Day 25 - Oudtshoorn to Stellenbosch (404km)

Twasn't as hot this morning, thank christ. Up late, but still before the rest of the hostel. Hit the fabled Route 62, hastily, without a spot of grub. Didn't stop until Calitzdorp, 50 odd k away, where I topped up.Couple of nice lookin cafes hanging about here. Belted on through pretty samey looking landscape for another 100km or so - dirt, scraggly bushes, rocks and infestations of ostriches. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of the smelly oversized feckers. A few rocky passes and flat patches later I finally reached my first milestone of the day: "The World Famous Ronnie's Sex Shop", as its buntings proudly proclaim. If you haven't been inside it's well worth a stop. A bit bizarre really.

Onnie's Sex Shop, Klein Karoo, Route 62

Legend has it that Ronnie once owned a bit of a fruit and veg shop in the middle of the Klein Karoo (about 70km from the nearest shop) that wasn't doing so well. One late night after a few scoops his chums took a bucket of red paint and scrawled SEX on the gable end, to read Ronnie's SEX Shop. Gas lads. Business thrived the next day with curious locals, farmers and travellers popping in. Before long there was so much commotion and curiosity that he simply had to turn it into a pub. And the legend continues. Inside, every square inch of the place is covered with permanent marker, business cards and women's brassieres. Having left some pro-Lions slogans on the wall there during the Tour  in 2009 I endeavoured to find them as I'd completely forgotten what I'd written. All I could find was a fairly uninspired chant for John "The Bull" Hayes, regularly spotted on a bedsheet banner at Thomond Park. I also recall leaving a well worn pair of blue cotton boxers behind the tv, to help balance the excessive amount of womens underthings on show. Oddly enough, they were nowhere to be seen this time round.

Some of the graffitti on show at Ronnie's

Out of patronage sake I grabbed a quick beer in the morning heat and had the pleasure of meeting Ronnie, a bit of a legend by all accounts.Supping a Black Label at 9am, he was predicting rain to end the 10 day 40°C+ heat wave. Eyebrows were raised and I moved on.

A few hot and dust passes later I began to notice that the minor inaccuracy inherent in Betty's speedo was beginning to worsen. The video below, taken at what I calculated to be 80 km/h (via engine pitch), illustrates this nicely.

 Betty tipping 160 km/h! Sit tight and watch til the end...

Eventually drove through the next dorpie Barrydale which has come along leaps and bounds since I was last there in the cold rains of 2009. Lots of decent looking padstals, coffee houses, restaurants, dried fruit stalls etc. Kept motoring until I reached Montagu - the town I had allocated as Brekkieville at 0700 this morning. I recognised the small street lamp lit bridge on the way in as being the same one on the popular dried fruit bags.

Two proud culinary signs greet you as you enter Montagu; "Montague - Where drying fruit is a way of life" and "Visit Wimpy in Montagu, 1km on right". The main street through town was heaving with good, hearty looking bistros/delis/cafes that all served all-day breakfasts, so I pulled randomly into the Rambling Rose cafe, hoping that the food (and not the clientele) would bear some resemblance to that at Limerick's infamous Red Rose cafe. I pulled up and parked slowly, listening out for a new ticking sound that had just developed. Upon alighting I realised I was parked next to a familiar looking Toyota Corolla with CL plates. Could it be? A quick sconce at the doors confirmed my suspicions. The 4-speed Corolla with ghastly fruit salad decal splattered down the side was none other than Daffy - the pride and joy of my ex-housemate Robyn. Robyn, I believed, was running a bistro in Bonnievale, some 30km away or so, with her parents. Obviously I was wrong and the Rambling Rose was there little eatery here in Montagu. Quel Surprise! As I ambled inside Robyn lunged at me with a festive hug shouting "I knew I saw Betty outside, I just knew it!".
So I had to stay for a bite then. A lovely little joint, one of the cleanest and airiest and well laid out cafes I'd come across.We chit chatted for almost 2 hours over cappuccinos, scones and a salmon wrap (gratis) before I headed away again, a complimentary jar of tomato jam in the hand.

Betty, Robyn, Daffy, fruit salad and tomato jam

Just outside town there are some incredible rock formations that the road winds through. Seems as if the mountains had split clean in half here and there. Must have been a formidable oul trek up here back in day, wooden wagon wheels underfoot.

Familiar with the route home from Worcester I just kept the pedal down with the end in sight. Very average trip back to Stellenbosch, save for the daunting trip through the 3.9km Huguenot Tunnel - the longest in SA. And a drunk Mahindra driver on the N2. And a car dragging its bumper for several kilometers. A 50km downhill trip to Stellies and I was finally back under the grubby and shaded parkade chez moi. Home safe and sound, quite unbelievably. Time to unpack the contents of Betty's enormous sea-chest full of tools, of which only the Blu-tack (Prestick) was used. 

Betty's tool cabinet. Enough hardware tucked away to get out of ANY sticky situation. Thankfully, none of it (apart from lashings of engine oil) was used...

Once out of the steamy and slippery cockpit and into the serenity of my (seemingly enormous)  bedroom I realised my ears were ringing like never before. Moderate long-term tinnitis, to be sure. 

4759km in Betty door to door! 

I was knackered.

Day 24 - Colesburg to Oudtshoorn (551km)

Up at 0630 after a pleasant sleep alone in my 8-man dorm. Had an interesting dream in which my baby brother DOC was giving me refresher sailing lessons in a 420 except he was Japanese featured and spoke in Oriental English. Of course.
The plan for the day was to travel from Colesburg, which is only famous for being "that small town where everybody driving across the country sleeps for just one night to break up the trip", and Oudtshoorn, the ostrich capital of the world. Two fairly hot, arid, thrilling milestones then.

Early morning pick-me-up. Gotta love driving through the Karoo. With The Cure. And a towel on the dash. Slowly.


Started the day with a fill-up: again unleaded. Tsk. I opted for the N9 going south across the "scenic" Karoo as opposed to the faster and more boring N1 east to Cape Town. And indeed it was scenic. Real Karoo landscape, as promised. Could have been stuck in any wild west flick - the tumbleweed, the sparse shrubbery, the dusty panoramas, the crackling warmth. I rolled into Graaff Reinet "The Pearl of the Karoo" a little after 0900 and my shorts were already soaked through with sweat, no thanks to the all charcoal grey, all glossy pleather interior of the Bantam.
The mercury would've been tipping mid-30s certainly at this hour and even the SPF30, applied at 0700 had given up the ghost.

Decent fry, and decent coffee. Gobshite owner.

Having spun around the main roundabout a few times I trudged my way to the nearest "Farmhouse Breakfast" eatery I could find. The "Cool Karakel" or something like that was smack-bang on the Groot-Kerk plaza - prime real estate - so I knew it would have quality and prices to match. Good grub and at last good "genuine Italian coffee" (Lavazza, available near you). After gorging and watching the owner scaremonger a family of would-be-clients into getting a takeaway breakfast due to his incessant intrusions (think Newman's Corner) I ambled off to Venter's Game and Biltong Deli, which I spotted on the drive in. Here I picked up some semi wet droewors (kudu), the best on the trip so far and quite possibly the finest droewors I've tasted in this or any other country. Mighty (wet) beef biltong too. A real gem - non English speaking mind - located across from the towns taxidermist, as the slaughtered and mounted busts on the wall testify. 

 Tannie at Venter's slaghuis. Best droewors in all the land!

After popping into a couple of museum-cum-antique shops I picked up a complete works of Shakespeare for R100 and got on my way southalong. 60km later I pulled into the poorly named Aberdeen to fill 'er up. My god it was hot in this godforsaken spot (which, like every other village round here boasted battered remnants of a once pretty and proud settlement).

It was in desolate Aberdeen I confirmed another peculiar quirk of Betty's. She'll point blank refuse to start if she's too hot. And parked in the garage forecourt without an 80kph apparent wind in her gills her thermometer needle was pointing at red. It must've been 45 degrees out. Try start her and she'll turn over and over and over with no sign of breathing any fuel. She'll splutter after a long spell if you force her but that's it. The trick is simple. Pop the hood, let her breathe, run the fan if you must. And if you confide in your battery. 10 to 15 mins breathing time and she'll start first time. My guess is the fuel's disappearing somewhere en route between the tank and the carb.
A nice trick but not that impressive if there's a line of crocks queued up behind you waiting for the only LRP tank in town. 

 I belted on, so, full of oil and water and fuel, covered in suncream and pumping sweat until I reached the delightful Willowmore. I had to hold the steering wheel at 6 o' clock as the tops of my hands were scalded from holding it at "10 to 2".  There is sweet shag all along the 110km between Aberdeen and Willowmore except a dried out dam, a bit of a hill and a kink in the road. And many many sheep. 

Obligatory mid-morning Coloured dust up as I view in glee from the relative safety of my vehicle

 
After driving through Willowmore's Main Street that comprised two Jets and sixteen drankwinkels to appease the burgeoning coloured population I eventually happened upon the only "white" "respectable" establishment in town, "The Royal Hotel". I ran to the stoep and after demanding a beer the hostess ushered my sweaty self through a nondescript cheap brown door off the side of the empty but well-dressed restaurant. Inside was what I'd been craving all along. A pitch black smoky bar with four Afrikaaner farmers and two solid women smoking and drinking on stools. I moved staraight to the beer fridge and demanded their coldest Windhoek. No longer were the words out of my mouth a large 50-yr old man with a grey mullet and stubbly moustache proclaimed "From where are YOU!" in his strongest Afrikaans. Upon mention of the word "Ireland" there was a Jagermeister in front of me, 13:45 of an afternoon. 

"How funny", I thought, "these country folk. A digestif even afore I've ordered my chicken-mayo sandwich!". Any way, gift horses and big boers, who was I to refuse? Two hours and five additional (entirely complimentary) beers later I felt it was time to get motoring before things got out of hand. Indeed it was mentioned on more than one occasion that I stay the night as Saturday night was a baie lekker jol. The farmers and families come from all around. 100km even. Sconcing at the two-tone clad crowd that was slowly building I thought it best to move along. And speaking of hands! By god! If you think you've seen hands then think again. Denis Leamy? Nothing. The Bull Hayes? Pah! Damien Cogan, bullock beater of Long Island - well, close. But you've never seen digits as fat as those balled up at the end of a Karoo sheep or gemsbok farmer's meaty arms.

The very presentable Royal Hotel from the outside. And Betty's starboard quarter.

The less presentable Royal Hotel bar. A quintessential countryside watering hole.

A quick escape through the toilet window in the (entirely plausible) case of an arranged marriage was rendered impossible thanks to the enormous latrine guard dog.

 

So. I shipped out before I landed up with a young wife and some dry land. The drive to Oudtshoorn was welcome, though entirely and oppressively miserable. Finally got there though, a few kilos lighter I'm sure.

Day 23 - Belfast to Colesburg (882km)

Mist in Belfast

An interesting morning at the old Smuts farm. At 0500 it was bright outside but a bitterly cold mist was arseing about. I couldn't believe it - the middle of summer and it was below 10°C outside in the day time. I can't imagine how miserably cold this spot - one of the highest plateaus in Southern Africa - is in midwinter with a breeze sweeping through. Twas a pleasant though not overly challenging drive on the wet and clayey dirt track back to Belfast town.




Hitting tar, I pulled into the first garage at 0600 (still bitter out) in order to fill up on LRP and also to check why she was running a little hot so early in the day. Popped the bonnet to find yellow coolant literally pissing out of the thermostat housing, for want of a better metaphor (see pic). Not a biggie, thankfully. The hoseclip had cut a nick through the waterhose to the cabin heater. Luckily the hose was just about long enough to cut the culpable length off and re-clamp it. Perfect job. Oil was fine too, but lucky I nipped the leak in the bud.



Hands were frozen after the job, though me bare toes were fine and toasty after a welcome splash of hot antifreeze all over me flip flops. After Belfast I belted on along the N4 towards Jo'Burg - a fairly event free trip amongst plenty of trucks. I hit Jozi traffic at 0900, though I thought I had missed the rush, foolishly. Mega congestion was in store for me due to some of Jo'burg's perennial roadworks. We spent a cursed 40 mins somewhere between 1st and 2nd gear. I could sense Betty's temper rising and her clutch wearing. Thank goodness the morning was still cool - again very bizarre for Jozi in the summer. I really don't know how she'd've coped in the heat.

After somehow navigating myself onto the correct N1 turnoff (to Bloemfontein) without error or killing a biker, I pulled into the first N1 Engen 1Stop for a spot of grub. Wimpy brekkieburger (egg + 2 rashers) and Wimpy coffee. No fancy farmers markets round these parts. Before setting off on the N1 proper I decided to check the oil and water as today would be Betty's longest day (ever, I imagine) on the road. Water was way below LOW so I topped up a healthy 2 litres.
And the oil sump? Dry as a moth sandwich. I had to throw in 3 litres of its 3.5itre capacity to fill the thing. Yikes! I imagine twas all that high revving and first gear nonsense earlier that caused her to dry up.


Ah, Gauteng, you beauty!

Anyway, we belted on down Eastalong on the N1 for 200 odd km. Lunch was a decent mutton curry pie, an egg and cheese sandwich and a fantastic coffee whose chain's name I now forget (Brasilica or Amazonia or Acapulcos or something). The oil and water was tip-top. Astute readers will have noted that I pull the old doll in every 200km or so nowadays for a quick checkup, particularly so in the heat. After our quick lunch munch we horsed on the remaining 250km to the Bloem Shell Ultra City - the needle never budging from 80km/h - where I filled up. Could only manage to find Unleaded however as Shell have apparently stopped selling Lead Replacement Petrol and the other large stations are due to follow suit. Ozone schmozone, that's what I say. So I had to pick up some irreputable Valve-Ease® to help ease the valves now that the fuel was no longer doing it.

I had decided to belt on to Colesburg for the night as the going was fairly good (600km today without too much heartache...). Leaving Bloem the oil and water was still good (though I had to add a litre of coolant as it had boiled out when I checked it, hot. Stupid). As I pulled off the forecourt a blinding thunderstorm impeded my vision and progress as well as speed had to drop from B80* (see footnote) to B60 for quite a spell.


Wipers struggling in a Bloem storm. Note the indispensable towel on the shoulder to soak up any rainwater penetrating the door-frame.

The storm cleared and eventually revealed a gloroius and golden-hued green tinged Karoo, with clear blue skies complimented by a swarm of curious silver lined clouds. A beautiful desert scene, the tar parting the set. All seen through variegated sepia-toned faux-Aviators. Majestic.


Karoo roads

We arrived in Colesburg timeously at sunset and pulled into the local backpackers/hostel. After unravelling I had a few beers at the local pub, the Horse and Mill, along with a small but satisfying lamb curry. I set my eyes on the tv set - something I hadn't done in a long long time. Motorsport special on SuperSport2. The Australasian Rally, the Le Mans and the inimitable Dakar. Couldn't hear most of it though due to the incessant bleatings of an unashamedly materialistic, image-centric and money hungry Jo'burg family to my left. Nothing new there.


Rolling into Colesburg.

In bed by 2300 after a tough but rewarding day behind the wheel. No wash yet mind - no water on tap here in the Karoo after the watershed. Dry times.

****************************


Footnotes

* "B80": i.e. "80km/h Bettyspeed". This is the speed the vehicle travels at when the needle points at 80km/h on Betty's dial. This velocity is somewhere between 90km/h and 95km/h, as ascertained using a low-end Garmin SatNav in Swaziland that time. "B60" is thus 70-75 km/h, "Bn" is (n+10) to (n+15) km/h. I think the discrepancy is constant. It has led to 3 speeding fines in the last year.

Day 22 - Chidenguele - Whiteriver - Belfast (463km)

Perhaps the earliest start yet, up at 0530, early enough to add another pang of depression to accompany our long trip home. And in a fitting bout of pathetic fallacy the skies opened up last night drenching all my clothes and books and personal affairs which I had trustingly left outside the tent. Again we had missed the previous night's malaria pills so they were gobbled down as we pulled out of the lodge at 0540. At 0544 the Cruiser came to a sudden halt as Christiaan flung open the driver's door and flung the contents of his stomach onto the sandy road beneath. Vicious pills those. Between chuckles I began to knock back some impromptu breakfast - handfuls of dry muesli and rusks - in order to counter any similar effects on my own system. We continued to bounce along the local road until hitting the main motorway south which carried us for 5 or 10 km before coming to another halt. Chris's now poisoned guts were being torn to shreds so he wisely handed me the reins for an hour or two while he slept off his ailment. Once in Xai Xai we stopped to refill the girl - never a pleasant experience and one that hit our pockets hard once again. Crossing the dodgy, randomly-tolled bridge on the outskirts of Xai Xai it began to rain steadily for the first time in the whole trip.

It rained as a steady drizzle until Maputo where it began to belt down a bit heavier turning pretty decent dirt roads into pretty indecent mudbaths. We hit some rough enough traffic yet again on the northern outskirts of Maputo where we passed the time staring at the minibus drivers getting up to their usual antics.


Moz's main motorway in the wet: Tarred road...


...Turns into mud road...


...Turns into mudbath.


Still, plenty smiles all round as life goes on.

Despite the squalor and poverty about Maputo, highlighted by the mud and rain, there seemed to be plenty of construction taking place in pockets along the motorway. We spotted at least 2 new stadiums or the like, all completed with Chinese funding (and workparties I assume), as boasted on the temporary signage outside. Despite being but a year or two old (max) these developments were already falling into dilapidation - grass growing on the walls etc - even before they had been officially opened. Sad really.

One completely baffling gift by the People of China (I can only imagine) we spotted was an enormous steel structure that seemed to be erected as an homage to robots of the future. Well that's my guess anyway. This cyborg statue, mounted on a wee grassy knoll, towered over two or three more" traditional" cement statues of local woman and children fetching a pail of water. The mind boggles. Click on the image to view the finer details of the monument.




Maputo version of the Technodrome.

Though a little perplexed by this futuristic artwork, the best treat was yet in store. A few more k's down the road, right near the centre of Maputo, I spotted some helicopter blades poking out from behind a grassy ditch. Then some more. Then a fighter plane with a camo paint job. Then a few more planes with flat tyres and moss growing on the windscreens.





These rapidly rotting weapons were obviously throwbacks from the war, more than likely gifted by the Ruskys and co back in the heyday of Red Power. Once the war ended it would not have made (economic) sense to tow them out of the city centre for scrappage or preservation, so abandoned they stand. I'm sure the thought process at the time was "yera, we'll leave them parked where they are with a few bob of diesel in the tanks. I'm sure they'll come in handy at some stage or another...".

The drive back to the border was a pretty quiet and uneventful one if I remember correctly. The drive home always is. The queue at the border was nowhere near as daunting as it was a week previous and we could have probably sailed through legitimately in 1-2 hrs. Tired though, and travelling under false pretences we were never really going to stick it out, so a quick call to our old friend Ivan was made and we were back inside the SA border in under 10 mins. Smashing.

The trip from Komatiepoort border crossing to the Smuts' household in Whiteriver was a fairly event-free one, as are most motorway trips, thankfully. Keep in mind I'm scripting these memoirs retrospectively, over one year late in fact, so one or two details may be hazy. Upon reaching the homestead in the mid-afternoon we hastily unpacked the 4x4, separating my belongings in doing so. These we repacked into Betty who had been left alone in the driveway for a toasty two weeks. It was sweet to find that the gardener had gone out of his way to (i.e. told to) give her a solid scrubbing, inside and out, in my absence. Always nice to hop into a clean car before a long trip. It must have been a wee bit warm in Whiteriver while we were away as I found my rear view window smeared in a red liquid as soon as I hopped in. It turns out the thermometer had exploded during the week, having exceeded the 50°C limit it had been calibrated to. So with Betty packed and a few bits of toast in the belly we got going again, this time me in Betty and Christiaan in the Cruiser - destination Belfast.

The two beauts in white rocked up at the Smuts' Plaas at around 6pm. Betty did well to hold her own on the dirt roads between Belfast and Dullstroom, though her dodgy front shocks and less than impressive torque struggled somewhat on the recently washed away roads. Still, she made it to the Top of the Highveld without even a whimper. And was I proud!


Three generations of indispensable wheeled machinery side by side, each one the absolute pinnacle of technology in their respective eras.

A long, long day it was in the saddle and boy were we glad to put the feet up on the stoep of this seemingly deserted farm come sundown. A fine feed of steaks were braaid in near silence once darkness fell, accompanied by one or two Windhoek draughts. The time had come - the trip was over and we both knew it. Nothing more to say, just bottoms up....

Day 21 - Praia de Tofo to Chidenguele (222km)

Slowly slowly packing up in the near-empty campsite. Pity we missed the NYE mayhem here less than a week ago.

Up at 0730 and feeling fine and fresh. An unusual but very welcome feeling. Rashers and eggs on the skottel again straight away accompanied by the obligatory mug of coffee (i.e. tin of 2M). In spite of our gastronomic enthusiasm we were far more reluctant to pack up and get going. The fine day would surely have been better spent splashing in the froth and wooing German lasses instead of heading back south and getting return miles under our belt. A slow pack up so was followed by a very quick swim at Tofo beach. An incredibly strong cross shore rip led to more flailing really than swimming, but refreshingly challenging nonetheless.



Looking to the beach from the campsite (Fatima's Nest) bar. Not too shabby.

On the way back to the mainland proper we stopped off at Guinjata beach once again to meet the Kennet's (?) who were going jetskiing and tubing for the day. How could we resist taking the frankly grossly overpowered Sea Doo RXTs through clearly oversized breaking waves for the day? As it turned out the tubing was great fun, but only for 120 secs at a time whereafter each spin begin a gruelling fight for survival. Hang on at all costs, despite the forearm cramping, abdominal pounding and groin busting. We decided to call it quits when Chris was catapulted vertically, toes over head, executing a flawless 180 degree pike while being towed through a terrifying breaker. Better him than me.

Having wisely headed ashore after that unintentional vertical launch we racked the jetskis back up on the trailers and polished off some chicken pregos at the beach bar. The overhead sun was far too punishing to consider hitting the road just yet so we took the opportunity to pre-hydrate with some cool beverages.


Guinjata beach.

The sun having past its zenith we made the call we were stalling all this while. Time to hit the road. Home. Awww. In no time at all we were waving goodbye to the Inhambane peninsula and back on the trusty EN1 motorway, heading south once more. By god was the sun hot though, far too much for the notoriously underpowered A/C of the LandCruiser. We quickly discovered that a sarong fashioned from a beach towel was possibly the best defence a gentleman could muster against the sloppy personal discomfort of sweaty seats.



We also found that the combination of extreme heat, dehydration and glassy smooth and freeflowing motorway dealt us another unwelcome obstacle: sleepiness. To prevent either of us (ultimately both of us) from dozing off we stopped around every 30 - 60 mins at roadside spazas to pick up some ice-cold refreshments. It was too hot even to stretch the legs so we'd drink up as we rolled. Cruising out of the coconut district and into the peri-peri district I picked up a bottle of homemade produce from some withered mother by the roadside. The clutch of eight or so little ones that tailed her out of the grass shack begged me to buy the biggest bottle for her sake, and lord knows she needed the few bob. So I did, and I haven't been brave enough* to open it yet.


Goodbye to the coconut plantations of Inhambane.

So after a long hard and very sleepy day on the road we took the wee turnoff again at Chidenguele, deciding to sleep again at Sunset Lodge, as we had done a few days previous. After trundling along the 15km or so of dirtroads and impossibly sandy hills we reached the lodge only to be greeted at the front door by two police 4x4s. The local chubby police chief and his right hand man must have been doing their rounds and collecting their bonuses as they were in great spirits and having a right oul laugh with the hefty female lodge owner. For some reason, perhaps even genuine conviviality, the chief jumped up to greet us and shook us both warmly by the hands as we approached the lodge. What a welcome.


A quick dip after a long day on the road. Splendid.


Beertime.

Knowing the territory we quickly parked up and pitched tent, this time a little further away from the double-family of rowdy ill-disciplined kids and depressingly uninteresting parents that flanked us during the previous stay. With our precious time in Moz rapidly running out we decided to indulge in a mini beer tasting session at the bar for posterity's sake. They were out of Manica unfortunately, but did stock the unusual pale lager Raiz which we hadn't come across yet. Not bad stuff and a nice change from the watery lagers we'd been cooling down with all week. Of course the standard 2M was sampled, as well as the three styles by Laurentina; Clara, Preta and Premium, which are far superior in my mind.


The Laurentina range. The dark amber dunkel style Preta was a winner in my books.

Crayfishes for supper again, though this time they were less than impressive. Certainly undersized and could've done with a few more weeks of bottom feeding for extra bulk. While waiting for our meal and in between those prolonged bouts of mutual silence at our table (the ones you only get at the end of a very long and very hot day) I partook in a bit of entertaining eavesdropping. A very colourful Motley Crew had assembled at a bench nearby and were sharing beach stories from the day. Nationalities were mixed, with some definite Natal South Africans in there a few Brits and maybe an Italian or two, all quite young ish. Quite a large gang to be out here in this family-orientated lodge in the middle of nowhere. While listening one voice and accent kept niggling me. I get very frustrated when I can't pinpoint a person's accent and this one was really eating at me. There was quite a strong cockney twang on a lot of his words but the words didn't flow like a true Londoner's. Indeed, though the English language usage was absolutely perfect but an awful lot of the pronunciation seem forced. I could ascertain that the individual was perhaps not originally from England but had spent the majority of his life there by the strength of his language. But why did such an atypical voice sound so familiar? I couldn't fathom it. A closer piece of detective work was required. However after staring with squinty eyes at the chap for 15 minutes it very slowly came to me, and then clanged me in the face.
"Excuse me. Are you George?"
"Yes?"
"George Dimitroff? Who once worked in Airbus Toulouse?"
"Ah, yes?"
"I'm Padhraic. O' Connor"
"Ahhh. Yes."

And so it continued. George and I had both worked in Airbus in 2004 for the same stint though I really only knew him through the regular and highly debaucherous parties we threw or attended back then during the Golden Era. The very last time I spoke with him was to reimburse him for criminal damage to the elevator in his apartment building after a social gathering. Time wounds all heels however and there are no hard feelings. The poor bugger landed in South Africa about 10 days earlier with the intention of driving from Pretoria up to Tofo for that wild NYE party that we missed by 4 days. The 4x4 they had rented began to show some pretty ominous signs while they were cruising along the tarred EN1 about 250km north of Maputo. Of a sudden she began losing bucketloads of oil. Recognising the symptoms (though not the cause) the troupe of four (?) stocked up on oil at a petrol station that was luckily in the vicinity. When the sump ran dry over a half hour of driving they decided to pull off the road and find someplace to lay their heads for the night. With newly replenished oil she barely crawled the 15km to Sunset Lodge, perhaps the only real habitation for a 60km radius, before the sump was dry again. One week later, and a very quiet NYE celebration in between, they were still stuck in the lodge with a banjaxed jeep. Holiday come and gone. What's worse was his flight was in 2 days from Pretoria and he was still a long way from civilisation. No choice but to start hitching the next morning. Some craic.


Georgie Peorgie.

After some commiserations (though it really wasn't the worst place in the world to be stranded to be honest) I returned to my now cold crustaceans and now warm beers. After all was put away neatly in the belly we hit the sacks. Check the watch. 20:55. Lovely!




*I was brave enough to open it yesterday. I'm certainly not man enough to finish it.

Day 20 - Praia de Tofo

Up at 0800 - late again - another dreary enough day is in store it seems. Doesn't feel like it's gonna burn off today. Picked up some overpriced clumpy bread at the "bakery" across the way. Fairly muddy outside and found it easiest to navigate the slippy clay without any footwear. Didn't realise the soil would stain so harshly and permanently - soles ruined - nothing new there.



We decided to take a spin out to Barra beach nearby the rather fancy and rather renowned Barra Lodge resort at the northernmost shore of the peninsula. A snorkeling and diving mecca, apparently. Things didn't look too great today though, grey skies and a large swell running. It was early but we were peckish so we landed Cruiser out on the middle of the strand and lit up the skottel.


Barra lighthouse, the lighthousekeeper's hut of which is now upmarket tourist accommodation







An ideal spot to nibble on our egg and steak sandwiches from the comfort of the mansized camping chairs. The local lads hauling nets and boats up and down the beach kept us entertained for a short while. Our well planned morning of gluttony was cut short however by a panicky shell-necklace salesman rushing over to inform us of the EnviroCops and their green quadbikes who were "on the way" any minute now to bust up our party. It was illegal apparently to park an oversized 4x4 on the beach and eat 9am steaks in this part of the country. This much we could have guessed as there was nobody else at it. The legit reason, it transpires, is that sea turtles frequent this beach at night in order to lay a clutch of eggs and bury them in the sand and forget where they put them so that beer swilling tourists can drive over them the next day, ruining any chances of species survival. With this hanging over our heads, and the impending fine from the EcoCops we nibbled our steak rolls that little bit faster and opted out of the second tinnie.



Up we packed, a little disheartened, and rolled our way to Barra Lodge, somewhat perplexed by the grandeur of the private houses lining Barra beach. Plenty of wealth here, each cottage on stilts with two GP-plate 4x4's parked underneath accompanied by at least two jetskis and or one powerboat with all the toys and modcons. My god there's a lot of wealthy South Africans still floating about, despite rumours to the contrary.

We ducked into Barra Lodge at 10:30ish and just in time to dodge some very nasty downpours. A small little green snake in a well-trimmed bush was causing some consternation amongst the curious tourists and the superstitious staff alike. We concluded it to be a juvenile Boomslang, who could possibly still pack a punch despite his wee stature. Unfazed, we ambled to the beach bar to kill some time until the showers cleared up. Here we were flanked by a number of package holiday tourists whinnying and whining away in their nasal accents about this and that not being up to scratch. The first, and last hopefully, bunch of package holidaymakers (or cruise passengers) we would come across.


Perhaps the two least convincing Disney caricatures you're likely to come across. Thankfully.

We decided to take a gawk at Inhambane - the largest town on the peninsula - which I'd been keen to check out due to its naval history. It has been a busy trading town for almost a milennium and the Portuguese have been very fond of its safe haven since the early 1500s. As consequence of the cotton, ivory and slave trades, missionaries and varies power struggles over the last few centuries the town has taken on a very culturally cosmopolitan feel. Mosque sits next to cathedral sits next to trading dhow jetty. The dhows here are quite iconic but still very practical to this day, ferrying locals back and forth from Maxixe, the regional "city". By dhow it's a quick 1500m spin across the estuary, by car or taxibus it's a laborious 50km haul.


Looking to Maxixe across Baia de Inhambane. With the tide like this you could nearly walk it.


The well-kept local mosque, of which I know nothing about, I'm ashamed to admit. Overlooking the Baia, it has one of the best views on the peninsula.

Bewildered by the kind-of one-way-streets leading onto and off of the town's (crescent shaped) roundabout we abandoned the vehicle on one of the broader colonial style streets in search of an eatery. The 1994 "Guide to Mozambique" by Mike Slater recommended Restaurante Tic-Tic as having the "best fish and chips" in Mozambique, or something to that outrageous effect. Still though, it was the only tip we had and we stuck by Mike. We eventually located what appeared to be the correct eatery and I stuck my head inside while Chris procured a table on the stoep. I was sure I had walked into a dark old hardware store with a battered old countertop and black and white linoleum floortiles worn through to the concrete. The only hint of its restaurante status was a rickety Fanta fridge in the corner. After some faltering and false starts the owner/waiter/chef/handyman produced a faded photocopy of a menu once handscrawled in pencil. Urging Chris not to go inside, we settled on the Fish of the Day after some time deciphering the menu.


Tic Tic


Around 40-60 mins later we were granted our wish. Though I will never figure out what aquatic beast we were treated to. It looked like fish, tasted like fish, but had the spine of a human, with great big knuckles of vertebrae. Best not to ask.



A short stroll around Inhambane revealed a very interesting Land Rover graveyard which was littered with several other decaying colonial era carcasses. Greasy boys no older than 13 were rolling around underneath some of these crocks, spanner in hand, trying to pump some life back into the old beauts. With dinner in mind we picked up some better quality Pau from the small bakery across from Tic Tic and rolled on towards the Eastern seaboard of the peninsula: Guinjata beach. The sandy stretch is idyllic, perfect for swimming, diving, snorkelling, fishing and surfing, all pastimes enhanced by the line of reefs offshore. A very popular family resort though only really accessible by 4x4. So a very popular family resort if one can afford to get there. The automobile display on the beach looked like something from a hippity-hop music video. Enough Landcruisers, Jeeps, Land Rovers, Pajeros, Ford F150s, Hilux TwinCabs, G class Mercs etc etc to beat the band. On the beach we bumped into a family we had quite coincidentally met a week earlier in the cash and carry liquor store in Nelspruit while stocking up for the trip. The Kennets (?) were a lovely bunch of people so we stayed for a quick tin of 2M and an absolutely splendid frolic in the waves.


Spot the lads. Eejits.

Heading back to Tofo we almost clattered 2 young lads, around 8 or 10 years old, who were doing headstands in the middle of the road. They had fashioned sorts of skirts out of palm leaves and strung them to their legs such that when doing headstands and kicking their heels the looked quite convincingly like mini palm trees. In the middle of the road. Very impressive choreography no doubt but an absolute death wish. They only leapt out of the way of our brutal bullbars with metres to spare and sprinted alongside our doors, hands out looking for sweeties. If we weren't belting along at 60kmh I'd've rolled down the window for them alright. And dispensed a right clip round the ears. On we went. In Tofo we'd a gawk round the touristy market where I picked up what I'd longed for all week: a low quality poorly printed badly fitting 2M string vest.


The main beach road in Tofo, two blocks from the local market and one from Main Street. Tarmac is a total luxury in this country.

Come dusk it was braaitime at the campsite again thank God, so time for boerewors and lamb choppies. We were enjoying a Caub Sav doppie and watching the coals redden when a hot smelling CitiGolf pulled into the almost deserted campsite and immediately got stuck in a blatant patch of soft sand, axle deep. Some spinning and whirring of wheels and a few tsk!'s and eyerolling from our end followed. Not ones to stare at damsels in distress for too long, we brought over a towrope and Cruiser once our cans were dry. Chivalrous Boozy Gents:1 Distraught German Young Ones:0.

Owing us at least their company for a while the cute Krauts duly obliged and joined us for a few drops once they'd freshened up. And a freshening up they needed too - the poor lasses had clocked up 800km that very day driving from the dilapidated Zim/Moz border at Mutare/Manica to the campsite in Tofo without rest. 11 hrs in an arse-breaking CitiGolf in grimy summer heat doesn't quite sound like a barrel of laughs. Fair play lasses.

A few drinks later and the girls showed themselves to be a bit of craic. Somehow, the two of them had just driven 8500km around SA, Lesotho, Zimbabwe, Botswana and Mozambique in the rental Chico, without incident whatsoever, apart from getting stuck in a small patch of sand in a campsite in Tofo. Tough nuts - we felt like pampered fools in our enormous luxury Toyota with kitchenette and freezers, them with only a couple of backpacks. Still though, we hauled them free didn't we?

At 23h das lasses hit the hay while we sauntered on to Bob's (Dino's) bar for a sconce and a dop. Very poor crowd out - not a patch on the previous night's shenanigans. It seems that we rather poorly timed our stay at the backpacker's party capital of Mozambique. An enormous dance/trippy/hippy music festival had taken place four night previous though there wasn't a hint of it to be seen on this drizzly Tuesday night. Dead it was. For once we actually had "just the one" and headed off to leaba before midnight. Lovely. And to top it off there was a schoolbus parked in the driveway that came straight out of some quirky Japanese Manga comic tv series starring pet rabbit high tech transformobots. What a lovely surprise.