Potholes, The Kindness Of Strangers And Miraculous Guardian Angels - Mozambique

Our time in Mozambique was running out fast, and we needed to get our passports stamped to get another 30 days to explore this magical country.

After much consideration, we chose the southern Zimbabwe border post, Forbes/Machipanda, near the Mozambican town of Chimoio.

Recent travellers warned us that cyclone Freddie had caused havoc and that heavy rains would’ve damaged the already-bad roads. They suggested we head north from Inhassoro, where we’d been camping, along the EN1. We were told the road from the Savi River to Caia on the Zambezi River was horrific, and there was no way to avoid most of it. To get off the EN1, we needed to turn left and continue west to Dombe, then north to Chimoio.

Roads are busy, and villages sit along the main arteries, often just a few meters apart; therefore, vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and conditions are on the roads. Overloading is every day. Three adults and a toddler on a motorbike are common; mini taxis carrying thirty-eight passengers are the norm; ox- or mule-drawn carts are plentiful; and motor cars, some vintage and many unroadworthy, whizz up and down. Trucks from all over East Africa cart goods of all descriptions in every direction, and then you get The Bus.

---oOo---

Buses are a law unto themselves. Firstly, because they’re on a tight schedule, they carry disgruntled passengers with destinations to reach and impatient clients waiting to embark on a journey.

A bus does not stop for anything, only for fuel. Potholes aren’t negotiable; they’re taken on like a charging bull seeing red. Headfirst at full speed. All damage to The Bus is collateral. A passenger reported that pee stops are rare. It’s all about engaging your core and bladder with stamina, endurance and faith while keeping schtum.

We moved swiftly off the road when we spotted a bus and waited until the road cleared. There’s no such thing as keeping left when a route is pockmarked with crater-sized potholes. Road markings are there to be ignored, and they’re only there to keep the road painters busy. Overtaking on a double white line is quite acceptable. If the coast is, or seems, clear, you go. After all, why wait?

---oOo---

I respect the drivers of giant haulage trucks. They’re also on a stopwatch, having to deliver their loads on time and, more importantly, intact. How they do it on Africa's horrific roads is nothing short of miraculous.

Now, when I hold a jar of marmalade or a fresh, crispy lettuce at Shoprite in Chimoio and it costs more than I’m used to, I pay with a smile. It's mind-boggling that it got there in the first place, and honestly, the drivers should be paid double. That man deserves his Bells if he ever has the privilege of having one.

---oOo---

The roads are a shock. Potholes like craters; the tar sometimes dwindled like ribbons fraying. Someone told us the poor road construction quality was because Chinese contractors, in their contracts with the Government, guaranteed the roads a certain longevity on the condition that Mozambique implemented stringent vehicle weight controls, knowing full well it wouldn’t happen.

When the Government asked the road builders to fix the shoddy roads, the contractor produced the contracts and pointed to the small print.

We, and everyone on the road, dodged in a zigzag staccato, engines coughing and bucking as we judged and negotiated potholes, ditches, and dongas. Butch’s concentration could never flag, not even for a minute. Sometimes the thud and grating shudder were unavoidable, and we’d both hold our breath, waiting for the tyre monitor to beep and warn us of an imminent disaster. Touch wood, we made it without any hitches.

Paying a toll on a non-existent road felt like a slap in the face, but we had no option. We later learned, when we exited Mozambique, that we'd not paid a road tax and, to add insult to injury, had to cough up $200 for our one-way trip! Extortion, in my books. Long queues would suck the life out of us until we realised that we could slip by and jump the queue without any problems. No road rage, no rudeness, just infinite patience. I suppose these are all lessons learned from experience.

---oOo---

The colourful villages are a treat, with stalls offering any manner of interesting product to browse or buy. As foodies, we're drawn to the fresh vegetables and summer fruits, and sometimes a quick stop turns into a carnival, or, in Butch's case, a circus. He's not comfortable with the crowds, and the haggling really annoys him. I think he'd like to support everyone, which is impossible, of course. Locally made, bagged charcoal is sold along the roads. 

I prefer to choose my own and saunter off to the markets and sellers myself. Chatting up the stall owner is an education, and I've filled my basket with strange new products and wriggled out a first-hand family recipe from ladies who've been preparing these strange new plants for their families.  My ignorance is amusing, a good icebreaker.

Breaking up our journey and spending time out of the truck gives us a pause and a chance to stretch our legs. There are no truck stops along the way, so truckers buy snacks and meals from vendors; we're doing the same now. Truckers would buy goats, charcoal, and even furniture without setting foot on the ground. Experimenting with new customs is small, but it's exciting and a leap from our comfort zones, even if it's just a bag of peanuts or cashews!

Fresh fruit is plentiful, cheap, and irresistible. In hot climates, fruit ripens more quickly, and we've learned to freeze cubed fruit for smoothies, our breakfast staple. I also learned that pumpkin leaves, chopped and sautéed with onions, garlic, tomato, and water or coconut milk, make a delicious change from spinach. We tried it and confirmed it is delicious—a far more substantial leaf that is surprisingly tasty. We later bought dried pumpkin leaves, which rehydrated very successfully. Korve is another delicious kale/spinach-like vegetable that thrives in this hot, humid climate.

---oOo---

We called it a day when we spotted the signposts indicating The Buffalo Camp. Butch was exhausted, and our bodies felt like they’d been put through the wringer. Butch was ready for a long cold 2M, and I couldn’t agree more.

Buffalo Camp, owned by an ex-South African, Willie Prinsloo, is a haven in a forest of Mopane trees where we were allocated a wild campsite. Electricity was available, and we could use the lodge’s ablutions.

At night, around the long table, we met a network of South Africans and Zimbabweans who regularly stop over. From these casual encounters, we got fresh “intel” on roads, campsites, and references to other people in the network.

Meeting these entrepreneurs and learning about strangers scattered across faraway African countries has always fascinated me. Farmers, conservationists, businesspeople, plumbers, electricians, engineers, wildlife guides, cooks, managers and missionaries. When asked why, they shrug. That's answer enough.

All of them are enthusiastic to help in any way they can. Without hesitation, Willie hooked up a low-bed trailer and sped off early one morning, driving a hundred miles to help a friend stuck on a bridge. The journey took at least 12 hours on horrible roads.

At the Buffalo camp, Butch and Willie pored over maps and charted our road in Mozambique in fine detail. First-hand knowledge is always better than a map, especially where the weather plays a pivotal role in road conditions.

Bernhard van Dyk and his family, en route to Inhassoro, stopped in a whirlwind for breakfast and soon gave us tips and valuable information about Chimoio, Tete, Beira and Ilha de Mozambique. We were delighted.

We met Diesel, his house manager in Ilha de Mozambique, who became our guide and a wonderful friend.

The Honey Badger needed a thorough service. Everyone agreed that there was no better place than Dave Froud’s workshop in Chimoio. Dave turned out to be a Godsend. We stayed in his workshop yard for a few nights while Butch battled his first bout of fever and the onset of cellulitis.

---oOo---

Dinner at Willie’s was always a treat; the food was excellent, but our dining companions were the highlight. On our second evening, we predicted the long table would be well attended. The usual suspects were there: Willie at the head of the table, and on his right, Billy, a conservationist rehabilitating a large tract of land earmarked for a National Park. A couple from Zimbabwe, en route to Inhassorro, with their friend Butch and me, and an intriguing young couple decked out in Safari gear: Barbara Rautenbach and her husband, Ben.

As one does, we soon had everyone lay out their family trees. There’s always a connection, the six degrees of separation. Ben grew up in Pongola, Bingo. He knew Butch’s sister and had attended the same school as Butch's niece. He knew about every rattling skeleton. Like old friends, the two men soon bonded as they recounted and reminisced about similar experiences.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to “What did you do, Butch?” Being an attorney was nothing extraordinary, and Butch kept it short and sweet. When his turn came, Ben said they were the managing couple on a large game farm on the Zambezi in far northern Mozambique. Butch, who knows everyone, again mentioned a long-lost family friend, Bingo. That’s precisely where Ben and Barbara worked, on Anton’s farm.

Telephone numbers were exchanged, and a group photograph was taken and sent off to Anton,

During texts and calls, Butch mentioned that we were en route to Chimoio, near where Anton owned a large Macadamia nut farm. The Rautenbach told us he was there to see the current harvest before returning to Pongola.

---oOo---

While waiting for a service at Dave Froud's garage, I experienced an exceedingly touching moment. Two old pensioners, best friends,  are employed as nighttime security guards. Friendly chaps, who I’m sure couldn’t hurt a fly. We could hear their sing-song chatting late into the night as they watched the premises.

We shared our evening meal, a Gourmet sandwich and salad, with the two men. They sat by their cosy, crackling fire, legs crossed, enjoying the evening's coolness, leaning back in their chairs while we tried to bring Butch’s fever down.

A while later, a soft, tentative knock came at our door. I peered out to find one chap standing there, holding out a small bag like a precious trinket, tightly knotted and filled with fresh peanuts in their shells. Knowing this was probably their snack for the night, I protested and shook my head. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I accepted the gift guiltily, with overwhelming gratitude, and hid my tears.

His open-handedness once again proves that “among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver.” The delight on his face was worth a million smiles. These acts of kindness are commonplace in Africa, where compassion and generosity of spirit are a way of life. A lesson I hope never to forget. We loved the shelling and sweetness of each little peanut and savoured them all the more because of the sincerity with which they, who could hardly afford to, reciprocated a sandwich.

---oOo---

Without mishap, we renewed our visitor’s stamp, allowing us to stay another 30 days in Mozambique. We would follow the recommendations and double back to Ilha de Mozambique after visiting Gorongoza National Park. We were to return to the EN1 but were confident we’d make it in good time. Little did we know, I’d get ahead of myself and have to double back.

---oOo---

The drive from the Mozambique coast to Chimoio takes one from sea level to the mountains and plateaus of central and western Mozambique. The country’s backbone is a mountain chain that forms the eastern escarpment of the continental plateau. It does not descend abruptly to the plains but slopes gradually to the coast in places like the lower Zambezi district.

Mount Gorongosa lies northeast of the Manica Plateau and is of granitic formation. Gorongosa rises isolated, with precipitous outer slopes, and has been likened to a frowning citadel. East of Gorongosa, a graben valley extends from the Zambezi to Pungwe Bay, the southern extension of the African Rift Valley. The Cheringoma Plateau lies east of the graben, sloping gently towards the coast.

These mountains are covered with magnificent forests. Farther north, the river basins are divided by well-marked ranges. Near the southeast shore of Lake Malawi, a high range drops abruptly to the lake. The country between Malawi and Mozambique is remarkable for the number of fantastically shaped granite peaks, or inselbergs, that rise from the plateau.

---oOo---

Besides the Zambezi, Mozambique's largest river is the Limpopo, which enters the Indian Ocean north of Maputo Bay. Other Mozambican rivers south of the Zambezi are the Komati, Save, Buzi, and Pangwe.

In the rainy season, the Save is a large stream and can be navigated from its mouth by shallow-draught steamer for over 240 km. It flows east-northeast through Mozambique and, at its mouth, forms a delta 100 km in extent.

Most of Mozambique’s prawn harvest comes from the Save River mouth.

This past summer’s rains were extraordinary, and most rivers flooded. Bridges were washed away or at least damaged. A bridge with a vast puddle was positive, showing it had no holes and that we could drive through safely!

Our ETA jumped from five hours to nine hours soon after we hit the road. We realised we’d have to wild camp, so we did one night after many hours on the road. We turned off and followed a power line until we were far from the road. A farmer kindly permitted us to stay the night. Exhausted, we managed to heat some frozen Woolworths Tomato and Basil Soup, a dollop of yoghurt, and a good spoonful of basil pesto lifted the offering. Our Airfryer toast was blissful. Shortly afterwards, we flopped listlessly into bed.

The ascent into the mountains was a pleasant surprise and a welcome change in scenery. The roads improved markedly. We thought we could speed up, but the climbs, descents, curves, S-bends, and tight corners slowed us down. In low gear, Butch slowed down to traverse the undulations in our heavy vehicle.

---oOo---

We’d been on the road for nine hours and had covered only 189km, with 50km to the nearest town. None of our navigation apps recommended a campsite, and we might have no option but to wild camp again. We were tired, the roads were busy, and at night livestock posed an unavoidable danger. No, we’d wild camp, we agreed.

We used every device we had to find a suitable spot for the night. We needed a miracle, but I wouldn’t mention it. Ever. Then, Butch’s phone beeped, stopped and then rang. Sunset was fast approaching, and we were both becoming anxious.

Surprised to hear his long-lost friend Anton’s voice, Butch listened, as one only phones family on a Sunday afternoon. Anton was inviting us to pop in. He was on the farm. Relieved and surprised, Butch asked for directions.

That’s when the miracle happened. We were a mere 1km from his farm turnoff, and he was on his way and would meet us at the gate. My jaw dropped. Butch said he would ask his friend whether we could wild camp on his land.

We spent a delightful evening camping beside the Macadamia drying floor until Butch slipped and almost broke his neck. The two boys caught up on the fifty years we'd missed, and we enjoyed a delicious sausage barbecue. Anton filled in many navigational gaps in our itinerary, giving us valuable tips, routes and places to avoid.

Sunset is always a good time to harvest herbs; as the evening cools, the oils in the leaves seem more pungent. To my surprise, I found the Badger encircled by an enormous basil border. I wasn't going to pass up this opportunity, so I left with a huge bunch of fresh basil, which I turned into glorious pesto. That night I dreamt of sliced tomato and basil in every form.

We couldn't leave without touring the Macadamia sorting and packing plant, which was fascinating, and then Anton took us on a scenic drive to explore the farm while checking the river level, which was in flood and drowning his water pumps! Salvaging the huge pumps was difficult in crocodile- and hippo-infested waters. Butch assured me he'd come up with a plan! 

You were a good Samaritan, Anton. Thank you. Butch says he can’t wait another fifty years to reacquaint—time to speed things up.

---oOo---

 

Chimoio is the capital of  Manica Province in Mozambique. It is Mozambique's fifth-largest city.

The town lies on the railway line from Beira to Bulawayo, near the Cabeça do Velho Rock. 95 km from the Zimbabwean border, it has been a major destination for Zimbabwean immigrants seeking work in Mozambique. The Massacre of Chimoio is a horrific blot on the city's history; one I knew nothing about. 

Arab traders came up the Búzi and Revué rivers in search of gold and other (read: enslaved people) merchandise, marking their routes by planting Borassus palms, each within sight of the next. In some places, you can still spot these ancient palm trees.

A trip to Chimoio city passes under the curious gaze of a rock carved into the shape of an old man’s head: Mount Bêngo, one of the city’s main attractions.

During the rainy season, the rocky outcrops take on a spiritual role, as falling water looks like tears running down the face of the “old man”. Locals believe this signals that the ancestors are angry and sad. Mount Bêngo is a sacred place where ceremonies invoke the spirits. Chimoio is a picturesque district, and you can spend a few days exploring the countryside.

The city is vibrant, busy, and colourful, with interesting old buildings dating back to the Portuguese colonial era. Informal trading and housing coexist peacefully alongside a growing formal cityscape. Although the new, more prosperous high-rises, malls, and commercial buildings are impressive, I prefer the old, traditional, colourful buildings where authenticity rules. I admire that everyone has space to live, learn, and make a living.

We spent one night on the western shore of Lake Chimoio, on the outskirts of the city, camping there. Watching the anglers cast their nets reminded me of Vietnamese fishermen. Once again, the ripple effects of Covid-19 were evident, and the loss of tourism income has plunged these resorts into disrepair.

Adalton, the technician who worked on our truck, couldn't have been friendlier, more helpful, or more accommodating. Nothing was too much for him, and he even drove out to help us after we'd left Chimoio. With a toolbox full of spanners and nuts, he tapped here and fastened there. His diagnosis was spot on; the new oil filter they'd installed the previous day was leaking. We needed to return to Chimoio and replace it. Thank you, Adalton. You're a bright star on a night.

---oOo---

Once we’d filled our fridge and larder with fresh produce and groceries, we were eager to leave the city and head to Gorongosa National Park, which meant taking the EN1 from Inchope. All in all, it was a 48 km journey. Easy peasy, you might think, but it was a nightmare. Our top speed was 12 km/h, and it took us 4-5 hours to get there.

---oOo---

We left Chimoio with hope springing eternal in our breasts that the road would not be as predicted; our wishes came true, but then we came down to earth with a bang.

While clinging to a safety strap and tightening my seat belt, I found myself thinking about childbirth. I could liken this experience to an expectant mother in labour. Painful, slow, stressful, with moments of extreme anxiety, the unknown littered with uncharted obstacles. Lonely, too. Each driver and vehicle has a unique experience, and each endures it. At times surprisingly easy, at others, amazingly complex. Large twenty-two-wheelers could be stuck in the mud for weeks.

No one could tell what lay around the next corner or in the dip after the rise as we negotiated buses, UTs, Canters, taxis, bikes, scooters, and even Tuk-Tuks that wove seamlessly around or through the ditches and loopholes. At the same time, pedestrians, onlookers, goats, geese, children, and chickens scurried hither and thither, unperturbed.

Finally, indigenous rain forests led the way from the EN1 to the Gorongoza National Park gate, which was incredible in every way. Driving along the road lifted our sagging spirits, but the sun dipped behind the gigantic tree trunks as an orange sky gave way to night. We didn't reach the park’s gate in time and had to find alternative accommodations. That's when Piet and Ria van Zyl came to the rescue.

---oOo---

Fortunately, we’d requested a campsite for the afternoon and predicted that our ETA would be around coffee time, giving us ample time to set up before sunset.

Unfortunately, the sun set earlier than it should have; it was a rainforest, after all, and without a signal, we couldn't call for help. We decided to double back to the main road. At a snail’s pace, with our spotlights on and our eyes on the GPS, we made our way through an unknown territory without thinking—nerve-racking, as if we hadn’t survived enough, we thought.

Then the Universe opened a gap in the heavens, and Piet's WhatsApp call came through. Piet would send his staff to light the way and lead us to our campsite. We were on the right road, just a few kilometres from his gate. We were later told that Vodacom, our network, has no coverage in that remote neck of the woods.

Exhausted, we fell into bed, hoping we’d never have to repeat the experience. That vow was short-lived, of course, as Butch fell bitterly ill and had to do it all over again within a week en route to Beira.

Piet and Ria, we can never thank you enough for your hospitality, the copious cups of coffee, delicious beskuit and Wi-Fi on your stoep. Your medical expertise and pharmaceutical knowledge saved the day many times, and your generosity, kindness, and patience with strangers were a great comfort to us. I almost forgot Piet’s birthday. Milk Tart was scrumptious. You and all the other strangers along our way have made our journey one of a lifetime.

---oOo---

“Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.” - Mother Teresa.

“Carry out a random act of kindness, with no expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the same for you.” - Princess Diana.