All Aboard, We’re Taking The High Road To Ilha De Mozambique

It’s a long way to Tipperary, and we’re taking a “wye Kaapse Draai” en route to Ilha de Mozambique, which is like driving from Worcester to Cape Town via Johannesburg. It was an adventure we might’ve missed if we’d stuck to the potholed EN1.

We had an extra month to explore Mozambique, and we were looking forward to traipsing all over the countryside. Some roads were good, and we could make good time. By now, of course, trucking companies had also got wind of the better roads. Besides the usual obstacles on this gauntlet, we’d have to contend with buses too.

The subtropical vegetation was lush and green, dotted with ancient baobab forests, coconut palm trees and a myriad of indigenous trees and deliciously monstrous shrubbery.

Along the roadside, a brisk trade was underway, and motorists could buy bags of charcoal, fresh fruit and vegetables, baobab pods, skewered grilled mice (a local delicacy), golden bananas, avocados, the last of the summer mango crop, and wild honey.

We stopped for some raw honey, a bushel of baobab pods and a golden bunch of lady’s finger bananas. The honey was a yummy, golden thread of smoky wildness, which I served with the last of our thick Greek yoghurt, which, until recently, had added sweetness to our fruit smoothies.

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We spent our first night wild camping just off the main road on a farm, with the farmer's permission. Going to bed early meant we could set off soon after sunrise the next morning, hoping to get a head start on the truckers.

The landscape became more rural, and the architectural vernacular shifted to mud, reed and grass huts. However, drier patches of road began to crack and show signs of corrosion, which slowed us down considerably.

The hilly escarpment gave way to maize fields, sorghum, rice paddies, and small subsistence farms, while the landscape featured rocky outcrops and fat-folded mountains and valleys. Cattle, goats and children all roamed freely too.

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We were about to enter Tete province. My only knowledge of Tete was the Cahora Bassa Dam, which supplies South Africa with electricity. I seem to recall that we were part of a consortium with Portuguese, German, and British companies that built the dam between 1969 and 1974. Unfortunately, we did not include a visit to the dam in our itinerary. I do regret that. 

Tete, a river port city, lies on the banks of the Zambezi River near the rich coal mines of Moatize. In the mid-17th century, Tete traded in gold and ivory. Today, a railway links it to the Indian Ocean via the port of Beira, and smaller boats, dugout canoes, and fishermen still use the Zambezi River.

The sluggish, brown, python-like Zambezi River, together with its tributaries, forms Africa's fourth-largest river basin and flows 2,000 miles from its source on the Central African plateau to the Indian Ocean, forming the boundaries of Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique. Victoria Falls, Lake Kariba and Lake Cahora Bassa are all on the river. Quite impressive. My included video gives a good sense of the river's breadth. 

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We were exhausted and had time to linger near Tete. We set up our campsite on the northern bank of the Zambezi, under a canopy of massive indigenous trees, as recommended.

Kukutana campsite in Benga is a tropical paradise. Well maintained and managed, it was a place we were eager to spend a few nights, catch our breath, cycle to loosen our weary muscles and joints, and get some exercise after the hiatus in Beira.

It is true; we can run but not hide. The property owner, Wynand, is an old boy of Drostdy Technical High School in Worcester, a school my son attended. Although a few years younger than Timmy, they could recall meeting up.

We spent our days lolling about, relaxing on the day bed, floating in the swimming pool, or reading. Occasionally, at mealtimes, we’d chat with the French couple Benjamin and Nelly, who were on a hiking/bussing expedition from the Seychelles, where he was a nurse and she an attorney, on their way to Mount Kenya, where they hoped to meet friends before their trek up the slopes. Although not very forthcoming, they did tell us some amusing stories about their bus trips in Mozambique.

Interestingly, as French citizens, they could and did work in any French colony or country with ties to France without jeopardising their careers. After this six-month trek, they planned to go to French Guiana, where they’d work and save for a future trip.

Occasionally, we gathered and set off on our jaunts of discovery, even venturing into Tete to do some shopping, withdraw cash from the ATM and reload our SIM cards. We were becoming quite au fait with all this, and the only hitch was Butch skidding and tumbling off his bike at our gate! I think it’s becoming his new party trick.

I enjoy exploring the countryside around our campsite; it often answers the whys and what-ifs, prompting me to wonder why someone would have a campsite in a particular spot, what the attraction was, why that community, and, finally, whether I could live there.

This first encounter with Malawi exceeded our expectations and gave us a taste of what we hoped was to come, but it was time to set out. The plan was to cross the southern Malawi border, spend a few days somewhere nice, then cross back into Mozambique and head off to Ilha de Mozambique.

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As much as I’m a stickler for my independence and doing the “right thing”, it’s become clear that using a reliable, recommended runner at border crossings is the way to go in Africa. Butch had a name and a telephone number, which he used to contact Innocent at the Malawi-Zambia border. With the photo of the truck, we were soon spotted.

Innocent soon had all our documents and passports. He completed the required forms and, with us, provided the necessary explanations at the various counters. With his help, we exchanged some currency for Malawi Kwacha, obtained SIM cards, and bought data. For the minimal sum he charged us, we had a very easygoing, uncomplicated border crossing. Handing over my passport to a stranger unnerves me.

The border towns we have visited are hectic, with a conglomeration of traders and touts milling about, trying to sell us their wares before we leave. After a few gruelling hours in an immigration office, shopping is the last thing on our minds, and it often takes a moment to collect ourselves before responding appropriately.

Once our passports were stamped and I’d applied the new Malawi flag to the Honey Badger, we only wanted to find a suitable campsite for the night, preferably with a restaurant. I was very excited to see how different Malawi was. All the reports were favourable. We’d been told it was friendly, hospitable and kind.

It was still early afternoon, and we had a few hours of driving left. The landscape had, once again, changed utterly. We were at a higher altitude in the mountains, with exciting vistas. Malawi’s roads had markedly improved.

Villages were more organised, and I noticed beautiful basketry for sale. It was a Saturday afternoon, a popular time for people to gather in the villages. Markets were throbbing with shoppers and onlookers there for the social gathering. We sometimes crawled at a snail’s pace through these busy, clogged streets.

Our route would eventually take us through Blantyre, a typical, busy modern African city like any other. I had expected it to be more chaotic, but everything went smoothly, and the traffic circles were a pleasure. As luck would have it, not far from our destination, the police stopped us at a barricade to tell us the bridge had washed away. We had to retrace our steps and take a massive detour.

It was getting late; villages were getting busier as people gathered for weekend celebrations. Our three maps and GPS all gave us different directions, which didn’t help our anxiety. We had no time for sightseeing; all eyes were on the road. We drove in the pitch dark with only our headlights on, as it's illegal to use spotlights. Bridges were narrow, roads snaked through tight bends, potholes, and pedestrians milling about, not making way for trucks at all.

We arrived well after dark at the Africa Wild Truck Lodge and campsite. Stressed and exhausted, we wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed after dinner. Dinner was a feast—a three-course meal prepared by our delightful Italian hostess. The comforting curried pumpkin soup reminded us of home, and the sorbets for dessert reminded us of our evening strolls in Firenze, enjoying our balls of gelato in sugary cones.

After a lie-in, we crawled out of bed and saddled our bikes for a leisurely ride around the tea estate. Yes! We were right in the middle of a large tea plantation. All around us, the rolling hills and mountainsides were carpeted with dwarf-like, bottle-green, satin-smooth Ceylon tea bushes. Pitco Tips tea comes from here!

It was exhilarating, fun, and a completely new experience. At times, all I’d see was Butch’s head bobbing as he cycled along the contours. We saw pickers with baskets slung over their backs, carefully nipping the new growth—an age-old, labour-intensive farming method.

Waiting for us at “home” was a slice of Italian blackberry tart alongside our morning Malawi tea!

The notice in the bathroom said it all.

The five benefits of a cold shower are:

I took a deep breath, cautiously turned on the taps, and stepped into my first voluntary cold shower. Since then, I've experienced this phenomenon a few times and, although I'm still not accustomed to it, I have to admit it’s not too bad.

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While on an exploratory walk around the property, I had a chance encounter with a young Malawian man. After a brief greeting and introduction, he asked where I was from and where I was going. Once he was satisfied with those answers, he brazenly asked whether I’d like to “go with him”. Where to, I have no idea, and I didn’t dare ask, but I got the impression it wasn’t for a walk. I declined the offer, and only after I told him I was a gogo (grandmother) of seven grandchildren, the eldest eighteen, did he skedaddle off rather sheepishly. He shared this with another elderly man on his shaky bike, who glanced at me and nodded sadly as if I was ignoring a valuable opportunity.

Befuddled, I focused on the school rules and wondered if this was a thing around here. I have since learned that “beach boys” provide companionship to single ladies from abroad. There would be no more walking and talking, only cycling and waving in the future!

We spent three nights at this beautiful outpost in Malawi. Africa Wild Truck Campsite and Lodge certainly was a favourite stopover. We explored, cycled, and enjoyed pleasant days relaxing under a canopy of giant tropical trees. We met lovely Aiden, a teacher, and Helen, a British doctor and researcher in Blantyre, who gave us valuable recommendations for medications and places to visit on our return to Lake Malawi.

It was time to head back into Mozambique to resume our journey to the coast.

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Thus far, all our dealings with border control officials had gone smoothly. We’d had no hitches or unpleasant encounters. The cyclone severely damaged the Malawi immigration buildings at the border back into Mozambique. Some buildings had been gutted, while others had flooded, leaving muddy watermarks above the door lintels. Security personnel operated out of canvas tents, and they completed official forms on verandas, spilling onto muddy pavements. Everyone was patient and helpful and tried to make the experience as painless as possible.

Whether he was being overcautious or too zealous in pursuing his official duties, we didn’t know. Still, the military gate operator was adamant that we produce all our documents for his scrutiny. He even photographed our passports. While the queue behind us built up, he took his leisurely time to inspect our paperwork with a fine-toothed comb.

Why we’ll never know, when he reluctantly returned our paperwork file, having checked to his satisfaction, he sullenly lifted the rusty boom. We gathered we were free to go! I still wonder if an offer of a Cola would’ve sped things up, but we didn’t even consider it.

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Now here’s a thing. Among the first Europeans to venture into Africa were missionaries like David Livingstone, Andrew Murray, and others who set out to spread Christianity to local people in the colonies and Catholicism in the Portuguese colonies.

In Malawi, evidence of the Christian faith is prolific, and businesses are often named after people mentioned in the Bible, like Martha’s braid shop or Jeremiah’s bikes, and even Elijah’s coffin shop. Job didn’t feature. I noticed a few financial or investment businesses named this way and found some rather amusing. I’m sure it's intimidating to investors, e.g “In His Grace Investments” or “With His Hand Investments” or “In His Trust Investments” and my favourite “God Bless You Investments”. My cynical nature smells a rat.

Every denomination is well represented in Malawi, and churches are formidable in size, giving the impression that there’s a flourishing spiritual awakening. We met one or two pastors and Missionaries who were a great help and recommended great stayovers along our way, as well as any help we might need.

In our adventures, we also came across suggested landmarks not to be missed, and one of these was a Catholic cathedral in Mozambique, planted in the middle of nowhere on a dusty road far from any remarkable town or city. While Butch checked our navigation, I explored these magnificent buildings, dumbfounded by the size, opulence, and expense invested in now-virtually abandoned mission stations.

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We ventured into remote territories not often visited by tourists, and camping spots were becoming hard to find. Fortunately, Butch had kept up with Danie Murray, who soon gave us a few telephone numbers to call.

At the next village, we’d stop for lunch and delicious crispy Mozambican pão, load our phones with data, and call our contacts. We needed to stretch our legs. This is when the kindness of Angels and Bernadette Jansen crossed our path and opened their hearts and homes to us. All it took for Bernadette to say yes to two strangers in a truck who needed a place to park for the night was a request. No questions asked. She trusts everyone who knocks on her door unfailingly.

We arrived, and the gate to her property slid open, and there we were, sorted for the night.

Bernadette’s story began long ago, when she gave up a lucrative hairdressing career in Johannesburg to set up an orphanage, nursery school, and clinic primarily for orphaned children in a town called Macuba.

The children, fostered by relatives, are often emotionally and financially neglected and used as “slave labour”, earning their keep by working for these relatives, who are themselves poor and see no other way out of their dire circumstances.

Bernadette, with the help of volunteers, teachers from the community, and financial support from churches and private donations, can run a clinic, the school, and a feeding programme for orphans, as well as an educational programme for children with Albinism who face rejection and bullying and are stigmatised and marginalised in the community.

While the children, the community, and their parents are educated and informed about the realities of Albinism, the children are encouraged to wear sunblock, hats, and protective clothing when outdoors.

The residents and educators constantly work on various projects, including gardening, cultivating seedlings, and expanding their tree nursery to generate funds. The whole “organisation” is self-sustaining; they draw water from wells, practise recycling, make compost and use it to mulch the gardens, and seamstresses make the uniforms, etc. A mammoth task.

Butch, unfortunately, was feeling unwell after the long, tiring drive and decided to turn in early, while I joined Bernadette and her brood of six foster children for supper.

Being a single parent to six boisterous children while maintaining a busy career is no mean feat, and I found myself in awe of Bernadette. Her adoration and commitment to her clutch of chicks, ranging from nursery school to high school and college, were nothing short of astounding. She gave each child her undivided attention, focusing on their eyes and speaking in a soft, sing-song voice filled with love, while attending to the rest of us without missing a beat! No one ever raises their voice in that peaceful home.

While enjoying my meal at their table, I experienced unconditional love, reciprocated by a child. I excused myself and left early so the family could continue their evening rituals, feeling humbled by how far I fall short.

The next morning, we toured the grounds and various buildings. We met the teachers and staff, and the children arrived excitedly with their guardians.

The Honey Badger, of course, was the centre of attention, and soon the littlies were crowded around us, eagerly waiting to see what a “house on wheels”, or casa sobre rodas, looked like. Butch did a splendid job as a guide, showing them around. The oohs and aahs were a delight as they inspected, touched and admired the stove, shower and fridge! Some girls thought my closet was a little skimpy, all things considered. The little dressing table and mirror made up for a few shortcomings, though.

With a little encouragement from their teachers, they were persuaded to sing a song, and once they got into the swing of things, we all joined in and had to be stopped when the siren went off, signalling the start of classes.

Bernadette, I have no words to thank you for your kindness and hospitality. You are a saint. Your unending patience, humility, acceptance, commitment, and energy in the work you have taken on are nothing short of miraculous.

It is rare to witness ambition in action. I saw it and felt your passion. We all strive to be selfless; you are among the few who do so brilliantly. Your reward is seeing these children grow into proud members of their community. You accomplish great things with deep love for the least of us. What you do will change their world.

We left Bernadette’s in tears, humbled, and silently reflecting on our experience and what we’d learned, long into the morning.

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The landscape changed once again as we entered the land of Inselbergs.

Definition: “An inselberg or monadnock (/məˈnædnɒk/) is an isolated rock hill, knob, ridge, or small mountain that rises abruptly from a gently sloping or virtually level surrounding plain. In Southern Africa, a similar granite formation is known as a koppie, an Afrikaans word ("little head") derived from the Dutch diminutive kopje. Wiki”

Our campsite, Restaurant and Camping, nestled protectively beside one of these inselbergs and a lake, lay just north of the town of Montes Nairuco. Sitting with our sundowners, we watched the sunset’s shades reflected on the ochre granite and the calm waters. Apricot, golden sunflower, tangerine and citrus. A fitting end to our reflective day.

It is often hard to realise that not everyone, no matter their good intentions, fully comprehends the English language. Yes, even when we’re in non-English-speaking countries, we somehow take it for granted that everyone, no matter their education, will have a good grasp of our tongue! This causes untold frustration and eye-rolling when our instructions and requests get lost in translation.

A good example was our enquiry about the kitchen times for supper. Seven, he said. We arrived in good time at five thirty, sat down and waited. Fifteen minutes later he approached us tentatively. We ordered drinks and waited. It had been a long, emotional day, and our nerves were frayed. It turned out that the kitchen closed at 17h00. The supper was on me.

I knew that, no matter how gorgeous the sunset was, we’d never return to this campsite! Someone had cooked his own goose.

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We were in Nampula Province, Mozambique, and slightly ahead of schedule, which allowed us to pass through the city of Nacala, mainly to see the impressive port of Nacala, aka the Nacala Port Complex. It is the deepest natural port in Southern Africa and serves Malawi via a 931-kilometre railway. Large-scale rehabilitation, expansion and modernisation works are currently underway, funded by the Japanese International Cooperation Agency. Because of the extensive work underway, admission to the port was limited, but I can report it is very impressive indeed!

The GPS lady told us to stick to the road; we had only a few more hours to go before reaching our destination, Ilha de Mozambique, where we were told we could contact Pai Diesel, who was sure to organise everything for us. Rumour had it that the Honey Badger would have to remain on the mainland while we visited the island. Not a prospect we particularly relished.

“Yes,” Pai Diesel said. He was ready to receive us at the entrance boom before the bridge. He’ll find us. We hoped to be there by early afternoon, we assured him. I had no idea what to expect. I would be cautiously optimistic that things would pan out.

While editing this blog last Wednesday, we experienced load shedding, the first since leaving South Africa. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realised the date was incorrect, and my blog went “live” once the power was restored overnight. I also received the new blog notification and had to change the date, which was confusing. I apologise.