Day 18 - Macaneta to Chidenguele (255km)

Up at 0630 and with good reason too. The following day was Monday 03rd Jan - the first working day of 2011 - and 95% of the tourists on the island would be heading back to their homes in Gauteng, entirely congesting the roads. Our main concern was the state of the ferry, which could only carry around 6 or 7 vehicles at a time. Due to start running at 0700, we thought by getting there at 0730 we would be in with the early birds (actually we planned on getting there earlier but had slept in). It turns out there were plenty early birds with the same notion as us, the queue already a few hundred metres long and more 4x4's piling up behind us thick and fast. Come 0800 the front runners were getting agitated as there was still no sign of the ferry and no other way off the island. The frustration was understandable as the same eager beavers would certainly be facing a 15+ km standstill queue at the MOZ-RSA border around 4 or 5 hours later. We had less to worry about than this gang but were equally agitated with the heat, cruel lack of movement, dehydration, warm bottled water and anxiousness to roll on. And it turned out I unfortunately took a bad pint the night before so was battling there too, the 60 mins sleep notwithstanding.


It might not look too unpleasant, but it's really 07:30, 30°C+, 90% humidity and a crampy tummy.

The first signs of movement from the ferry, cruelly docked within spitting distance on the other bank of the estuarial divide, occurred at around 0900 - only 2hrs late. Pretty decent for Africa time. What did it matter to them anyway? They'd be coining it for the rest of the day and night without respite, so might as well make the most of their monopoly. Once loading began, progress was tortuous. At least it was predictably and repeatedly slow; each turnaround trip took almost exactly 30mins and stole 6 4x4s across each time, 8 if cars were aboard (rarely though). There was a certain buzz about moving 30m forwards every 30 mins, a mundane thrill one can only cope with when in a very primitive/frail frame of mind. To break the monotony the vast majority of passengers would stroll in the baking sun from their car to the landing slip, perhaps 600m away, to gawk at the loading and sailing of the barge, pirouette to the brick shack teetering on the slipway, pick up 2 or 3 beers and head back to the car. This was the case from 0700 until roughly 1100 when the shack had sold out of all beers and Cokes and only Smirnoff Ice alcopops remaining. A travesty to be sure.


Bah! The ferry can be seen only metres away on the other bank, a nasty 4-5hr wait away.

Thankfully we had the classic LM RADIO at our disposal to help while away the hours in the sticky-back heat. Mozambique's only English language radio, it plays nothing but 50's and 60's American rock'n'roll music most of the day, with the occasional 60's folk (Joan Baez, Donovan, Joe Cocker, tons of Cat Stevens etc) and 70's soul (The Supremes, 3 Degrees, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Dominoes, The Pips, Flamingoes etc etc) thrown in for good measure. I know the entire Bill Haley back catalogue by now. They've huge internet listnership abroad and no wonder. Another classic station was RM 2000 which played fantastic hardcore techno between 0800-0900 every morning, which always helped us get over the midmorning slump on the road.

At 13:00 ish (if memory serves me right) we were on board and heading to Marracuene. Good god were we glad to get back on the quick tarmac of the EN1 and get the AirCon pumping again. We left the final remnants of Maputo behind at the Marracuene turnoff - including the traffic, speedbumps, rough roads and unfortunately LM Radio too. Plain sailing now up towards Xai Xai (pronounced "Shy Shy") on what seemed to be a brand new road. The sailing was indeed too plain at times, the rolling tarmac underfoot encouraging the passengers to drift off to the Land of Nod. Thankfully we didn't and we made it to Xai Xai in time for a belated lunch at a roadside "Café Centro Touristico" which led to a popular beach. We dined on the ever reliable Lulas (fresh grilled calamari), which took an absolute age to arrive, perhaps for the better.


The trip was regularly interjected with stops to the tiny shops along the road selling beer, crisps, rice, washing powder and airtime among other things. Every house was a shop and every shop sold cans of beer from the deep freeze. It was the most popular and logical refreshing soft drink in this heat, its alcoholic effect negated by the climate itself.

Grubbed up and head cleared we pulled on to the end of this by-road which ultimately brought us to quite a popular beach resort, famous with both locals and tourists. A busy road carried along the shore, built of sand of course, populated with the local teenage mode of transport here; some no-name Chinese 50cc scooter. The young lads handled these rattleboxes with casual deftness and aplomb that would impress anybody who has ever tried to walk or cycle in soft soft sand, not to mind ride a scooter. The teenage girls were best pleased, riding pillion with their beaus and tearing right past us in our 4x4, the scooter inexplicably down to the bearings in sand.

A tricky few km along Xai Xai Beach road (for which we again had to lower the tyre pressure) we came across an unusual local attraction; a massive and relatively stylish 1970s hotel plonked next to the beach in the middle of nowhere. The hotel was obviously very new and super suave when it would have been forcibly abandoned by the fleeing Portuguese in 1975. The structure is still pretty sound, the swimming pool still retains water and the diving board intact. Though completely gutted inside and boarded up on the ground floor we spotted a few naked kids running in and out of the place playing catch. Some buckets against the outer walls suggested that a few squatters had perhaps made something of a home of the place. I relish the thought of revisiting in 20 yrs time when, perhaps, at a bit of a long shot, someone will have restored it to its original operable state.


Abandoned hotel at Praia de Xai Xai. Palms are still fine.


Little local boys making full use of the place.


Diving board.





Stuck in the sand again in a bit of a quarry pit we lowered the tyre level to "pancake pressure" and she pulled out of it no bother like. A fast dirt road lay ahead for 15 more fun km through honest countryside where solitary ould lads on bicycles waved as we turfed by. Back on the EN1 going North we spotted unusual decorations adorning all the trees in and out of the villages. It was eventually concluded we were in cashew nut territory (in Gaza Province, funnily enough), Moz itself being a huge cashew producer. I had already bought way too much of the bushy delights while waiting for the ferry so was stuffed by then. We didn't stop, bizarre as the sight was.


Jaysus I'm starving. Is there any place I could find a kilo of cashews around here?


Watch out! It's SPINING LEADER.

There was no chance we were going to make our end destination (Inhambane) anytime soon and would have to look for a place to kip along the way. The whole day Chris had been talking about some beach lodge he had visited in the past where they served good steaks and giant crayfish for half nothing. This indeed whet my appetite, having a particular fondness for the exquisite crustaceans ever since my week of endlessly braaing the spiky things in Transkei with Frank and Nicola last Easter. Furthermore Mr Smuts Snr had recently invested in a bit of property nearby and we said we'd pop in and take a look at the construction progress. Turning off the EN1 again at the little village of Chidenguele (famous only, it seems, for having it's own bakery, with a complicated series of cartoon bull-gores-man murals on the wall) we trundled along some sand roads for 15-20km or so around a fairly magical looking lagoon/lake. The terrain became quite very hilly and a bit foresty - something new to me in this country - and the lake could have been up in the Italian Alps for all I knew. Dodging a few dodgy logging tucks bouncing towards us we made it up the impossibly steep hill to "Sunset Lodge" just before, well, sunset.

The very friendly Afrikaans owner/manager lady gave us a decent thatched roof for the night for me to pitch tent, which I did in the dark having first enjoyed the sunset over the Indian ocean, ice cold Manica in hand.


Thatched roof, sandy tenting area, cooler box of local brew. Sorted.

Tent up, shower sorted, time for grub. A handy sized plate of 2 crayfishes each was our reward and the beer cold enough to make a grown man weep with joy. Grinning and in bed by 10 like pigs in shite.


Oh God, that's tasty! I wish Pinchy was here to enjoy this!

Day 17 - Macaneta - 01 January 2011

Well, understandably very little was achieved today. We arrived back to they camp in broad daylight at around 06:30 and were out for the count.The temperature in the tent was incredulous but I slept on anyway, waking every hour or so to down a litre of water out of the tepid 5L drum by my feet. At around 10.00 or 11.00 we mutually arose to get some grub into us and to eat some belated malaria pills. Back to bed again as it wasn't worth being awake for the side effects. This cycle of napping, drinking water and snacking on bits of grub repeated until 16.00 when we decided the only solution for it was a bit of the hair of the dog. Another fun drive on/through the sand roads took us to Tan-a-Biki resort bar where we sheepishly sipped on a couple of oversized 2M bottles. Cups of tea and fairy cakes would have been more in order considering our state but that really wasn't an option now was it. Anyway after one or two brews we were over the hump and right as rain.


New Year's Day hair of the dog. The longest lasting bottle on the trip.

Not too far away was the lively resort we ended up in the previous night so we sought it out in the hopes of getting a bit of a bite to eat. For some reason the kitchen was closed (I think the island ran out of ingredients) but not to worry. Here we bumped into some vaguely familiar faces who seemed to recognise our faces as being vaguely familiar. It was eventually ascertained that these were some Afrikaans girls from Nelspruit (Chris's part of the world) who we'd been doing a jig with the night before. We remade our acquaintances and took a drop with them. The lasses were evidently struggling a lot more with the babalas than us and looked a right state. Créaturs. A few stalled conversations later we realised we'd better let them be and cope with their misery on their own time. With no grub coming to us we belted back to our campsite for to light up a braai and get some meat into us. I gladly did most of the driving on the island as I wouldn't have a chance to legally do so back on the mainland what with crooked cops (surely) looking for real driving licenses and legitimate passports and all that. And in any case it was mighty craic throwing that mighty machine around the sand.


The lobster gang. The cailíns were suffering no end after the eve of dancing and porter.

A relaxing braai of sosaties and mealies (corn on the cob) were welcome now as the heat was down and the light failing. Sosaties could be best described as generously packed meat skewers (or kabobs). Basically a load of steak stuck onto a stick. Lovely stuff, and you can't deny the certain elegance of eating meat off a wooden skewer. I've always found it sophisticated, don't know why. After digesting for a spell and shooting the breeze we headed back to the sokkie bar from the previous night. It would be our last night on the island so we decided we might as well spend it dancing and carousing with the other young holidaymakers. In any case I'd had enough karaoke to last me another decade or so.

At the bar, naturally, we found the whole joint closed. As a last resort a bottle of Paradiso rum was flinchingly pulled from under the seat of the Cruiser as well a bottle of raspberry pop drink to soften the blow. This acquisition soon drew a small crowd around our dimly lit picnic table, some faces familiar, other thankfully not. After some short spell a box of 30 Seconds was pulled out from some handbag (?) and plonked down on the table. This war-mongering boardgame just keeps on reappearing again and again. I've finally caught onto the fact that whenever public holidays roll around and three or more South Africans come together (with drink), a vindictive, heartless, bloody bout of 30 seconds is sure to ensue, tearing apart family and friends for the remainder of the vacation.

What happened next is not for the faint of heart, and is best mentioned but briefly. 30 seconds, wine, contrasting levels of general knowledge among friends, rum, backstabbing, tears, wine, reconciliation, friends, 30 seconds, plummeting levels of awareness and reaction time, taunting, tears, wine, friends again, horseplay, pool, clothes, wet cellphones, tears, friends, wine, 0500 again etc etc.

So with wet clothes and hair but having conquered all at their very own boardgames we retired to our own tents at 0530. Up in an hour for the ferry. Better knock back that malaria pill!


Hould her steady!