread to think how brightly the twigs will stand out by night. All the same, it beats buying hundreds of km of authentic traffic cones or Stop-Go signs.
Passing by Quissico we couldn't help but pull off the main road and trundle down towards the absolutely majestic network of azure lagoons that nestled below beyond the rainforest thicket. Superb, though as always the camera doesn't do it justice. We bounced down and skirted around for far longer than expected with the goal of reaching the wee spit that held the lagoon back from the sea. Though it seemed, like all Mozambican countryside, to be an uninhabited lush jungle, hundreds of leaf-built shacks were scattered left right and centre under the protection of the tall coconut trees and the glade that they (and plenty creepers) offered. If you squinted hard enough into the green of the jungle you'd spot chickens scampering about some camouflaged shack, or fish drying on a line between trees.
Finally we reached what we sought - a dead end by the Indian Ocean. Here there was also what appeared to be a bit of a backpackers/hippy traveller bar but the thing was completely deserted, doors open, till and beers and all left standing. A wretched haunt in the middle of nowhere. Starving, and with no beer to be had in the abandoned beer shack we resorted to a new culinary low of the trip: meatballs from a can.
Although I've eaten my share of heavily processed, preserved and canned food before, particularly when travelling, I must admit I've always quite enjoyed it or at least finished my artificial meal. Not in this case. 3 of the 8 or so meatballs on offer, and very little of the "gravy" could I consume before packing it in. A quick check of the ingredients revealed most of the meat was "mechanically deboned poultry and poultry". I've no desire to find out the difference between the two, or what constitutes "poultry" these days that could possibly be cheaper or less tasty than battery-pen chickens.
A little dejected, and burnt by the now searing heat, we got back on track and made our way to Inhambane. Inhambane, and it's offshoot of a headland that juts into the ocean, is very popular with tourists and with good reason. Incredible beaches, fishing, snorkelling and diving. Quite a nice self contained little spit with all the activities, amenities and natural features a fella could want . It began as a coconut plantation back in the day (when perhaps there was more of a demand for coconuts?) and though nonoperational, is still considered to be the world's largest such plantation. Many families live of the stuff, subsistence survival being the norm here.
Reaching Tofo at dusk we checked into the campsite at Fatima's Nest which seemed to be madly overpriced but one of few options to suit our needs. The braai was pulled out and the lambchops, previously described as the best I'd ever tasted were given a searing. I confirmed this fact, aided by a couple bottles of Cab Sauv courtesy of the Smuts's cellar. After some more of this and that we headed to the local disco bar, well known by backpackers far and wide.
Bob's (Dino's) started slowly but was jumping by the end of the night and was well worth the effort of attendance. My partner in crime however was not jumping by the end of the night, more dribbling than anything else. I couldn't fathom it as we'd had far livelier nights lately without too much ill effect. The next morning we concluded that his temporary lapse in barskills could be put down to the startling amount of petrol he consumed while siphoning from the spare tank to the fuel tank. I suggest we bring a hand fuel-pump on out next trip...
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Open road. What a sky. What a sight. What a feeling.
