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....
