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.

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!