Well, we finally left Whiteriver on 13 Jan after sorting out malaria stuff and many other things. It was the first day without rain for about 2 weeks. We needed a holiday after hitching up and down between Whiteriver and Nelspruit on a daily basis in heavy traffic and having 4 days of stress just trying to send photos back to Cape Town, so we said our goodbyes to Maureen and Eckhard on the farm and hitched to Pilgrim's Rest, spending a night at Sabie on the way.
Pilgrim's Rest was a gold rush town. Gold was found in the late 1800’s (2 kg per ton) and the town slowly grew up around the mines as dropout types from around the world came to stake claims and strike it big. All the old buildings still remain as museums and every day at around lunchtime it becomes a tourist rush town as busloads of grinning idiots arrive, taking pictures of everything.
The 2nd night there found us camped miles down an old abandoned train track next to a river. A huge storm pulled in and we just had enough time to set up the tents before the rain came lashing down. Supper was impossible so we chatted thru the tents and eventually drifted off to sleep. I awoke sometime later to a wet leg, rolling over I discovered that my tent was in pretty deep water. I shouted Dustin awake and we quickly relocated to higher ground, half asleep in the pitch dark with the rain pouring down. What an ordeal!!! Slept wet that night.
The next morning we went down to take a look at where we had been sleeping and discovered a knee deep fast flowing river! After spending another day in lazy Pilgrim’s, we hitched back to Sabie where I made a dental appointment at the tired, rundown government clinic. Later we bumped into another crazy highway oddity while out looking for a sleeping spot on the edge of a forest. Armand had been a good Afrikaans boy growing up, studying to be a priest until around the age of 32 when he suddenly became a Moslem. Ostracized by his family and community, he fled to the road where he has been for 5 years, working here and there. For 3 days we talked religion, politics and life, camped under a bridge on the Sabie River next to a huge waterfall. Dustin and I spent much time diving off the bridge into the raging river 10 meters below.
Then came the day of reckoning: I walked alone to the clinic and had some fillings and a back wisdom tooth ripped from my face – finally we could leave South Africa. Said our goodbyes to Armand (funnily his ex wife was the one who made headlines some years ago when she stole a baby and kept it for 2 years before being discovered).
Headed back to Nelspruit, where we purchased a map of Africa (only goes as far as the top of Kenya but after weeks of searching it’s the best we could find). Exchanged R1000 for 3.6 million Meticas and became millionaires overnight. Night found us camped next to some sugar cane fields just outside Malelane. Jan, who dropped us off there, is a tour operator operating over Southern Africa and does some very interesting things like donkey treks up the Skeleton Coast. Check out www.getawaytours.co.za for more info.
Braaied some boerewors over hot coals to celebrate our last night in SA for a long time. Next day, we got a lift to the last petrol station in SA, outside Komatipoort. Drank a coke and then walked about 5 km to the border post. Stood with our packs on, sweating all over the counter and the forms we had to fill in before finally stumbling outside for a smoke.
In Mozambique, saw a lady with a Labrador in a big 4x4 and asked her for a lift. After much consideration she finally agreed and gave us a lift into Maputo. For many years, Mozambique was under Portuguese rule but by 1962 the Mozambique Liberation Front, Frelimo, was established with an aim to liberate the country. War broke out and the final blow to Portugal came in 1974 with the overthrow of the Salazar regime. On 25 June 1975, the Independent Peoples' Republic of Mozambique was proclaimed with wartime commander Samora Machel as president. The Portuguese pulled out virtually overnight leaving Mozambique in chaos. By 1983 the country was almost bankrupt and suffering from drought. Onto the scene came Renamo, the Mozambique National Resistance backed by the South African Military and certain sectors in the west. Roads, bridges, railways and schools were destroyed and atrocities were committed on a huge scale. Much war and politics followed until eventually in October 1994, Mozambique held its first democratic election.
The country is now peaceful but many landmines still remain – grizzly reminders of the turbulent past. The country is still dirt poor but progress is slowly being made and many South Africans are obtaining land, starting farms and opening up the beautiful coastline to tourism. You can see Maputo was once a thriving city, it still thrives (or should I say crawls) with life but the buildings are long gone - beaten up remnants of a prosperous past. Paint peels, the rust groans and the bush has started taking over. People are everywhere and always trying to sell you something. “No” doesn’t work and often a good shouting is in order. A variety of food is scarce but cokes and beer are cheap and everywhere. Food is bought from markets where lots of dirty haggling must take place – a white man is a bank and must be ripped off as much as possible. That being said, the people are extremely friendly and always want to talk - definitely a much safer country than SA.
We spent the 1st night in Maputo at a backpacker’s and haggled a fish for supper down at the dirty, fly-infested fish market. We spent the 2nd night deep in the heart of town at another backpacker’s where we met Radek, who was also camping el-cheapo in the back yard. Radek was from the Czech Republic and a madman. A bearded, 32 year old geography teacher, he is cycling alone from Cape Town to Cairo. We drank beer and played cards together in rudimentary English until late that night. We also met the odd bunch: Gary (“Howzit, bru… I’m from, like, Durban”), Sarah, the sexy American woman with ‘Africa’ on her ankle, a skinny Hindu and a fairly normal black guy; all in one car, travelling somewhere, pot being the common factor.
Nursing lumpy heads, Dustin and I slogged (swam) all through town in the humidity the next morning to some sort of bus pickup spot and caught a bus (the bus actually caught us as it didn’t stop moving but shot out strong black arms and hauled us onboard to be placed between chickens and smiling, sweaty people all the way bumping along, picking up even more people right to the edge of town). We fell out, fought off many people insisting on giving us lifts for good prices and began walking. Luckily we were plucked from this press of humanity by a white guy in a bakkie, to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere. By the end of the day we were buggered after having caught a few lifts and walking thru many small villages fighting off people trying to sell us things all the way.
Here in Moz, the heat is extreme and you sweat constantly, even at night. You have to go easy on the water too as everything has to be boiled when you do find some. So as we sat on the side of the road, the sun almost set, debating where to camp between all the mud huts that constantly line the roads under tall coconut tress, a bakkie stopped. “Where you going?” asked Mervin, the happy-go-lucky Dutchman. We sat in the back and had a really cool ride thru the jungle, passing smoky villages in the twilight, jazz playing somewhere in the background (Mozambiquans love their jazz) and over a few rivers (one the Limpopo) until finally at 9, we had reached his spot at Barra Reef. Beer, chicken, bed.
I awoke in the morning in a palm leaf shack; perfect blue sea broke on a perfect white beach. I ran outside and took a swim in the warm ocean, burning the shit out of my feet on the hot sand. After being stung by numerous blue bottles and strong jelly fish tentacles, I made my way back to the shack under the palms for breakfast. For 2 days we stayed with Merv, and learned how to secure a patch of paradise by paying bribes and buying whiskey for the officials.
Then we walked 8 km south along the beach to a small town called Tofo. On the way, we passed many local fishermen all carrying big fish. We stopped for a few hours to watch one fishing operation. It consisted of 6 men, 2 anchors, 3 body boards, 2 floats, 3 bags full of rope and a lot of big hooks, snorkels and goggles. We watched as they loaded the hooks with octopus, sorted out the lines and rope and then paddled all this plus anchors and floats far out to sea; specks even in the binoculars. A leathery old man stayed behind, obviously in charge and I asked him what fish they were after. He spread his hands wide, grinned thru missing and crooked teeth and said: “Makulu Shark”, before keeling over and almost pissing himself with laughter.
At Tofo we drank a coke and then swam with tropical fish before setting up tents in some holiday maker’s rusty back yard right on the beach. Next day, we microwaved on high and swam and after some unsuccessful fishing we camped in some dunes. As we were cooking supper, Dustin got cold and put on his jacket. I looked at him as if he was mad – something was definitely wrong, it was still hot. The next day, he felt worse and after a swim he was freezing again. We booked into Bamboozi Lodge, set up tents in some shade and then discussed taking a malaria test with the kits we had. Pretty soon a small crowd had gathered and like doctors over a kill we all gave our diagnoses; the verdict: MALARIA.
Tim, the big, bald overland truck driver gave us some pills (so we didn’t have to use ours). Dustin took 2 and then lay in his tent unable to move as his muscles failed. Every 12 hours he had to take one and so at 1:10 in the morning I woke him up and made sure he took another pill. For 2 days he lay in his tent, unable to move. Eating what little he could and taking pills. He emerged the next day, weak but feeling better and soon made a complete recovery. We stayed there for a week and made some unforgettable friends. Parties around big fires on the beach at night, massive prawn braais, all of us sitting at a long table under the stars sharing stories, laughs and smiles, drinking beer and listening to coconuts fall with a reverberating thud (never pitch your tent under a coconut tree, never). Maya & Kristin, the Americans; Kerry & Alex Bailey (who have a brother back home called Tim); the funny Brits; Catherine, the crazy world-travelled, rock climbing chick; Doug, the coal mining Zimbabwean prawn guzzler; Lindsey, the nice Pommie; Paul, the Austrian (who must never be mistaken for a German) and many more, all of whom won’t be forgotten.
On our last night, we had a big party in the palm leafed pub on the beach and I ate a barracuda steak. We had organised a lift with Doug in a truck going part way to Vilanculos at 7 the next morning and we were up on time with Lindsey (who was going to hitch with us) when I discovered my camera had been stolen. No use crying over spilled milk, I gave all my leads and batteries and things to Alex. So, unfortunately there will be no more pictures.
Well, Doug arrived in his bakkie full of workers and was giving us a lift down the sand track thru the coconut groves when we had a puncture. We all walked the rest of the way with Doug explaining that his business partner’s wife was not cool about the lift idea and so we must walk to the edge of town and wait there for him and the truck. Well, the truck never came, so we hitched a ride into Inhambane and then took a dodgy little boat across the bay to Maxixe (pronounced Mashish), and as we got back to the road, Doug’s truck picked us up (by road you have to drive around the bay - an extra 70 km - so we had caught the truck nicely). Smiles, handshakes, excuses and we were off, down the worst road I have ever seen.
In Africa you drive on the best side of the road - also if you see some animal ears protruding from a pothole, it’s not a dog, it’s a giraffe! For hours we bumped along at between 20 and 40 km/h, zigzagging past donkey carts, cows and people. We stopped for lunch at some rundown restaurant in some rundown little village and ate chicken and chips washed down with Mac-Mahon Beer. We parted ways at some small market place in the middle of nowhere. Lindsey, Dustin and I sat on our bags and waited, not a car in sight. Eventually, after enduring a dust storm and then some rain we got a lift in the back of a security van full of AK-47’s and sweaty, dodgy looking men who looked longingly at Lindsey and her wonderful cleavage. We sat on either side of her, our umbrellas on our knees. The driver loved the bad road and it soon became an endurance marathon eventually ending at the turnoff to Vilanculos.
Another lift and we were at Baobab Backpackers. The wind had picked up and Snowy, a local named for his white hair, warned me in the pub of a cyclone expected to hit in 2 days time. Snowy is an old hippie and his friend, Connor, whom he hadn’t seen for 7 years had just arrived from Oz. Conner was an Australian pot farmer and rum distiller. He had a bottle of his finest with him and we all helped him finish it. Many beers, a few spliffs and crazy tales: like the time Snowy got blown up by a huge box of fireworks, then stung by a really nasty scorpion and then got malaria all in a week, after which he got lost and was considered dead after his quad bike broke down and he had to walk 100 km back along the coast.
Woke the next morning felling terrible – and it wasn’t just a hangover. My leg was swollen and red, my ears and head hurt and a sore on my heel was infected, causing a lump in my groin. In this humidity, wounds become infected very easily. I thought I had a chigger in my heel (a large flea - it burrows into your flesh, lays its eggs and dies). Dustin scratched around in my heel with a scalpel but found nothing. I lay in my tent all day while the wind picked up and coconuts flew. The rain came down that night. I felt a little better and Lindsey gave us each a haircut in the dim light of the kitchen (Paul had arrived from Tofo with his head shaver). Then Stephanie and Miriam, 2 German girls, arrived from Tofo late the next day and after chatting for a long time Stephie expressed wishes to join us. Dustin and I had a discussion and in the end decided it was good - we needed a cook (ha, ha).
Then there were 3. Said our goodbyes to more good people and then left after the minor cyclone had blown itself out. Caught a slow truck heading towards Tete after much negotiation (out here you have to pay for most lifts - always haggle about a price before you get into the vehicle). We all stopped for the night at a truck stop in Nova Golega to be up for an early start at 4am. Camping with us in the yard was a Jap with a motorbike. He was riding down to Cape Town from Japan and he joined us at our fire. A jazz band was playing somewhere so we went to sleep with earplugs. Awoke at 3am to the alarm and packed up in the dark. More trucks had arrived in the night and you could make out their monstrous forms around us in the faint glow from the east. The drivers lay snoring underneath them. The jazz band was still going full throttle and then suddenly stopped at 4am. Silence. We sat on our bags and waited with the light slowly strengthening. Goats up on the trucks bleated and regarded us sceptically.
By 4:30am, we had organised another lift with a bakkie going into Zimbabwe - perfect, we were headed for Victoria Falls. Silently, we grabbed our bags and hid under the canopy in the back. Dustin shot into the shop when it opened to get some biscuits for breakfast (we hadn’t paid the truck driver). We hurtled down a gravel road for hours, only getting one puncture before doing some dodgy money changing on the black market just before the border.
At the border: Disaster. Discovered you couldn’t pay for visas in Zim dollars and that’s all we had. Dustin and Stephie needed R600 between them (for me it is free, being on a South African passport). Well, we were stuck between two borders in no man's land, unable to enter either country. Luckily the driver came back and lent us R600. Money is a tricky thing in Africa, and the banks give you terrible exchange rates. We decided to go back to Messina in SA and change a lot of our money into American dollars, which can be changed for any currency on the black market. That way we could pay the nice driver back (he was going to Louis Trichardt).
By late afternoon, we were back in SA and boy was it demoralising. After 3 countries in one day we were dead tired, so we had hamburgers for supper. It took us 3 days to change the money – spent most of the time in banks (or me at the doctor as I had an ear infection and needed antibiotics). One morning Dustin even took a taxi to Louis Trichardt to look for more dollars as we had cleaned out the banks in Messina. He got back in the afternoon after the taxi was stopped for hours on the road while the police checked everyone’s papers. We eventually left SA in a massive thunderstorm and spent the night just outside Beitbridge, camped under a baobab.
After a whole day hitching, we eventually got a really bad lift – all of us squashed into the back of a car, our bags on our laps – for $20 US, about 3 hours to a petrol station just before Masvingo. Slept right on the side of the road and got eaten alive by mozzies. Next day, we got a lift down the road to a Spa in an old beat up car with some friendly Zimbabwean ladies. Stephie sat in front, careful not to put her feet on the 2 half dead chickens on the floor.
After buying supplies, we got a lift with Roger to the Great Zimbabwe Ruins. These massive stone buildings were built between the 13th and 17th centuries and were the capital of a major prehistoric state in south central Africa. The walls and watchtowers were built from layer upon layer of stones, all fitting perfectly together, no mortar being used upon the joints – it is a hugely impressive feat. Around 2500 adults occupied the enclosure, one up on a hill, where the king lived, and one down in the valley for his wives (clever man). This tradition can be traced back to the Shona, some of whom were still living within the stone walls in the 1800’s. In 1980, the country’s name changed from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe, after the ruins and the big stone carved Zimbabwean birds found there (6 in all). These birds can be seen on the money – which is now as valuable as toilet paper – and were probably fish eagles as the shamans used to communicate with these birds about all tribal affairs.
Pilgrim's Rest was a gold rush town. Gold was found in the late 1800’s (2 kg per ton) and the town slowly grew up around the mines as dropout types from around the world came to stake claims and strike it big. All the old buildings still remain as museums and every day at around lunchtime it becomes a tourist rush town as busloads of grinning idiots arrive, taking pictures of everything.
The 2nd night there found us camped miles down an old abandoned train track next to a river. A huge storm pulled in and we just had enough time to set up the tents before the rain came lashing down. Supper was impossible so we chatted thru the tents and eventually drifted off to sleep. I awoke sometime later to a wet leg, rolling over I discovered that my tent was in pretty deep water. I shouted Dustin awake and we quickly relocated to higher ground, half asleep in the pitch dark with the rain pouring down. What an ordeal!!! Slept wet that night.
The next morning we went down to take a look at where we had been sleeping and discovered a knee deep fast flowing river! After spending another day in lazy Pilgrim’s, we hitched back to Sabie where I made a dental appointment at the tired, rundown government clinic. Later we bumped into another crazy highway oddity while out looking for a sleeping spot on the edge of a forest. Armand had been a good Afrikaans boy growing up, studying to be a priest until around the age of 32 when he suddenly became a Moslem. Ostracized by his family and community, he fled to the road where he has been for 5 years, working here and there. For 3 days we talked religion, politics and life, camped under a bridge on the Sabie River next to a huge waterfall. Dustin and I spent much time diving off the bridge into the raging river 10 meters below.
Then came the day of reckoning: I walked alone to the clinic and had some fillings and a back wisdom tooth ripped from my face – finally we could leave South Africa. Said our goodbyes to Armand (funnily his ex wife was the one who made headlines some years ago when she stole a baby and kept it for 2 years before being discovered).
Headed back to Nelspruit, where we purchased a map of Africa (only goes as far as the top of Kenya but after weeks of searching it’s the best we could find). Exchanged R1000 for 3.6 million Meticas and became millionaires overnight. Night found us camped next to some sugar cane fields just outside Malelane. Jan, who dropped us off there, is a tour operator operating over Southern Africa and does some very interesting things like donkey treks up the Skeleton Coast. Check out www.getawaytours.co.za for more info.
Braaied some boerewors over hot coals to celebrate our last night in SA for a long time. Next day, we got a lift to the last petrol station in SA, outside Komatipoort. Drank a coke and then walked about 5 km to the border post. Stood with our packs on, sweating all over the counter and the forms we had to fill in before finally stumbling outside for a smoke.
In Mozambique, saw a lady with a Labrador in a big 4x4 and asked her for a lift. After much consideration she finally agreed and gave us a lift into Maputo. For many years, Mozambique was under Portuguese rule but by 1962 the Mozambique Liberation Front, Frelimo, was established with an aim to liberate the country. War broke out and the final blow to Portugal came in 1974 with the overthrow of the Salazar regime. On 25 June 1975, the Independent Peoples' Republic of Mozambique was proclaimed with wartime commander Samora Machel as president. The Portuguese pulled out virtually overnight leaving Mozambique in chaos. By 1983 the country was almost bankrupt and suffering from drought. Onto the scene came Renamo, the Mozambique National Resistance backed by the South African Military and certain sectors in the west. Roads, bridges, railways and schools were destroyed and atrocities were committed on a huge scale. Much war and politics followed until eventually in October 1994, Mozambique held its first democratic election.
The country is now peaceful but many landmines still remain – grizzly reminders of the turbulent past. The country is still dirt poor but progress is slowly being made and many South Africans are obtaining land, starting farms and opening up the beautiful coastline to tourism. You can see Maputo was once a thriving city, it still thrives (or should I say crawls) with life but the buildings are long gone - beaten up remnants of a prosperous past. Paint peels, the rust groans and the bush has started taking over. People are everywhere and always trying to sell you something. “No” doesn’t work and often a good shouting is in order. A variety of food is scarce but cokes and beer are cheap and everywhere. Food is bought from markets where lots of dirty haggling must take place – a white man is a bank and must be ripped off as much as possible. That being said, the people are extremely friendly and always want to talk - definitely a much safer country than SA.
We spent the 1st night in Maputo at a backpacker’s and haggled a fish for supper down at the dirty, fly-infested fish market. We spent the 2nd night deep in the heart of town at another backpacker’s where we met Radek, who was also camping el-cheapo in the back yard. Radek was from the Czech Republic and a madman. A bearded, 32 year old geography teacher, he is cycling alone from Cape Town to Cairo. We drank beer and played cards together in rudimentary English until late that night. We also met the odd bunch: Gary (“Howzit, bru… I’m from, like, Durban”), Sarah, the sexy American woman with ‘Africa’ on her ankle, a skinny Hindu and a fairly normal black guy; all in one car, travelling somewhere, pot being the common factor.
Nursing lumpy heads, Dustin and I slogged (swam) all through town in the humidity the next morning to some sort of bus pickup spot and caught a bus (the bus actually caught us as it didn’t stop moving but shot out strong black arms and hauled us onboard to be placed between chickens and smiling, sweaty people all the way bumping along, picking up even more people right to the edge of town). We fell out, fought off many people insisting on giving us lifts for good prices and began walking. Luckily we were plucked from this press of humanity by a white guy in a bakkie, to be dropped off in the middle of nowhere. By the end of the day we were buggered after having caught a few lifts and walking thru many small villages fighting off people trying to sell us things all the way.
Here in Moz, the heat is extreme and you sweat constantly, even at night. You have to go easy on the water too as everything has to be boiled when you do find some. So as we sat on the side of the road, the sun almost set, debating where to camp between all the mud huts that constantly line the roads under tall coconut tress, a bakkie stopped. “Where you going?” asked Mervin, the happy-go-lucky Dutchman. We sat in the back and had a really cool ride thru the jungle, passing smoky villages in the twilight, jazz playing somewhere in the background (Mozambiquans love their jazz) and over a few rivers (one the Limpopo) until finally at 9, we had reached his spot at Barra Reef. Beer, chicken, bed.
I awoke in the morning in a palm leaf shack; perfect blue sea broke on a perfect white beach. I ran outside and took a swim in the warm ocean, burning the shit out of my feet on the hot sand. After being stung by numerous blue bottles and strong jelly fish tentacles, I made my way back to the shack under the palms for breakfast. For 2 days we stayed with Merv, and learned how to secure a patch of paradise by paying bribes and buying whiskey for the officials.
Then we walked 8 km south along the beach to a small town called Tofo. On the way, we passed many local fishermen all carrying big fish. We stopped for a few hours to watch one fishing operation. It consisted of 6 men, 2 anchors, 3 body boards, 2 floats, 3 bags full of rope and a lot of big hooks, snorkels and goggles. We watched as they loaded the hooks with octopus, sorted out the lines and rope and then paddled all this plus anchors and floats far out to sea; specks even in the binoculars. A leathery old man stayed behind, obviously in charge and I asked him what fish they were after. He spread his hands wide, grinned thru missing and crooked teeth and said: “Makulu Shark”, before keeling over and almost pissing himself with laughter.
At Tofo we drank a coke and then swam with tropical fish before setting up tents in some holiday maker’s rusty back yard right on the beach. Next day, we microwaved on high and swam and after some unsuccessful fishing we camped in some dunes. As we were cooking supper, Dustin got cold and put on his jacket. I looked at him as if he was mad – something was definitely wrong, it was still hot. The next day, he felt worse and after a swim he was freezing again. We booked into Bamboozi Lodge, set up tents in some shade and then discussed taking a malaria test with the kits we had. Pretty soon a small crowd had gathered and like doctors over a kill we all gave our diagnoses; the verdict: MALARIA.
Tim, the big, bald overland truck driver gave us some pills (so we didn’t have to use ours). Dustin took 2 and then lay in his tent unable to move as his muscles failed. Every 12 hours he had to take one and so at 1:10 in the morning I woke him up and made sure he took another pill. For 2 days he lay in his tent, unable to move. Eating what little he could and taking pills. He emerged the next day, weak but feeling better and soon made a complete recovery. We stayed there for a week and made some unforgettable friends. Parties around big fires on the beach at night, massive prawn braais, all of us sitting at a long table under the stars sharing stories, laughs and smiles, drinking beer and listening to coconuts fall with a reverberating thud (never pitch your tent under a coconut tree, never). Maya & Kristin, the Americans; Kerry & Alex Bailey (who have a brother back home called Tim); the funny Brits; Catherine, the crazy world-travelled, rock climbing chick; Doug, the coal mining Zimbabwean prawn guzzler; Lindsey, the nice Pommie; Paul, the Austrian (who must never be mistaken for a German) and many more, all of whom won’t be forgotten.
On our last night, we had a big party in the palm leafed pub on the beach and I ate a barracuda steak. We had organised a lift with Doug in a truck going part way to Vilanculos at 7 the next morning and we were up on time with Lindsey (who was going to hitch with us) when I discovered my camera had been stolen. No use crying over spilled milk, I gave all my leads and batteries and things to Alex. So, unfortunately there will be no more pictures.
Well, Doug arrived in his bakkie full of workers and was giving us a lift down the sand track thru the coconut groves when we had a puncture. We all walked the rest of the way with Doug explaining that his business partner’s wife was not cool about the lift idea and so we must walk to the edge of town and wait there for him and the truck. Well, the truck never came, so we hitched a ride into Inhambane and then took a dodgy little boat across the bay to Maxixe (pronounced Mashish), and as we got back to the road, Doug’s truck picked us up (by road you have to drive around the bay - an extra 70 km - so we had caught the truck nicely). Smiles, handshakes, excuses and we were off, down the worst road I have ever seen.
In Africa you drive on the best side of the road - also if you see some animal ears protruding from a pothole, it’s not a dog, it’s a giraffe! For hours we bumped along at between 20 and 40 km/h, zigzagging past donkey carts, cows and people. We stopped for lunch at some rundown restaurant in some rundown little village and ate chicken and chips washed down with Mac-Mahon Beer. We parted ways at some small market place in the middle of nowhere. Lindsey, Dustin and I sat on our bags and waited, not a car in sight. Eventually, after enduring a dust storm and then some rain we got a lift in the back of a security van full of AK-47’s and sweaty, dodgy looking men who looked longingly at Lindsey and her wonderful cleavage. We sat on either side of her, our umbrellas on our knees. The driver loved the bad road and it soon became an endurance marathon eventually ending at the turnoff to Vilanculos.
Another lift and we were at Baobab Backpackers. The wind had picked up and Snowy, a local named for his white hair, warned me in the pub of a cyclone expected to hit in 2 days time. Snowy is an old hippie and his friend, Connor, whom he hadn’t seen for 7 years had just arrived from Oz. Conner was an Australian pot farmer and rum distiller. He had a bottle of his finest with him and we all helped him finish it. Many beers, a few spliffs and crazy tales: like the time Snowy got blown up by a huge box of fireworks, then stung by a really nasty scorpion and then got malaria all in a week, after which he got lost and was considered dead after his quad bike broke down and he had to walk 100 km back along the coast.
Woke the next morning felling terrible – and it wasn’t just a hangover. My leg was swollen and red, my ears and head hurt and a sore on my heel was infected, causing a lump in my groin. In this humidity, wounds become infected very easily. I thought I had a chigger in my heel (a large flea - it burrows into your flesh, lays its eggs and dies). Dustin scratched around in my heel with a scalpel but found nothing. I lay in my tent all day while the wind picked up and coconuts flew. The rain came down that night. I felt a little better and Lindsey gave us each a haircut in the dim light of the kitchen (Paul had arrived from Tofo with his head shaver). Then Stephanie and Miriam, 2 German girls, arrived from Tofo late the next day and after chatting for a long time Stephie expressed wishes to join us. Dustin and I had a discussion and in the end decided it was good - we needed a cook (ha, ha).
Then there were 3. Said our goodbyes to more good people and then left after the minor cyclone had blown itself out. Caught a slow truck heading towards Tete after much negotiation (out here you have to pay for most lifts - always haggle about a price before you get into the vehicle). We all stopped for the night at a truck stop in Nova Golega to be up for an early start at 4am. Camping with us in the yard was a Jap with a motorbike. He was riding down to Cape Town from Japan and he joined us at our fire. A jazz band was playing somewhere so we went to sleep with earplugs. Awoke at 3am to the alarm and packed up in the dark. More trucks had arrived in the night and you could make out their monstrous forms around us in the faint glow from the east. The drivers lay snoring underneath them. The jazz band was still going full throttle and then suddenly stopped at 4am. Silence. We sat on our bags and waited with the light slowly strengthening. Goats up on the trucks bleated and regarded us sceptically.
By 4:30am, we had organised another lift with a bakkie going into Zimbabwe - perfect, we were headed for Victoria Falls. Silently, we grabbed our bags and hid under the canopy in the back. Dustin shot into the shop when it opened to get some biscuits for breakfast (we hadn’t paid the truck driver). We hurtled down a gravel road for hours, only getting one puncture before doing some dodgy money changing on the black market just before the border.
At the border: Disaster. Discovered you couldn’t pay for visas in Zim dollars and that’s all we had. Dustin and Stephie needed R600 between them (for me it is free, being on a South African passport). Well, we were stuck between two borders in no man's land, unable to enter either country. Luckily the driver came back and lent us R600. Money is a tricky thing in Africa, and the banks give you terrible exchange rates. We decided to go back to Messina in SA and change a lot of our money into American dollars, which can be changed for any currency on the black market. That way we could pay the nice driver back (he was going to Louis Trichardt).
By late afternoon, we were back in SA and boy was it demoralising. After 3 countries in one day we were dead tired, so we had hamburgers for supper. It took us 3 days to change the money – spent most of the time in banks (or me at the doctor as I had an ear infection and needed antibiotics). One morning Dustin even took a taxi to Louis Trichardt to look for more dollars as we had cleaned out the banks in Messina. He got back in the afternoon after the taxi was stopped for hours on the road while the police checked everyone’s papers. We eventually left SA in a massive thunderstorm and spent the night just outside Beitbridge, camped under a baobab.
After a whole day hitching, we eventually got a really bad lift – all of us squashed into the back of a car, our bags on our laps – for $20 US, about 3 hours to a petrol station just before Masvingo. Slept right on the side of the road and got eaten alive by mozzies. Next day, we got a lift down the road to a Spa in an old beat up car with some friendly Zimbabwean ladies. Stephie sat in front, careful not to put her feet on the 2 half dead chickens on the floor.
After buying supplies, we got a lift with Roger to the Great Zimbabwe Ruins. These massive stone buildings were built between the 13th and 17th centuries and were the capital of a major prehistoric state in south central Africa. The walls and watchtowers were built from layer upon layer of stones, all fitting perfectly together, no mortar being used upon the joints – it is a hugely impressive feat. Around 2500 adults occupied the enclosure, one up on a hill, where the king lived, and one down in the valley for his wives (clever man). This tradition can be traced back to the Shona, some of whom were still living within the stone walls in the 1800’s. In 1980, the country’s name changed from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe, after the ruins and the big stone carved Zimbabwean birds found there (6 in all). These birds can be seen on the money – which is now as valuable as toilet paper – and were probably fish eagles as the shamans used to communicate with these birds about all tribal affairs.
We walked around this vast, imposing place all day, taking pictures and trying to imagine the hustle and bustle of everyday Shona life. Then we walked 8 km up the road to Inn on Great Zimbabwe, which Roger owned (he said we could camp there for really cheap rates). We stayed for 3 days, eating really cheaply in the restaurant (as dogs kept stealing our food). For $90000 Zim (the equivalent of R 4,50) you could buy a really big bacon and egg sandwich.Dustin & I took a 25 km hike thru the bush, over mountains and rivers, up waterfalls and around a huge lake. We met Peter, a local of the Shona, and he took us to his village on the way – we met everyone and were asked many questions. Zimbabweans are extremely friendly and generous people, and in the heart of their village I felt safer than anywhere in Cape Town.
Never be fooled by what you see on TV. The truth of the matter is the white South African farmers exploited and raped the country. They backed the MDC and tried to get rid of Mugabe after he had helped them in the first place. Well, Bob wasn’t going to go easily, so he kicked these rich farmers (who all have money in overseas bank accounts) out of his country. I met no farmers but gleaned this information from white people living in the country. ‘Arrogant’ is the word they use for the farmers, and I know, I worked for some rich ones who fled to Newlands. But Bob has got to go; the country is suffering under his hell bent vengeance streak. Food is scanty, but not as bad as in Mozambique. Zimbabwe is a beautiful country filled with beautiful people – go there, but take lots of spare fuel cans.
We left for Bulawayo early in the morning and by lunchtime no cars had passed. Eventually, by late afternoon, we got a lift 30 km back into Masvingo where we attempted to stock up on food at the Spa. While standing in the queue the power for the shop died. Everything works off generators here and obviously it ran out of fuel. Everyone had to return the food and we all went to the shop up the road. Camped for the night outside town.
Got a lift 281 km with the police in an open backed bakkie all the way to Bulawayo for free. They dropped us off at the massive crumbling station in the centre of the city. Steph and I went to go and buy supplies for an overnight train journey to Vic Falls. Some bread, a bottle of wine and bottles of Eagle Beer were enough. $470000 Zim per person for the tickets ensured us a second class 3 bed cabin. At 8 o’clock we hissed out of the station, driven by a huge diesel engine. We bumped and rattled along all night, stopping every now and then to pick up silent people appearing like ghosts from the bush, parcels and suitcases on their heads. We woke up in the morning at Vic Falls station - we had travelled 480 km during the night through a game reserve.
Vic falls is a tourist town – luckily it was off season. You can do anything here from riding on the back of an elephant all the way thru to bungee jumping. Of course, all prices are really high (in American dollars) and there are many companies all doing the same thing, all competing for your attention. We chased them all away and headed to a restaurant under the trees where we all ate huge breakfasts and drank many cups of coffee. We stayed at a cheap caravan park for the night while buffalo and warthog roamed the streets outside. It’s now our second night here and we are camped out of town in the bush. A herd of impala have just run around us and vanished into the long grass. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you about the Vic Falls. It costs $20 US to get in (it can’t be seen from anywhere else as it’s all fenced off) so we can only go once. It’s also the way into Zambia for us, as you have to cross the Zambezi (which is the border). I can hear it thundering constantly though, a large cloud of mist hanging in the valley. Unfortunately, I have to send this now, so will tell you about it next time. I’ll leave you all with this poem from the museum at Great Zimbabwe:
I want to worship stone because it is Silence
I want to worship rock so hallowed be its silence
For in the beginning there was silence and we all were
And in the end there will be silence
And in the end we all will be
Silence speaks to fools and wise men, to slave and king
To deaf and dumb, to blind men and to thunder even.
The mind that dreamt this dream massively reaching unto time and space
The voice that commanded the talent that wove the architecture
Friezes of dantelle herring bone, check patterns, chevron
And all the many hands that put all this silence together
The forgotten festivals at the end of the effort:
All speak Silence now – Silence.
And behold these stones the visible end of silence
And when I lie in my grave, when the epitaph is forgotten
Stone and bone will speak reach out to you in no sound
So many mysteries will weave in your mind when I am gone
Because silence cradles all – the space and the universe –And touches all.
Musaemura Zimunya
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