Mozambican Madness

It was with a mix of excitement and a heavy heart that I planned my last Africa trip to Mozambique and Swaziland. I’m sure I’ll be back to see the places I missed (Zimbabwe, Kenya, Mauritius, Senegal), but I did manage to explore 11 countries in my time here. Seeing as I am now obsessed with beach holidays on the Indian Ocean, to which nothing else quite compares, Mozambique seemed the natural choice. Also factoring was that since moving to Africa I have walked with lions and elephants, ridden an ostrich and camels, and cage dived with great white sharks. In my mind the crowning glory would be snorkelling with a whale shark and Praia de Tofo, a small beach village about 700 km up the Mozambican coast is the place to do just this.

 There currently exists the pesky problem of political violence and war zones in Mozambique but those lie further north. Still, my long suffering mother was less than thrilled when I announced my plan to drive 5200 km through southern Africa. Apparently I’m responsible for the whitening state of her hair. Even less thrilled was my reluctant travel buddy Hannes. As a self confessed ‘risk averse’ individual whose idea of a good time is a luxury golf course, trekking that distance over pot hole ridden, glass covered 'roads' in a Hyundai Getz, especially after our misadventures scaling the Lesotho Drakkensburg mountain range in a Volkswagen Polo Vivo, was less than enticing. But I prevailed and so we set off from Cape Town at 2 am for the first leg: the 19 hour drive to Kruger National Park and Nelspruit. Everything was fine until we hit Johannesburg, city of horrific sign posting. Thanks to Google Maps we ended up circling the airport four times before finally going in to get the non obvious directions. This set us back a few hours, meaning we had to drive pitch black side roads for a few hundred kilometres to get to our final destination. The light-free route, which traversed Kruger’s main hippo area, was lined with warning signs because the thing with hippos is that while they look fat and cute, they are actually shockingly speedy and responsible for the most human deaths (animal-wise) on this continent. When pitting a small car against a hippo it’s easy to predict the winner: the car never stood a chance. Even better, they only wander out of their murky pools at night. So while Hannes drove I scoured the roadside for charging beasts. The utter darkness meant a million stars and galaxies twinkled above us. The African sky is always spectacular - it just somehow feels…bigger and grander in scale then anywhere else. It is one component of this continent’s magic, one which enters your blood and I am convinced never quite leaves you. Kind of like malaria only it must be treated with expensive future plane tickets. I haven’t even left yet and I already miss Africa.

The next morning we headed for the Mozambique border. I had no visa which made me apprehensive. In true TIA style, I had paid a visit to the visa consulate in Cape Town the week previous only to find it closed indefinitely for the holidays (peak travel season), with no set return date for staff… who,  I also learned, were notorious for menacing and terrorizing workers sharing that same office block. Thankfully this problem was easily surmounted when an enterprising crew descended on us the moment we parked, completing all my Portuguese paperwork, exchanging our money and navigating the various border crossing ‘fees’ all in exchange for a hefty tip. We didn’t mind, we were glad to let someone else handle the stressful aspects for a few rand, and suspected that things would have been more difficult had we not found our way into the border kickback system so quickly. My relief was short lived however as things only grew harder from this point forward.

The first hour was fine. The flora changed to steamy, palm covered marsh lands and the only radio station played African music – we were getting into the zone. But once we hit Maputo our excitement waned. African cities are rarely a pleasure – they are almost always a disorganized, dirty, chaotic, seething mess. Besides trying to navigate horrific drivers there was the added bonus of armed police stationed on every second street corner. They can and do pull you over for absolutely no reason - especially if you are white. And so we found ourselves pulled off the road a number of times within the city. The blue traffic cops want to check your speed, your license, your papers. The grey cops want to search you trunk for various ‘required items’, threatening to arrest you if you don’t have, say, a glow in the dark yellow vest or not one but two emergency triangles in your trunk. Of course they have no intention of actually going through with it. They just brazenly ask how much money you have in your wallet, demand it all, and then send you on your merry way. Travel tip: hide your money in various places because they really will go through your wallet and take whatever they find. It took hours to escape that city, and when we finally did our cash situation was much lighter than when we entered.

 

After navigating that mess and further forking out to pay various tolls we made it onto the EN1, the country’s main highway. The Mozambican highway system (if you can call it that) is characterized by constantly shifting speed limits. Within a 500 metre stretch of road, the number will switch from 100 to 40 to 80 to 60. One suspects traffic safety is secondary with the primary purpose being milking motorists for as many ‘speeding’ bribes as possible. It was only 2 lanes, had no lights, often no dividing lines, madly vacillating speed limits, and piles of glass often on the middle and sides of the road…oh, and potholes galore, as well as scattered people and livestock. It was made for SUVs, not pint sized Hyundais. Every couple of kilometres a new village appeared and the speed limit dropped, and so a drive that should take 7 hours took 12. We had read many warnings about carjackings and general road conditions with particular emphasis on how you should never drive at night. We raced, or rather meandered at fluctuating speeds of 40, 60, 80 and 100 to beat the sunset, but it proved futile. The dearth of signage made it difficult to even track distances. Once darkness falls, the locals often drive with no lights and humans and animals flood the roads. This is enhanced further by the local propensity for overtaking into oncoming traffic or over hills with zero visibility. It’s no wonder the side of the highway is littered with car wrecks. It was also littered with our by-now old friends, the traffic police who grew more aggressive as daylight waned, eager to hit their looting quota before heading home for dinner.

Once darkness descended we decided to take a gamble and turned off onto a side road sign posted for Inhambane, a Portuguese colonial city near Tofo, which despite being a major tourist destination has zero signage. This road was filled with dips and next level potholes (craters?) as well as being sand covered in places. At speeds of maybe 30 km we bumped along squinting into the darkness and narrowly avoiding goats, chickens and people who sprang up like apparitions (how on earth can they see where they are going??). It felt like a miracle when three hours later we finally pulled up to our hotel. Of course there were also problems at the hotel, ie the water wasn’t working, but we weren’t going to let a little thing like that get to us – we were finally here! And when I settled onto a patio over the ocean to eat a dinner of fresh grilled barracuda, all was forgotten.

Praia de Tofo is a little fishing village built on the rolling golden sand dunes that feed into the Indian Ocean. Its streets are sand, not paved, and it’s dominated by thatched buildings, dive centres and local fishermen. This is the premier place to see whale sharks which love the turquoise, bath temperature water. While it is by no means cheap – prices are double those in South Africa – the fresh seafood is a fantastic deal. I have never had tuna that even comes close in freshness or flavour. I ate fish for nearly every meal - I could not get enough. No matter that the side was always greasy chips – who cares when you have fish that fresh and that tasty on your plate? On the beach you can buy fresh baked coconut bread from children as well – which makes for a nice breakfast. By the side of the highway pineapples are strung up along wooden racks, and on trees bags filled with locally picked cashew nuts hang like Christmas ornaments.

Besides lazing on the beach and stuffing myself with seafood, I was determined to swim with a whale shark. To my massive and yet-to-end disappointment, this was not destined to happen. I forked out a large sum to join an ocean safari first thing the next morning even though the sea looked stormy and the wind was gusting – nothing was going to deter me. Hannes on the other hand decided to go be risk averse somewhere in the village. So, with a group of 11 others, I suited up and headed out on a high powered zodiac. The water was so rough most of us were sorely bruised and/or mildly bleeding just from boarding the boat once we pushed it out to sea. For more than two hours we rode that ocean like a roller coaster, clinging to the straps with rope burned fingers, searching for signs of sharkiness. We did find some dolphins, which are always sweet, but when you want whale shark nothing else will do. The one time we jumped off to snorkel the water was so rough that we immediately had to throw ourselves back over the sides like beached whales in flippers. Despite the increasing storminess, another group went out that afternoon and of course found three sharks to swim with. No matter, I would go again the next day, even if it would mean paying double. But, no thanks to nature, it grew even rougher and all boats for the next few days were cancelled due to unsafe conditions. Of course, the morning we were leaving it finally calmed down, but we had to drive out early in an attempt to dodge the police when possible. So whale sharks still remain on my to-do list. As other travellers told me about their exciting encounters, I began to feel like I was the only person in all of Tofo to miss out. All I had to show for my efforts was a seriously sunburned nose and skinned knees.

 Our beach hut, which we shared with geckos, mosquitoes and a large spider who met an unfortunate end via the bottom of my shoe, was perched directly on top of a dune. I loved falling asleep and waking up to the sound of the ocean just a few metres away. I less loved getting entangled in mosquito netting each night and their general aggressiveness. No amount of repellent and citronella seemed to quite keep them at bay. Even more annoying was the fact that our plumbing didn’t work much of the time. But such is Africa – the scenery is unbeatable, but more often then not, things won’t work.

The locals, who lived in tiny thatched huts (which must be a nightmare during the frequent tropical downpours) perched on the outside of the dunes were not what I would call friendly and frequently attempted (sometimes with great success) to rip us off. I am not so quick to judge, as I can imagine that when one lives in such a poor place that is descended upon by tourists in pricey SUVs with expensive cameras and holiday toys, it could lead to resentment and tensions. In general, Mozambique is a colourful country – the little tin shacks that house local stores are brightly painted as are the crumbling remnants of Portuguese colonial occupation. It actually seems like Vodacom sponsors the entire country judging by the overwhelming number of red painted buildings that feature their logo. The women dress in bright, batiked African fabrics and walk along the road balancing tremendous loads on their heads – one even carried an entire tree trunk. The men too dress in acid brights. As is generally the case, decay is omnipresent and garbage is littered everywhere thanks to a government seemingly unconcerned with basic sanitation. I was sad to see so many stray dogs, often lying strewn by the sides of the road, victims of sloppy drivers. I was also sad to hear, by way of a French park ranger that the game parks in Mozambique are completely bereft of animal life – all have either been poached or eaten.

We also explored the city of Inhambane, provincial capital and former Portuguese administrative centre. With streets lined by brightly painted colonial buildings, this was my kind of place. I could have spent days wandering and taking photos, though admittedly it didn’t always feel quite safe. The Portuguese influence is still alive and well here – it is still the official language, the food is generally Portuguese influenced (think prego rolls) as is the music, a highly listenable blend of African rhythms and salsa.

 After a few days with sporadic plumbing we were feeling filthy and it was time to head to the next stop: Swaziland. Our expectations were low, having heard stories about the egomaniacal King and how primitive the country was. We dreaded the return drive through Maputo and any further encounters with the traffic police and so departed at 4 am in an attempt to get as far as possible in the early morning, pre corruption hours. By some miracle we made it through without any stops! The highway traffic was psychotic (think extended double busses overtaking into oncoming traffic for instance), the traffic in Maputo once again hellish and many wrong turns were taken. And don’t even get me started on our decision to have KFC for lunch in the city – you don’t want to know what kind of mania exists for fried chicken in these parts. But in a mere 9.5 hours we managed to make the Swazi border, shaving two hours off our previous attempt. We missed the beautiful beach, but were relieved to escape the clutches of what must be one of the most corrupt places I have ever been.