Day 16 - Macaneta - 31st December

At 05:30 I woke with a start - and already beginning to sweat. Though my tent was well in the shade the heat was getting a little too much inside there. I leaped up and began to make my way towards the beach, which was basically 50m away just behind the ditch. Strolling past the rooftent I heard Chris to be yet asleep so let him be. By the sea the deep soft sand was beautiful up around the ankles, still a bit cool and damp after the dewy night. The beach was quite steep and short, maybe only 30m between the shoreline and the foot of the healthy green dune vegetation. To my left the beach ran uninterrupted and uniform to a point about 3km away. To my right the same - a uniform entirely unpopulated sandy stretch for several more km. Not a soul to be seen and only a few curious crabs with the poppy-out eyes for company. With this in mind I changed out of my towel and into my birthday suit, which I had fortunately packed, and galloped down the steep, soft, grainy beach into the surf headlong. What a feeling! The Indian Ocean was only divine, with a quick and active shorebreak just metres out, keeping the sea comfortably foamy and fluffy. The waves were a perfect size and strength for an invigorating morning splash. The very ones that keep smacking you on your back when you're not looking and you just can't stop laughing and giggling out loud, so happy to be in the thick of it. What a start to the last day of 2010.


Catching some early morning (0700) rays while memoir-writing before things become unbearable.

Back at base camp CCS was beginning to stir, the heat in the rooftent now becoming too much, evidently. Both of us feeling like newborns after our early night, and a hearty breakfast was surely in order. A glorious fry-up ensued, with several eggs and rashers per man. That skottel was the handiest thing ever to be brought along.


Mmm. Lekker fry up on the skottel.

Despite the hearty breakfast, the early morning scrub and the indulgent sleep there was still something gnawing at me, something missing. What was it? Of course - only day three of our strict course of anti-malaria pills and we'd completely forgotten them before hitting the bed the night before. Despite only a weeklong trek in Mozambique planned, the full course would last six weeks - how the hell were we going to remember EVERY night? Ah well, better late than never...
Thirty minutes later the two of us were doubled over with spinning heads, crampy tummies and incessantly salivating mouths. Strong stuff them pills. Back to bed in the heat was the only solution for another hour then...

It still being early morning it was high time to explore the island. We dropped the rooftent and dropped the tyre pressure down to 1Bar to cope with the sand. What an immense difference it made. After about an hour of codacting around the place on sandy byways we eventually found the "main beach" where there were at least some other signs of human life. Most were young families, South African of course, mostly from Pretoria or Joburg. "Vaalers", as they're known, a mildly derogatory term for the Transvaal folk (now Gauteng) who are as a rule flush with cash and live for nothing else but to make and flaunt it. Or so the stereotype goes in the more laid back Western Cape. Anyway that was our company, along with a few other young couples. We spent the morning splish sploshing and trying to keep all our skin submerged in the sea, for if you exposed a square inch to the sun you could just about feel it blister in the heat. Suncream seems entirely ineffective out here. Either stay underwater or stay at home.

And go home we did as the sun crept nearer its midday strength. Yet another nap was had to counter the massive dehydration after the hour or two in the direct rays. Before long it was lunch, one which turned out to be mostly liquid, and pink, in the end.


CCS with his bottle of lunch - the horrifically sweet, horrifically pink and horrifically popular sparkling pink rosé by J.C. Le Roux.

There wasn't much of a mood for grub in that heat and after our earlier difficulties with the tablets, so it seemed best to start the celebrations a little earlier than planned. The sugary bubbly rosé was flowing, accompanied the brutish Tipo Tinto - Paradiso dark rum, all diluted by some Black Labels which were slowly replacing water as our source of hydration in this beastly temperature.


Tipo Tinto. No explanation necessary.

Darkness wasn't long calling around and when it did we made our way to the beach bar attached to our campsite. We were a little early for the "buffet" so we helped Ilna (the tough cookie owner, pictured below) setup some tables, decorations, candles etc.
By 20:00 we were still the only ones at the bar so spent some time talking with Eric (I think) the local barman talking some nonsense or another.


NYE decorational efforts inside the lapa.

We had a fine time sampling the various local beers, including the impressive Laurentina range which included a stout, a lager and some sort of pilsner if I remember correctly. I'll be back for more of that you can be sure.


Early evening at the bar, the essentials at hand.

The guests and residents came out in dribs and drabs and I guess at the height of the banquet I saw around 25-40 people. I've had a quiet New Year's celebration before but this was becoming quite surreal. Things seemed to get even quieter if anything as we crawled towards 2011. The band kicked off at around 22:30 - a one man show with a keyboard for the backing track and he strummed his acoustic guitar every once in a while. His young wife and younger daughter were nearby for moral support I suppose.


Chris and the delightful no-nonsense Ilna, campsite/lodge owner in high spirits

At around 23:00 we were both shattered after the day's hard work and were in danger of nodding off before the witching hour. The solution was to take a stroll to the beach under the cover of darkness and pop in for a quick wake-me-up splash in the waves. Worked a charm and we were back inside the party zone by 23:30, fresh as daisies though dripping wet.


23:30 - Things really hotting up.

By around 23:50 the remaining partygoers had assembled by the bar. We were 15 strong by this stage - I don't know where the others fecked off to in the last hour. Things were getting chatty and tense waiting for the countdown. The band was playing Simon and Garfunkel or Rod Stewart or something to that effect and he was happy out on his stool. The talkers fell silent as 00:00 approached, "The Boxer" playing in the backround. Then, well, nothing. Some awkward coughs, some shuffling of feet. 00:05, still nothing. The wife hops off her stool and whispers into the band's ear. "OK" he says, "it's just coming up to midnight so lets all join in for the countdown!".
A fairly muted "10, 9, 8,..." followed, with the typical popping of corks and "wahey" and some two or three who knew Auld Lang Syne gave that a shot. A celebration like no other!


12:15 - The crowd is in full swing necking back the champers. Unfortunately the barman fecked off just after midnight leaving us without many options.


Mixing it up with the revellers.

With the night young and the bar closed we had to "make our own fun" as so often we had to do back in the hard old days of an Irish childhood. The one man band was approached to see if he had brought some sort of karaoke contraption with him, which thankfully he had. A request was put in for us: It's Raining Men. A witty one as we were the only two singles there and certainly the only men under forty. This was my first ever blast at the karaoke, and I can confidently say my last. We finished up with the BeeGee's "Staying Alive", Chris really getting stuck into it despite being unfamiliar with the song. At least I can now say I know the lyrics to that classic, which I doubt any of the readers can boast.


...God bless Mother nature, and she's a single woman too!
etc.

This debacle was gladly over and done with come 01:30. A great night out, one that'll surely not be repeated in my days. On the 100m drive home we heard or at least imagined we heard the makings of a disco dance. With heads stuck out the window and ears tuned to popular disco music (is that "hip hop" these days?) we FINALLY made it to the Lagamar beach resort. It took the bones of an hour on the sand tracks to reach this fabled source of the Nile, but what an absolute gem of a joint! A pumping bar, DJ, disco dance area on the stoep, swimming pool and the place teeming with wild eyed youth. How sad we arrived just as the young Vaalers were getting out of hand. We managed to nab one round before the bar closed to try enforce some form of crowd control. The music played still however and some sets were danced. We found some lively girls and tore up the floor to a few sokkie (or longarm) numbers, all of which contained references to the Springboks no doubt. A shame we arrived on the scene so late but I wouldn't have missed that most bizarre countdown earlier for all the sokkie treffers in the Free State.

At dawnish we were well and truly thrown off the dancefloor and naturally headed to the seashore for the first dip of the New Year. Glorious.







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


Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man—no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around
Since I was born.
And now it's all right. It's OK.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.

Well now, I get low and I get high,
And if I can't get either, I really try.
Got the wings of heaven on my shoes;
I'm a dancin' man and I just can't lose.
You know it's all right. It's OK.
I'll live to see another day.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.

Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
Stayin' alive.

Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I'm a woman's man—no time to talk.
Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around
Since I was born.
And now it's all right. It's OK.
And you may look the other way.
We can try to understand
The New York Times' effect on man.

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', people,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.

Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah.
Life’s goin' nowhere. Somebody help me, yeah.
I’m stayin' alive.

Day 15 - White River - Maputo - Macaneta (258 km)

We were on the road by 05:15 it seems. Two hours earlier I had been scoffing a cold punnet of sloppy peri-peri macaroni dowsed in mayo. Good for the gut after the heavy night. I was very glad Christiaan was behind the wheel of the monster truck and not I, I must sheepishly admit. Quite an uneventful drive brought us to the border, or should I say the petrol station in Komatipoort just 100km from White River. Here we topped up the petrol tanks yet again in order to save on the fuel costs in Moz. As Chris attended to the fuel I attended to another matter: Mozimbican Meticas. The previous day we wandered into the largest Standard Bank in Nelspruit in order to check on the exchange rates and maybe pick up a few bob. 4.2:1 was the rate they offered. But they were all sold out, unbelievably, of the currency of a popular touristic destination 100km away. So, naturally the only alternative was to look about for opportunistic Bureau de Change tellers in the Shell forecourt. I approached the traffic barrier whereupon sat a line of hefty, disinterested and out of place looking big mommas. Only one made her way toward me, the rest didn't bat an eyelid - it seems they've a taxi-rank type system going here, very civilised. Anyway, R2000 later I was far richer in Meticas, drawn expertly from the ATM that seemed to be tucked well inside Big Momma's cleavage. And at 4.5:1 a far better deal than the swindling bankers could offer us.


05:15 - Pulling onto the main road outside White River RFC, the essential rack of cling peaches stuck to the dash.

Ten minutes later we were at the border post, and swiftly through the SA side of things. Again, no issues with siblings Christiaan and Adriaan Smuts rolling through the rigourous passport identification procedure. Things were already far more exciting and African, now, even though we were still stuck in No Man's Land by the Mozambican side. Immediately after we pull up we're hounded by hip young lads with good English asking if they can "help" us, for a nominal fee. All well and good and tempting, except we'd already sorted out a quasi-legal "fixer" to aid us through the otherwise excruciating border process. Ivan, a confident though not too cocky debonaire young man, diamond earring, sharp kicks, recommended by Mr Smuts, was certainly up to the job. The mandatory and quite pricey foreign vehicle 3rd party insurance was purchased (a very clever scheme I think, if it is actually implemented) from a reputable agent. Following this we handed our passports over to our fixer, with R50 stuck inside them. Off he sprinted, into the back door of the passport office, returning less than 4 or 5 minutes later, passports stamped. We gave him R100 for his troubles and drove through the border boom without a sideways glance from the military man at his post. In the entire process no official had seen our faces or any document in our possession. At last, corruption working for me, the little man! As we pulled away, an English couple in a Rentacar we lent a pen to earlier were still in their position in the seemingly stationary passport queue, while our friend and his peers dashed in and out of the back door all morning...


Wonky plate #1: Team Baizan!

Immediately we were in a different country. What was recently the ups and downs and forests and pastures of the Highveld/Lowveld was now some sort of sprawling flat green land as far as the eye could see. No jungle or even trees or grassy fields. Just green and flat. Not a house or a cow to be seen. I can only assume the land was fierce boggy or sandy, but in any case unirrigable. Weird really, having come from a very fertile and developed province only an hour ago. It's the EN1 that runs from Joburg to Maputo (N4 on the SA side) and is indeed the finest of roads. A lot of foreign cash has gone into this road lately as SA are very dependant on this "Maputo corridor", the Port of Maputo being the nearest large shipping port to Joburg/Gauteng, with plenty of room for development unlike the Durban route and port.
These were the glorious Port Engineering thoughts running through my pounding head as we rolled into the busy outskirts of Maputo at the same time as every other rush hour commuter with a car. Here I first began to notice the Mozambicans' sheer disregard for the country's standardised number plate format. Akin to the Cowboys back home, the more twisted your number plate, the hotter the street-cred. In addition, any taxi driver (remember "taxi" in Africa means an off-white Toyota HiAce with 800,000km on the clock) worth his salt had a personalised windscreen sticker boasting some nonsensical english slogan or another. And the creme-de-la-creme of taxis, and quite often the small old Merc buses boasted their uber-chic status by cable-tying an old wooden squash raquet or tennis raquet diagonally across their front grills. Classy.

(A free can of 2M beer to the first person to figure out the font used on the plate on HiAce #1.)


Scoop wrong!

By 09:00 we were seated at a breakfast table on the verandah of the infamous Costa do Sol "restaurant" on the golden waterfront of Maputo's Riviera. I knew I was in love with the place even as I dragged my wearied and hungover legs up the chequered steps in the already baking sun. The place screamed of kitsch 1950s/1960s colonialism and still maintained a quaint though tired charm that only stood the test of time thanks to some fairly determined Portuguese holidaymakers and architects back in the good old days. The curves of the banisters, the excessive columns, the marble floors and handrails, the colonial verandah and pastel green/white mosaic floor! How wonderful it must have been! I'd say there wasn't a better coffee or cocktail served in 1961 this side of Cuba.

Strange, this flood of purely imagined nostalgia.


The Costa do Sol - not retro, just real.

After several coffees and some sort of breakfast we took a bit of a drive around Maputo just for a sconce. An absolutely fascinating looking city. Still a few and new well-to-do villas down by the waterfront and the exclusive Clube Maritimo and Clube Naval, not to mention the opulent President's Residence (all on Avenida da Marginale). Continuing down Av 10 Nov & Av 25 Sep there's a pretty bizarre and mazzive statue at Praca dos Trabadores, along with some beautiful old (and preserved/renovated) buildings with typical colonial facades. I wish I had a better architectural vocabulary to aptly describe the features, periods and styles of said buildings. In any case they were lovely, just lovely.

The same can't be said for the other remnants of Portuguese civilisation around the city centre. Old townhouses with solid walls now had tin roofs, broken windows three families within and 16 chickens and dogs without. High rise apartment complexes that were the epitome of 70s funk are now shot to shit, filthy and have old bedsheets and babies hanging out the windows to dry. You see the occasional half building, which, despite still standing its original 15-odd floors is missing an entire face. You can still make out wardrobes, bathrooms, bedrooms and old plumbing poking out of the sky. Weird. There was no shortage of fancy cars driving the streets it must be said, though poverty is rife. And no sense of "High Street Shops" either. I saw a swish Nike store at one stage, all glitz, with run down pissy-doored burnt-walled shopfronts flanking it on either side. No other recognisible brand for two more blocks, then maybe a fancy clothes boutique or something.

After this merry bout of civil war sightseeing we belted back to Costa do Sol for a fine feed of calamari and a few hair of the dog beers. I've never tasted any sort of seafood quite like the grilled (not battered) lulas and put it down to only ever having eating frozen or inferior calamari in the past. The things were massive too. It was a welcome intro to a country renowned for its fresh fishes and it's distinct lack of freezers.

In a while we got going again, back on the EN1 heading north. The first 10-20km out of town were horrendous, with between 4 and 6 lanes of traffic occupying 2 official lanes of road at any one time. And most of us seemed stationary, except for the psychotic taxi drivers who cut and weaved through ditches, rubbish heaps, footpaths, front yards, forecourts, workshops and oncoming traffic to make up the odd second here and there. I don't know who they were fooling. It was a joy to watch though, and not too terrifying as the speeds involved were low enough. Just complete madness that took years off the vehicles I previously believed to be indestructible.


Good work lads. By the looks of things unemployment is fairly rife, though not many seem to mind.

The road began flowing again after about an hour or so though. Soon enough we were at our turnoff just outside Marracuene on a fierce dangerous bend in the road. Our trusty GPS told us to pull clean across the road and down a blocked off bumpy old lane so we did just that. A town popped out of nowhere and we drove in and around it for a while on what we assumed were (or once were) its streets. As ramshackle as this little village was you never did see a prettier town square, gardens or town hall. About the only respectable sights about. Again I was rushed by a wave of the how it must have beens. Somehow or another we found the tiny little mud road that leads to the concrete slipway that receives the small ro-ro ferry servicing the island. The island being not an island but a fairly inaccessible delta leading to the Indian ocean. Though connected to land elsewhere I don't see how the hell you'd get onto it.

We'd a bit of a wait for the ro-ro so I crawled into our freezer for a few Black Labels. As soon as the tabs were popped - the glorious hiss of the icy tin - the Cruiser was surrounded by an assortment of young men trying to sell us a manner of things and to tell us a wealth of tales. All with the goal of getting a sip or two, naturally. We eventually did purchase some Tipo Tinto, but more of that later. Eventually the barge steamed up and flung itself against the estuary bank, slowed by the reeds and stopped by the thud of the concrete. Cruiser was second on board, by far the longest vehicle and vying with a fancy (Indian?) tractor for weight. Twas a fairly tight squeeze in the end and the extreme listing of our vessel crossing the sound was none too comforting.
(Remember to click photos to enlarge).

Vroom! Cruiser shapes up against a Swaraj tractor - the pride of the island.


Next in line for the ro-ro. The closest building on either side of the water is, naturally, a bar. A lifesaver, as you can't go an hour in this heat without a beer.


All aboard! Cruiser climbs on without the assistance of some fairly buckled looking ramps. Check that clearance.


A tight squeeze - she's listing to port even before the Swarage potters on board. Luckily I'm the closest soul to the only lifevest on board, which appears to be impossibly strapped to the railing for some reason or another. The currents sweeping between the two landing points wouldn't be worth fighting. You'd be swept out to Madagascar in the blink of a hat.

A quick trip across. We met with the woman whose lodge/campsite we'd be staying in - a complete hard nut from Christiaan's part of the world. A family friend, if I have it right. All roads from hereon in were sand, pure sand and she completely floored it, us following. The going was very heavy and we barely made it, huge revs running. We were still running on quite a high tyre pressure having just come off the tarmac, and only 2WD to boot. Her campsite was well off the beaten track, about 5+km down sandy lanes and well away from any other lodge. It was before dusk when we began setting up though it fell fairly lively. We finished setting up our bivouac in the dark and by God were the mozzies biting! I've never felt any irritation like it. The hoors stang like hardy horseflies only there was an eternal supply of them. We made sure to braai within a fortress of slow burning mosquito coils. The braai? The fattest lamb chops of the finest cut I've ever had. Must've been 3cm thick each. I'll be a long time dead and buried before I forget those choppies. A couple of beers, barely, each, and we were out for the count. I think I was tucked in by 21h00. What a day!


Base camp at Macaneta. Rough lodgings.










------------------------------------------------------------
PS, if anybody is a fan of Gary Larson and The Far Side comics, they'll recognise this chap as being the generic Joe Soap type character that always seems to fall foul of woman problems, alien abductions and hilarious pranks performed by his pet or farm animals. It's him - the hair, chin, glasses, gut and clothes - to be sure.

Day 14 - Still in Whiteriver

Goodness it was great to jump up out of bed without a hint of fatigue, tinnitus or babalas. Not much to do today either - only the finishing touches before heading into Mozambique the next morn. First things first: time to stock up on some grub for the trip. Immediately we began to fill the designated ammo boxes with whatever we could pilfer from the Smuts family's larder - old tins of beans, cereals, UHT milk, pasta etc etc. Typically all the tins and preserves and nothing fresh as the gaff had been empty for a fortnight already. A quick spin to the metropolis of Nelspruit then to round off the "dressings" to our meals: some spuds, mealies, eggs, rashers, rusks, jammy dodgers, more beans, butter, and to be honest little else. It goes without saying that our food pyramid was somewhat inverted in its nature, with red meat due to occupy 80% of our (solid) diet over the coming days. Keeping in line with the diet of the previous week of course. What else are two large red blooded males to do in such a scenario? The meat we picked up in a popular butchers appended to a petrol station a bit out of Whiteriver. The butcher/petrol combo is quite the popular setup here it seems. A double helping of thick boerewors, lamb choppies, rump steaks, prego steaks and sosaties (meat-only kebab skewers) would have to see us through the coming week or so. Unfortunately butcher Mario's famed droewors wasn't quite dry enough yet so that was a bit of a let down.


Yep, 227L of petrol in one shot. I didn't think pumps went that high.

While at the butchers we killed a second bird with that stone and took the opportunity to fill our tanks to the brim, as petrol is a bit costlier over the border. Many moons later and around R2000 poorer we hauled the girl and her 4 petrol tanks out of the forecourt and back into town. We still had 2 crucial items on the checklist: malaria area pills and liquor. Thankfully Chris has a good family friend in the apothecary game so our "doctor's prescription" for the high strength doxycycline pills was not strictly necessary. Regarding side effects we were given a stern warning to 1) stay out of the sun as we'd burn very easily and 2) take just before going to bed after a very large meal. The third, as with all medicines, was to avoid alcohol consumption. Done done and done. Finally our very large liquor cabinet had to be stocked for fear of keeping the plastic glasses without company. A fine stockade of Black Label cans was acquired along with what was at the time assumed to be sufficient quantities of brandy and whiskey, and some Cape to Rio cane for those sundowner moments and post braai digestifs. Mixers, too, were sourced, but in scant quantities as the 2L bottles took up too much room. We'd have to man up a bit on the watering down.

So shopping done, bar stocked, meat into freezers and tinned beans into plastic boxes - we were practically set to go. Oil, batteries and petrol - check. High viz vest and 2 triangles (the law in Moz) - check. Bog roll (or White Gold as CCS puts it) - check. Hell, we could roll away right now and it only lunchtime! But no, a plan is a plan and no point in rushing into things. Worse, that'd mean arriving into Maputo at some ungodly hour - unwise methinks. So, as a timefiller we decided to give Betty that little service we'd promised her some days back. That included a change of oil filter and a renewal of brake pads. We both knew that the brake pads were a bridge too far at this late hour but the oil & filter were certainly doable before the early tropical dusk fell. Chris produced some front-wheel stands from his garage that he regularly raised his 4x4s with and plonked them on the driveway. The damn things were about twice the height of the front bumper/floor clearance. And Betty's bumper was already questionably low. I had tried to figure out before how it was held on; if you tipped it with your fingertip it would oscillate for minutes and seem to hover effortlessly in front of the car. No obvious clip or bolt points and no questions asked. How the bumper was so loose yet so steadfast I'll never know.

Anyway, as I'm sure the dear readers have guessed by now, all that was about to change. On the first shot up the steel ramps the momentum wasn't quite great enough and the clutch (getting slippier by the day) was a bit too weak to drag the wheels to the top. Predictably the girl rolled back down the steep 30 or 40cm high ramps but decided to leave the bumper at the top. Oh dear. Well, another job on the list. The second time she pulled up the ramps no bother- sans bumper.


1980's Standard edition Betty Bantam....


...vs. 1950's Hot-Rod edition Betty Bantam. Vrooom!

In hindsight the bumper mishap turned out to be quite beneficial. It was much easier get under and change the filter, but it also gave me an opportunity to fix her gammy headlights. And a proper grill inspection revealed the cooling system was in ship shape. Most importantly though it forced me to fix the bumper in place for once and for all - something I should have done years ago. After scratching around the garage we finally found some matching 6mm cheapy galvanised nuts and bolts and a cordless drill. Twenty minutes later and even more skinned knuckles hey presto! brand new bumper. And also cable tied some old dings to prevent some impending crack propagation.


Seamless bumper repair


More seamless bumper repair

And job done just before dark. A quick freshening up and we forged our way back to the bright lights of Nelspruit for good grub - Half Price sushi. We really tucked into the stuff and amassed quite a number of empty plates. Not understanding the limitations of the offer we accidentally overate our way into quite a hefty bill. However it was entirely unintentional, bizarrely, and we got off the hook. We legged it out of there for fear they'd change their minds and went to a wee gathering of friends Chris knew from more youthful days. Arriving early we of course intended on leaving early with the aim of arising early the next day to beat the border rush.


Midway through a "quick" stopoff at a friends house to say hello. It was here I saw a large country man in some few dozen minutes sail his way through 12 cans of Amstel without respite, ill effect or delay. Fascinating and exemplary.

One thing led to another, as they always seem to do when you least expect or deserve it, and we crawled out of there about seven hours later, a heavy knock taken out of our Black Label and cane reserves we so delicately and caressingly packed earlier that day. Bah!

Still, a good night was had by all and we had a healthy 2hr sleep to look forward to before arising and finally making our way toward Africa proper!


Carboloading at 03:12 before hitting the hay. Good tack, whatever it was!

Day 13 - Whiteriver - Belfast - Return - (300km)

Twas nice to "lie in" for once though we were still up relatively early. This was an exciting day for me as I was going to hop into and soup-up a Toyota LandCruiser for a trip into real Africa. Unfortunately Betty would have to be hauled up into the dry for the next few days, but God knows the girl needed a rest. I'm sure the previous day's 570 odd km was a PB for her.


The two girls side by side. Spot the difference? (hint: Betty is on the right).

Now the Cruiser bakkie was certainly a very capable thing, renowned for its feats of strength, endurance and reliability. Though not strictly comfort. Adriaan Smuts Snr, a keen camper and adventurer was well aware of this, so got a custom built canopy made up in order to house all the little luxuries of life a middle aged man may expect to follow him around wherever he may roam on holidays. The canopy however was on the family farm near Belfast, a cool 150km away.


The beautiful Smuts beef farm between Belfast and Dullstroom. Altitude 2000m.

So off to the farm we went - a beautiful holding right at the top of the Highveld - and promptly began to assemble the canopy above the bakkie's bed. A tricky operation. The thing was hung inside an old tractor shed, suspended from some sort of block and tackle device, and had to be lowered in a vertical manner onto the 4 corner posts of the bakkie bed - milimetre perfect. The trickiest part was reversing the vehicle under the frame into the exact location. She was hard up against the wall and even the slightest scratch was not an option. Anyway, much cursing, broken nails, trapped and bloody fingers and tyre marks later we got it mounted. With a 75L water tank and 2 x 75L petrol tanks inside. Oh and an enormous battery pack that weighed half a ton.


Canopy on - finally. Only 3 knuckles left unskinned after the operation.

After a quick drive around the farmlands and handrolling the heavy old Massey back into the shed we got back on track to Whiteriver. We were in the mood for work and loving it so we powered on through lunch and kept on going with the packing. Next into her was the most essential and valuable item in our possession: two Engel 40L freezers. These freezers, which would reliably keep our rumpsteaks and G&T ice at a steady -18C for the next week, were an absolute godsend and a miracle of engineering. And I didn't even know such a thing existed. Talk about posh! After filling the water tank and stocking the kitchenette (the rear left hand panel, above) with plastic cutlery and crockery, steak knives, a tin opener, red wine glasses and champagne flutes we began filling the aluminium racks inside with ammo boxes full of essentials. One full of 4x4 tools and spares, one full of clothes each, one of snorkelling gear and around 6 others which we'd fill with food and drink the next day. By dusk we were done with all the hardware aspects of the packing, leaving only the consumables for the next day. We had surely earned our bit of supper out in that heat so upon nightfall we lit up the braai and seared some dandy sirloins that were lying in the fridge. The one or two Windhoeks that accompanied the steaks more or less evaporated once they hit the tongue. There's really no other pleasure in the world like it.
After some digestion, and a little hesitation, we went down to the Mango Lounge in town. Perhaps one of White River's two to four pubs, and with 6 customers inside, the busiest in town this night. We took a drink and that was it. Company wasn't great (loudmouth 1st year college students) and to be honest we weren't the most talkative either what with the fatigue of the day. My God was I glad to haul my little legs into leaba that night.


Packing the Cruiser - see if you can spot the following: LandCruiser, 2 spare wheels, awning, roof tent, camping chairs, cooler box, several ammo boxes, fold-out kitchenette, Rhodesian Ridgeback, Jack Russell, some Hairy Thing, Cadac gas tank and skottel, binoculars, socket set, snorkel gear, camping mat, Engel freezer, Christiaan.

Day 12 - Mtunzini to Whiteriver (570km)

So, time to hit the tar again! Must say I was getting a little nervous and antsy having slept in the same bed for four consecutive nights. Up at 0600 so with Betty packed and ready to roll. On the road by 0700. By gum it was humid. We took the N2 going North heading towards Pongola but pulled into Swaziland just short to take the border crossing at Golela. It was quite an uneventful drive to the border I'll say, slow and long to match that. Poor Christiaan was a little worse for wear after a brief battle with a swarm of bees that pelted into the windscreen at an early stage.


Aaaagh! I'm covered in bees! Covered in beeees!

Things began to hot up though once the heavily armed SA border cops came into view. Despite already being drenched in sweat, I noticed that dreaded, cooling "fear sweat" that you only get a few times in your lifetime creeping up on me and creeping down my lower spine, goosebumping as it travelled. You may have experienced it if you have ever tried to buy bottles of Alcopop during daylight hours on Paddy's day when grossly underage and there's plenty teachers lurking about. Or if you've ever knowingly had 103ml of shampoo in your hand luggage while queueing for the scanner at JFK airport.

Why, one may wonder, was I a little jittery at a a standard African shed of a border crossing? Well, a grand scheme had been set in motion - one which, like all grand schemes of yore, had been hatched the previous night over a few alternate snifters of rum, brandy and whiskey. Talk had turned to the renewed popularity of Mozambique as a tourist destination among South African holidaymakers. Indeed, it was well reported that on the 23rd and 24th of December the queues at the border to get into Moz stretched over 17km long. Around 25km long at its worst. So we would aim to avoid such delays, obviously. But how could we ensure a smooth passage on our side, assuming when we cross over the lines are a lot shorter? Make sure everything's in ship-shape obviously. Give the bureaucrats very little or no excuse to detain us for more than STRICTLY necessary (10-20 seconds I reckon). Easy so then - just make sure our visas are in order. Not a problem - South African citizens can pass freely between any SADC nations, no visa required. But lo! - I'm not South African! And if memory served me correctly (from my travels 1.5yrs previous with Derry agus POK) a visa cost around R1000 just for passage into Moz. And another R500 odd for Swaziland. A little outrageous for a transit trip?...yes, we all agreed. What's more, I could not determine whether or not a visa could be obtained at the border or if one had to apply at Nelspruit. Guide books and internet clashed on opinion here. As did suggested opening hours of the embassy - some saying it only re-opened on 3rd Jan - entirely ruling out a Moz trip. A little unfair, wouldn't you say? Yes, yes, of course, yes. Thay all agreed. Racist against Europeans even. Yes, crazy, unfair... Pass the rum. Yes, terrible really.

It did not take much more of this sort of lubricated talk before we unanimously agreed on the only logical solution. I would not, nay - I could not possibly travel as an Irishman into the neighbouring states. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare! Not to mind cost an arm and a leg. No, no, the only solution was that I travel as a South African - a hearty white well-built Afrikaans speaking gentleman of a boer of a South African. Slán go fóill Padhraic O' Connor, en baie welkom Adriaan Smuts (Jnr)!
In fairness, the resemblance was uncanny. Adriaan was only 8 months my junior, roughly my height and weight and build and sported a fine head of silky brown hair with blue eyes. And what's more, he didn't need his passport over the coming month. Great.


Absolutely uncanny: both passports were almost identical in dimension.

So, the first test was upon us! Would some fat little woman behind the counter really take a long hard look at our faces before contrasting with those likenesses on paper? Well, no. She didn't care at all really. Nor the the short fat little woman on the Swazi side. In & out. The first Face/Off test passed with flying colours.

At the SA customs side of things the officials were quite keen on the wooden sea chest in Betty's trunk and her contents got a good gawping.Interestingly the engine was inspected and the engine number was phoned in to check for authenticity. To be honest I hadn't a clue if she was a former getaway car or not so I was nervously curious abut the result. In the end I was relieved to find out that the engine wasn't hot, if you will**.

15km down the road into Mswatiland and a uniformed chappie at a roadblock insists my right rear reverse light and brake lights are blown. I rebooted the system and jumped out for a look by which time the problem seemed to have sorted itself out, luckily. Fortunately he didn't realise my International drivers licence was 1yr out of date. Luckier still he didn't ask for my (Adriaan) passport which had a slightly odd looking photo inside.

Anyway, belted on without issue in this notoriously relaxed country. Quickly realised that LRP was non-existent, so had to make do with unleaded til we got back into SA. Bang in the middle of the wee Kingdom we pulled in by a sugar plantation for a spot of grub leftover from the night before. Lovely toasted sandwiches (actually braai broitjies - a staple Africaans food - toasted cheese, tomato, onion and Mrs Balls sandwiches done on the braai) and a right load of lambchops, all heated up on Betty's now warping 80°C bonnet. Perfect.


Toasted sarmies griddled to perfection on Betty's bonnet

Not much ever really happens in Swaziland and to be honest not much really did happen during our c.200km transit trek. Plenty mealies, sugar and fertile earth as far as the eye could see. Thankfully we eased our way through the exit border post without any issues and popped out not too far from Nelspruit. After a long long long day on the road and a few kilos of sweat lighter we reached the Smuts family residence in Whiterivier.


From l to r: Adriaan, Christiaan and Garmin, the short lived and quite unnecessary GPS system aboard Betty

Following a well deserved and crucial kip and shower combo we headed down to The Keg & Java at 17:00 for a few scoops. Quite the goldmine here and the epicentre (or only centre) of Nelspruit nightlife it appears. Here we met up with good ol chums Thea and Boeta from Stellenbosch - Van der Stel Rugbyklub stalwarts - and now proud parents of a bonny babby girl. With the little one in the care of granny they were only delighted to get out of the house and join us for our "one or two" sups. Needless to say we left the joint at 02:00 a little worse for wear.

The noggin was a little soft the next day alright but blame there lay squarely on the amphibious army that annihilated the eardrums at the Keg the night before. It's pretty bizarre when you have to shout at the fellow next to you just to make your point heard above the din of ten thousand frogs. I'll be in no rush back to the place after that eerie encounter.


Feckin' Frogs. Click to play.




**I think that's one of the better engine-theft based puns I've ever seen published.

Day 11 - Mtunzini Sun 26th December

Up again very early for the final instalment of what turned out to be one of those "24hr tummy bugs" I've heard so much about. Later in the morning we took the boat down to the lagoon for another bout of messing about. This time we towed a 7'6" surfboard behind the RIB with the intention of wakeboarding but none of us could pop up so we resorted to kneeboarding the surfboard. A lot more responsive than the softer bodyboard. At one stage I nearly lost a couple of knuckles behind the bád. I came off and began to retie the handle (a stick of wood) onto the towrope using a tried and tested slipknot. Unfortunately Adriaan Snr was in a rush to get going after some verbal abuse from a nearby fisherman, so he floored it assuming I was ready. My fingers were in the slipknot at the time however, not the baton, so I was dragged behind the craft for a spell, forefinger and middlefinger first. Glub glub glub. Very painful, but no lasting damage save for some missing skin.

Back ashore I took it relatively easy on the Zamalek as the tummy was still giving me the evil eye, though I sensed it was improving. We amused ourselves for sometime watching Adriaan Jnr fashion a small sailboat (something akin to an Arabian trading dhow or even a White Nile reed coaster) out of an old cuttlefish bone, a solid twig and a fresh green leaf of some sort. Waist deep for an hour he finaly got the thing running downwind for a few steady metres. Thrilling viewing actually, kind of like watching children erect a colossal sand fortress just inside the limits of the tide.


Tharrr she blows. Finally.

Again the heat drove us back home at around lunchtime. The recovery of our craft up the local slipway was delayed due to livestock cluttering up the car park. In any Irish slipway the offenders are usually hordes of sheep, cattle or D4 children. On this occasion we couldn't manage to shift a stock of bored looking zebra(s?) from by the trailer.


Warning. Zebra Crossing ahead! (hyuk hyuk!)

Back home for lunch. I'm assuming we braaid something - the memory's already waning. After a quick siesta Christiaan and I went to the beach for a bit of a splash in the pleasantly large, strong and warm waves of the Indian Ocean. A great ould splash, and a good beach to boot. Was a nice change from the placid waters of the lagoon of the past few days. After some time gleefully swallowing sand and saltwater we headed home for a spot of supper. Indulged in a healthy number of Richelieu and flat Cokes as digestifs - was keen to stay off the fizzy beers for a spell longer. Dinner wrapped up early and all six of us spent a good long night shitehawking around the table and solving imminent world issues, as must be done after so many Cape to Rios.

Day 10 - Mtunzini Sat 25th Dec

Hooray! Christmas. An unpleasant and unwelcome start to Xmas day this year. Bright and early it was drizzling outside with dodgy looking clouds looming. To make matters worse there was an unorthodox and hurried trip to the leithreas at 0530, that although not too unsatisfactory in itself forebode of less-than-desirable visits to come later that day. A gastric harbinger of sorts.

In any case I was up well before the rest of the gaff and began a lively but humid stroll to the local Catholic Church. I was overdressed for the weather in my shirt, shorts and flip flops and was dripping with sweat upon reaching the pews at 0800. The kind of sweat that does not dry and continues to seep - no, run once you step indoors. A veritable cascade from between the shoulder blades down the hollow of the spine and deep past the leather of the belt.


Tiny Catholic Church, Mtunzini.

Mass was uneventful really - a small congregation of maybe 40 or 50 in a small ground-floor chapel. Mostly locals with a very even racial make-up. Things ran a little differently from a typical Irish mass (and perhaps had some Anglican flavour to it) in that we had to sing from the hymnbooks ourselves at certain intervals. Being the only non-regular here and first-time hymnster, the whole affair really was a proper Mr Bean "Halleluuujah!" job, peering over into my neighbour's (a tiny ould black nun) hymnsheet.
The priest was a jolly bald blackman, who really didn't look too unlike Jacob Zuma I must unfortunately note. He was quite the booming orator though, keeping the congregation hanging onto his message simply with clever play of vocal tones and sweeping hand gestures. So powerful was his voice and smiley his demeanor that his harsh lisssp and pronunciation impediment* passed almost unnoticed.

*(Note - a very bizarre impediment where he used the "ch" sound for any word ending in "d" or "t". The death of Jesus Christ thus became The deach of Jessuss Chrisch.
Lech uss greech one another was another gem.


Post-mass pre-breakfast Cornetto. My God was it muggy out.

I walked home after mass, just missing the rain, and back to another great breakfast braai-up with the Smuts's, who were now up. I reckon it was the first time I had fresh watermelon for Christmas.


A grand Xmas brekfast on the stoep.

A long nap after brekkie ensued (up to around 1300) whereafter the leithreas was revisited, this time in a more dramatic fashion.
We passed the mid-afternoon the way I guess most families do at Christmas - by drinking too much and playing boardgames.


Sizeable pot-plants: The Raffia Palm, which grows for 20 years, fruits once and instantly kicks the bucket.

At one stage we took a drive to see the local patch of Raffia Palms that apparently housed the very rare Palmnut Vulture. The palms were enormous, with the largest leaves of any plant in the world (up to 25m long). In fact I had run among these colossal Calameae a day earlier without once looking up to see what they were. We also took a showery walk around the protected mangrove swamps at the lagoon, having a laugh at the strong-armed fiddler crabs and the stalk-climbing mangrove snails.


Delights of the mangroves: A matrix of (shy) Fiddler Crabs' holes and those crazy climbers, Mangrove Snails

After a fairly long but entirely unsuccessful drive around the parish looking for a pub to have a few drops in we headed back home, a little wearied after the afternoon of humid sweating, dodging showers and looking at things. Back home the lads got as many braais going as possible for the meat while I browsed through the stockpile of SA 4x4 magazines that Santa had kindly brought the men of the family. Here I gladly spent an hour or so with my beverage reading the details of Eric Jackson's record breaking 1963 London to Cape Town run in a Ford Cortina - a 13 and a half day record which would remain unbroken until 2010. Mighty stuff.

A dinner of braai-roasted leg of lamb and a side of gammon was served at sundown. Absolutely delectable meat - nothing beats a braaid roast. Again, a Christmas dinner reminiscent of those back home - roast spuds, good meat and plenty red wine. Another bout of family rivalries ensued after dinner in the form of Pictionary and the South African favourite "30 Seconds".


The gang: Smuts folks, Smuts brothers and one missus. And me.

After fruit cake and custard and maybe a brandy we were all well and truly stuffed. Wrecked, we all retired early - even before midnight I'm sure. Faced with ever-challenging bowel activities I had to resort to catching up on these here memoirs while flitting to-and-from the kakhuis.
Merry Christmas to all!

Day 9 - Mtunzini Fri 24th Dec

Took a short run through some jungle this morning - plenty green thicket, mud, vines and palms. A complete change from any terrain I've tackled yet. Was back before 0800 but was completely sopping wet with the early morning temperature and the cruel humidity.

We were on the lagoon by 0830 I'd say, having towed and launched the 4.8m RIB with twin 25HP Mercurys. She comfortably fit all 6 of us (2 Smuts folk, 2 Smuts broers, 1 masie and me) and our kit. Still had to do a bit of hide-and-seek with 2 bodies though as the nasty park ranger was about and our craft was legally considered overloaded. We took a spin around the weaving lagoon for a bit before finding a tiny spot of sand on the mangrove embankment to park our craft and our arses on. Adriaan, elder brother of my rugby chommie Christiaan got the braai going within seconds of landfall. The Black Labels didn't delay in making their inevitable and already awaited appearance.


Braaiing, boating and beering. Christmas Eve 08:30. Nice.

We'd a lovely rasher/sausage style fry up on the braai - just the job to get the day going. After some more Zamalek hydration we fashioned a tow rope behind the RIB and busied ourselves with towing one another around the shop on a bodyboard. Mighty craic.


Messing about.

After a good morning of fun on the water and in the mangroves we were safely back home by 1300 in order to escape the midday heat. While the others took a nap for themselves Christiaan and I spun to Richard's Bay (about 40km away) to have a few festive dops with old college friends and acquaintances, Theuns and Donald, and a few other unknowns. What should've been 3 Christmas Eve drinks there turned out to be some greater multiple of that, and much merriment was made. I really took to the "hubbly" as the hookah or shisha is known here. It should be pointed out to European readers that only (typically cherry or apple) flavoured tobacco is smoked during this extremely popular Uni student pastime, as opposed to the slightly more illicit tobacco variants that are sampled in and around rural Ballydehob.


The lads enjoying their Zamalek, basket of grapes, hubbly pipe and chamois cloth. Richard's Bay.

We eventually laboured back to Mtunzini after many a gruesome "college days" yarn was spun, feeling our way through the dark and heavy night with skyward brights and non-existent dims on the borrowed Nissan Livina. Still though, home safely. A quick chop braai and a few brandies and into bed by 2300. Wrecked.

No chimney here so quite excited about what Santa will squeeze inside the braai lid tonight...