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.

Day 19 - Chidenguele to Praia deTofo (222km)

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...

--------------------------------------------

Open road. What a sky. What a sight. What a feeling.