Malcolm's Log - Mozambique – June 2004-06-17
And so it was, upon receiving an e-mail from a certain Mr. Field espousing the virtues of going on a “soul” trip to unknown places, that my arse got that windy, tingling sensation. This was all the more so after half a year of zero wind in Guateng (the only sailing day at Bronkies this year was spent having to dodge sand banks and barbel). I went on a search for weather info on the Mozambique coastline – there is a good website called bestplaces.com – hooray ! Full stats per month on rainfall, temperatures, wind speed (max. gust, average etc.), humidity – this initial euphoria was replaced by that hollow-pit feeling upon finding out that June has the lowest average monthly wind speed of xx knots. Maybe we’d get a heavy front coming through or a really late cyclone. The die was cast, the visas procured and the trailer packed. The plan was for several of us from Joeys to hook up with some sailing makkers from Durbs in Mozambique for an extended weekend ending on 16 June – destination was a place called Bilene, about 150 kms north of Maputo.
Luckily, Julian has a shit-hot custom trailer into which the following were inserted :
- 5 boards
- 6 booms
- 3 mast bags
- 12 sails
- Kit bags, spare wheel, 15 litres of water and gas canister.
We left at sparrow-fart on Saturday morning – three guys (Julian Field, Alan Read and me), one Pajero and one trailer loaded to the hilt. Julian has a shit-hot custom trailer into which the following were inserted - 5 boards, 6 booms, 3 mast bags, 12 sails, Kit bags, spare wheel, 15 litres of water and gas canister. Gabi and buds had left a couple of days earlier. On the way we phoned him only to be informed that they had wind the previous day. The excitement factor increased again. It took us 4 hours and a bit to get to the Komatipoort border post. In my opinion, the N4 toll fees are excessive (3 toll gates) but being on an adventure, this was seen as a minor obstacle to overcome. We arrived at the first toll gate between Pretoria and Bronkies at about 06h00 – still dark. The place is lit up with multiple colours and looks like one of those bloody docking stations in a third rate sci-fi movie. We changed cash in Komatipoort. The rate offered was 3,400 meticais to the Rand. R800 was exchanged for M2,700,000 – instant millionaires! The wallet was not fat enough to take all the cash. Being the suspicious bastards we are and having heard horror stories of bribery on the Moz side, we split the cash up into smaller wads which were stashed in various locations in the car, baggage and on the person (no body orifices were used however).
Got to the border. SA side was not a hassle except for the windgat and somewhat disinterested customs officials – I call this the “officious arsehole” syndrome – it was rife. Upon crossing into the Moz section of the border post, we were confronted by a double queue of pantechnicon trucks at least 300m long – this discovery was accompanied by many expletives and much confusion as to “what the hell do we do now ?”. And then they arrived – like flees – the local “operators” (for want of a polite word) who offer to smooth the journey through Moz customs. After a couple of half-hearted piss-offs from our side, and the promise from the operators that the only lubricant required would be R30, we conceded. Our fine gentleman guided us into the “xxx” (name withheld for obvious reasons) insurance cabin to buy 3rd party insurance – no doubt getting a kick-back (there were several other insurance companies with their own cabins). Thereafter, our passports were commandeered by the operator who instructed me and Alan to hang ball next to the car while he and Julian went to do the official business – this was apparently done by barging to the front of the queue. In the mean time, Alan and I watched with great fascination the goings-on between the operators, the wanna-be operators and the local military-type bloke (who just for effect, gave one of the operators a moerse snot-klap for unknown reasons – maybe to impress us ?).
Finally, here comes Julian, the operator and some dodgy half uniformed customs official. The customs bloke wanted to look in the trailer and then began with the clicking of the tongue accompanied by tut-tutting in some Moza-Portugese dialect and head shaking. Suddenly the rate had increased to R100 due to some unhappiness on the part of the customs bloke. This was followed by intense whispered negotiations between Julian and the operator. While all this was going on, the group of Moz customs guys on the other side of the road watched the proceedings with little interest. We finally said screw-it, paid the R100 and got the go-ahead to proceed. Wonderful, that wasn’t so bad – R100 bucks not to have to unpack the car and trailer !! Bargain. Only to be stopped 100m down the road by another group of customs blokes (this time looking a bit more official i.e. uniforms). Open trailer, show car papers, explain in pidgin English what was in the board and sail bags. Finally released onto the EN4 to Maputo. Relief, followed by anger that we had been had ! Feeling like a bunch of prime tits, we were again stopped 5 km down the road by the cops. Luckily Julian had his drivers licence handy and with a deft snap of the fingers produced the card to the dismay of the cop who waved us on the way.
The EN4 to Maputo is good. Why ? Because there’s two more toll gates – Tollcon must be making a fortune. Once crossing the border, the realization sets in that the two countries are like chalk and cheese – the most obvious is the total lack of agriculture on the Moz side – it looks like the Kruger Park, only with little straw huts dotting the landscape and no animals (not even cows).
The distance to Maputo is about 80kms. It’s the usual thing entering a big town – more cars, more chaos, huts replaced by run-down houses. Took a left onto the EN1 heading north out of Maputo. That’s where the kak began – roadworks !! Detour !! Jockey for position – 2 cars wide oncoming traffic, four vehicles wide going our way – this all on a single lane road through the market area. Locals spot us in Pajero with fancy trailer and bully us into submission well knowing that we won’t risk a scrape or dent. Feel like flashing signs and obscenities but being boxed in by the unknown, we decided rather not. Bus breaks a drive shaft on detour road, wait for 30 minutes, get gatvol, reverse car and trailer as everyone behind looks for a different route. Finally get moving – by this time Julian has become a “local” and takes no more grief from the real locals. We follow a mini-bus down the right hand side of the road and force our way past oncoming cars. Oddly enough, no one gets too phazed – cest la vie (or whatever in Porto). Finally, out of the bloody traffic jam and we’re on our way again. What’s this ? More cops – luckily they wave us by. Julian admonishes me for waving back at them – I am instructed to avoid eye contact.
The road to xxx is twisty, bumpy and single-carriageway. Luckily there are not many pot holes. However, sitting over the rear axle of the short base Pajero makes for a lively trip. Noticeable are the piles of wood along the roadside. This seems to be a major industry in Moz. I assume the wood piles are for collection and delivery to the wood market (we saw a number of these). There are also odd pillars of smoke dotting the landscape and tall thin bags of something with what looked like grass on top. We found out that the pillars of smoke were from fires where the locals were burning wood to make charcoal and this was what was in the bags. Again, no formal agriculture – each bloke seems to be doing his own thing. All heavy vehicles seem to have been designed with an inherent axle misalignment as most oncoming traffic crabs towards you – very disconcerting – especially when there’s no place to go except into the bushes.
Initially, being on a road north of Maputo in a foreign land feels a bit odd – this is until you have passed your 4th Sasol petrol station in the throes of construction. The large number of 4x4s towing fishing boats with GP, MP, NW etc. plates is also very noticeable.
Getting to xxx, we turned right for the last 30 kms to Bilene. Once in Bilene we followed the directions to Palmeiros Caravan Park which is located on the north side of the town. Bilene is a run down kus dorp which has definitely seen a better era. The main drag runs parallel to the lagoon and I have visions of a thriving coastal town. There are a number of “resorts” and restaurants between the road and the lagoon. Once again, driving into Bilene, the verdwaalde look on our faces must’ve been obvious as we were again accosted by kids trying to show us the way. After a couple of runs up and down the main road, dodging kids and macadamia nut vendors, we finally found Palmeiros (the directions given to us were wrong).
At first site, Palmeiros looks good. We were greeted by a friendly admin-type bloke who spoke with a Portuguese / Brian Talma mix accent – Irie man! The first question fired at him was “does it blow here ?” The reply was “yes, man, lots of sailors here!”. Once again, good old Moz entrepreneurship raised its head. We found ourselves negotiating with a local bloke called John who wouldn’t stand for us declining his offer for services as a house-boy. The deal was struck for R35 a day. Kiff – no sailing time would be wasted washing dishes! We were directed to our accommodation which was rather optimistically described in the Palmeiros web site as a “reed chalet”. We used the word rustic but somehow felt that this was too polite. The floor was still moist from the previous day’s rain. Anyway, it was clean, the beds firm (I didn’t notice any blood (or other) stains on the mattresses) and was equipped with a fridge. Ice, beers and Smirnoff Spins (for the record, the Spins were not consumed by the author) were packed into the fridge. Two Reads and a Field in a reed house !
We then headed to the pub overlooking the lagoon for a locally brewed frosty with the philosophy that there is no time as now to savour the delights of a foreign land. We tried the Laurentina Beer which tasted rather good (until advised by one of the Durbs folks that the brewery had been temporarily closed down after several people had developed severe intestinal problems after drinking some of Moz’s finest !). Sitting on the stoep (with our arses recovering from the pounding of 10 hours on the road) we had a look around. Picture the scene – beautiful large lagoon, white sandy beach about 100m wide, palms and beach fir trees, dogs and kids playing on the beach, glassy water – what ? NO wind ! The first seeds of doubt started to set in. We were then greeted by this noisy bloke smelling like a lemon-meringue – this turned out to be a well burnt and oiled Gabi who was nursing a bruised hand. He obtained this in the course of metering out a dik klap to one of the security guards who was caught lifting his plakkies. We were regaled for 30 minutes with stories as to how the wind had been blowing the previous day and that we should have been here earlier – you’ve all heard it before. We started getting hopeful again. It then struck us – the oily residue on Gabi was citronella oil – hence the smell - perfect for warding off those offending mossies.
Gabi and his crew were in one of the reed “chalets” next to us and advised that the disco adjacent to the fence behind our hut was rather noisy and that the previous evening it had started at 22h00 and ended at 04h00 the next morning. No problem. We’re all tired and thought we’d sleep through anything. We were then introduced to our next horror – the communal ablutions. Crap ! (and that’s no pun intended). It was with quivering half-bent knees that I presented my rear in an attempt to hang the proverbial brown bear in the porcelain cave – y’see, I didn’t want to sit on the crapper as it was dark and the toilet seat busted, bent and stained from previous altercations with large posteriors. Anyway, letting the old bollocks dangle in a dark place in a foreign land is never a good idea. The fact that the bog doors are half height should also added to the experience – it makes for a friendly atmosphere as you greet passer’s-by while you do your thing – shweet ! This was followed by a lukewarm shower – the shower rose had been replaced by a plastic coke bottle perforated at its base – it seemed to work well enough though.
After a good nosh-up we hung around the hut waiting for the party next door to start. We greeted our new neighbours – 3 guys and a tank.
Johnno offered to organise us some prawns – 2kgs for 360 thousand meticais (±R100). Dunno where they get them – hopefully not from a long-drop ! A little bit of Johnny W on the rocks smoothed the way until the music began. Not too bad until we were woken up at 01h00 by some bloody clowns climbing on the corrugated roof of the hut. They obviously did not think there was anyone inside, so when I hammered on the roof, there was a mad scramble to get off. Julian and I went to call on the manager to get security to sort things out. No response. At 03h00, things got even noisier, so Julian woke up the manager again and demanded another room. Just as the other room was ready, the disco stopped and we remained where we were.
Sunday
After breaky, the disco started warming up again at about 09h00 – this was no choir music either. That was it, the last straw. We insisted on moving to more upmarket accommodation. John, our man, was already busy cleaning dishes and a bucket full of smallish prawns (about 12 cm long) in anticipation of a lemon-butter-garlic feast that evening.
In the meantime, during our move, our neighbours from the previous night (as reported by Gabi) had had one B&C too many this morning and started blikseming each other. The loser rushed off to the beach to sulk for a while until all was forgiven. Must’ve been a fight as to who was gonna be the tank driver. We were also wondering if this was going to be the flavour of the place.
Our new accommodation is called a “brick chalet” in the brochure – this one had its own shower and crapper ! All I had to do was share with Julian and Alan. Small sacrifice but I thought I’d manage. That was until one of those bastards clogged the bloody thing up one morning – neither has admitted guilt. From then on things went downhill, as with each flush (after each progressive dump) the water level would rise dangerously close to the rim. I am happy to say, we left prior to the rim being breached !
We sat around for a while looking with great concern at the glassy conditions. Every now and then an area with slight wind ripple would appear on the surface of the lagoon. Alan would greet this with “look boys, it’s filling in !!” Notwithstanding Alan’s clear enthusiasm for the wind to blow, it didn’t. By lunch time and after a brunch of lekker bacon and eggs we were ready to find alternative forms of entertainment. Alan’s new 97 litre Naish board had already been disrobed of its board bag and looked at with longing eyes and fondled from head to toe – a true virgin ! We went in search of Hans (who had overnighted in Maputo). We found Hans languishing with his wife and daughter on the beach at some up-market D/B&B type resort at the furtherest point from Palmeiros – Hmmmm??? Seeing us arrive, two beach hawkers pull in selling nuts and granadillas – luckily Hans’s wife is from Beira and speaks fluent Portuguese and tells them to bugger-off. Unluckily, the hawkers don’t care and finally leave R400,000 meticais richer.
With a “look boy’s it’s filling in” exclamation, we leave Hans and co. and head off to the southern part of the lagoon with the view to reaching the lagoon mouth. Upon reaching a river ford, Julian chickens out and we try to find an alternative route. 3 local laaities jump onto the travelling boards of the Pajero and guide us to the beach. The locals are very poor and have nothing but the reed hut they live in, the clothes on their backs and their fishing nets. However, as an odd contradiction to the obvious poorness, most of the men wear surf-label clothing ! I guess even in Moz image is everything. On the way there a 4th laaitjie checks that his buds are amped and having a good time and tries to hitch a lift on the towbar. The chief-laaitie (identified either as the oldest or the one with the zootiest cloths – couldn’t tell which) barks outs “gettoffyoubitch!!” (been listening to too many Gangsta stories). It worked ! We reach the beach after about 45 minutes crossing dunes – driving on the beach is apparently illegal so we stop to have a look. The laaitjies don’t trust us not to drive off without them and only head for the beach once we have moved about 100m away from the car. The only other locals are the cattle and the cuttlefish bones.
Get back to the lagoon and drop the laities off and send them on their way with a grin and 60,000 meticais for their effort. On the way back we saw some locals pulling in their fishing nets. This is all manual labour and looked like back-breaking work. The first net is quite coarse and catches the larger fish. This is backed up by a second net which looks like carport shade netting. This scoops up everything in its path including the smallest fish (2 cm in size) which are left on the beach to vrek. The largest fish was about 10cm long and at best would make kak bait. I guess the locals schemed this to be a good haul. There was a bonus in the form of a large (diameter 20cm) crab who had his nippers unceremoniously guillotined off with a swift swipe with a stick by one of the intrepid fishermen. The three of us drove away with a sense of disquiet at what the implications of such a small catch meant.
The rest of the afternoon was spent on the pub patio watching with dismay the lack of wind “filling-in”. Other entertainment was provided by the horrible little white and black poodles trying to shag the local mongrel bitch. We also met our new neighbours, the Witbank Boyz, who were already well and truly shitfaced from consuming copious quantities of Castle and B&C and were swaying to and fro like palms in the wind. They came with names such as “Herbe” and “Bonnet”. Contrary to expectations, these were actually a good group of blokes who had driven all the way to Moz for a piss-up – at least they were excelling in achieving their goals. Oddly enough, they kept saying that their lady friends were being unreasonable by complaining about the amount of booze being consumed.
We then headed off to the local market to procure some odds and sods for the prawn braai. Watched with fascination as about 6 blokes tried to pile into a min-taxi which already had about 15 pax inside, including a really pissed off looking honkie chick. Almost got taken by some little snot-nose who thought he was a cool operator and tried to negotiate the price of bread on behalf of the store keeper at 9 times the going rate. The bread is Porto style and is way better than the processed crap we get back at home.
Johnno had the fire going and the garlic and lemon-butter sauce was prepared. Were joined by the Durban crowd including two kite surfers (Sin and Joel) as well as Gabi and crew. Tales were spoken of the wind in this place and that September and October are the best months. General discussion was obviously wind and sailing related. This was followed by an early night – ah bliss – no bloody disco or roof warriors to contend with. That’s until Alan started sawing wood in his sleep !
Monday
Next morning, woke up to find that Julian had been awake for about 1 hour and had not yet brought us coffee. Instead he was watching the Witbank okes getting plastered (07h00) with B&C. Another day in paradise. It was too early for the wind to “fill in” so we parked-off and read Julian’s stash of Boards and Windsurfing magazines – interestingly, they both claim (in large bold text on the cover) to be “The UK’s #1 windsurfing magazine”. Of course, reading these mags didn’t help to ease the frustration levels – it’s not good to see pics of a bunch a wankers cruising on 100 litre boards and sixes in Bon-aire, Aruba or Dahab. The only wind produced was that generated by the macadamia nuts of the previous day. The conversation invariably turned to board / sail / fin selection. Gabi keeps complaining about his JP Freeride 160 litre – apparently the board doesn’t go. Theory is that Gabi needs to kick his wife out of bed and sleep with the JP for a couple of nights to establish a sense of familiarity. That and using a full-on 50 cm fin should help.
What’s this – the arrival of an X5 with “Lollie” on the number plate. One bloke and three birds! Correction, one bloke and three wide-body roadies. This was followed by a comment from Gabi that the ladies should be fitted with chevrons on their butts on dark nights for passing traffic. Not very nice.
Excitement on the beach. The Durbs kite boarders had arrived back from some deep sea fishing with their haul – 2 x 15 kg barracuda and a 7 kg princess fish. This had the locals milling around with amazed looks on their faces, especially considering that the last fish of this size which had been spotted in the lagoon must’ve been several decades ago. These blokes use their surf skis to trawl offshore. The fish were sold for about R300 to the local restaurants. Pretty cool. Of course, Gabi, the lying sod that he apparently is, sees an opportunity and rips out his trout rod, stuffs the lure into one of the mouth of one of the fishes and gets us to take snaps of him and his “catch” – this all for the benefit of his brother who apparently is an “extreme” fly fisherman.
By lunch the wind has still not arrived. Feeling very NAAFI, we wondered what to do – so we bundle Johnno into the car and head off north along the lagoon, destination river mouth. Johnno is our guide, being a local. After several missed turns and manoeuvres, the obvious question was asked – so John, when last did you come this way ? The answer didn’t surprise us. Finally we get onto the well used 4x4 track alongside the lagoon. All along the lagoon there are several small subsistence communities who grow sweet potatoes and other what nots. The one village was reminiscent of that wonderful scene in Apocalypse Now when the yanks blew the gooks to smithereens – all that was missing were helicopter gunships, explosions and Francis Ford Coppola.
Ran low on fuel before we got to the mouth and arrived back at Palmeiros. Dogs are still shagging – don’t they get tired. All that sand !!! Had a quiet evening eating prawns again. This time Alan borrowed some peri-peri from the restaurant and added a bit a spice to the concoction – just sufficient to avoid the Japanese Flag rectum syndrome. Mopping up of the sauce took place with the air of Porra bread – yummy. After dinner, we headed of to have a dop with Hans. Sat around and talked kak for a while. Came back at about 22h30 – wot’s this – no drunken neighbours – they were all asleep – alcohol had finally won the day !
Tuesday
Last day for wind ! Our neighbours had a serious collective dose of babbalas. We hitched a lift to the river mouth on what was once a proud boat. The Evinrude 30 was battling a bit, especially when Julian sat fo’rd and sunk the nose. The sounds of a protesting engine (apparently not getting enough cooling water) forced the rest of us to the rear of the boat. The most obvious thing was the total lack of fish in the lagoon. What was also apparent was the relative low depth – about waist eight with a deep channel running down the middle. We could see the potential for blasting across these waters – alas, the wind had not “filled in”. The river mouth was sort of open but can only be traversed by boat at high tide. On the way back, the excitement started to build – clouds building up on the horizon – what’s this – a cold front. We all immediately perked up – surely it would blow this afternoon ? With the sun beating down, the wind in our face (from the 2 knot headway courtesy of Evenrude) we headed back to Palmeiros with sweaty palms.
By 13h00, there was clear activity on the water. Two of the Durban guys had already rigged their 8s and AHD boards and were plodding along. We waited another hour and out of sheer desperation, rigged up – me on my 8 sq.m and F2 310 and Alan on Julian’s Hypersonic and 9 sq.m. An hour was spent schlogging upwind in anticipation of the first palnable gust – this is a technique that inland sailors are well versed with. The kite boys also joined us. All of a sardine, Alan was seen pumping and hopped onto the plane. Wonderful – I pumped for all I was worth and finally also hopped onto the plane. Freedom ! Yee-hah. Gybe after about 200m. Wind gone ! Bugger. Another hour was spent by Alan and myself pumping up and down like a bunch of poepols without planning. That was it – the sum total of our sailing experience in Moz. We spent the rest of the day at the pub looking at the still-shagging dogs and those damn clouds arriving overhead, pushed along by a paltry 6 knot breeze. To add insult to injury, one of the Dubanite’s lady friends advised us that we had an odd sailing style !!
Headed back to the braai and added blitz and match to the skilfully prepared pile of charcoal and wood (Johnno’s work). Sat around and talked kak with the kite sailors. We were joined by the Witbank Boyz. Their frenetic drinking activity of the previous 2 days had been replaced by a much more mellow demeanour now that only 2 of the 11 cases of beer and 1 of the 20 bottles of Klippies remained to be consumed – their target was in clearly in sight. Discussion centred around the fact that the wind was still blowing (first time since we arrived that it was blowing after dark) and this was taken as a clear sign that there would be wind the next morning. Plans were made to delay our departure from Bilene to make the border post in time before it shut at 18h00. This meant that we could sail till 12h00, moer everything into the trailer and speed south-westwards to make the border post by 6 o’clock. It was with great expectation that we fell into a fitful sleep that night.
Wednesday
Only to be woken with glass ! Shit. Time to pack up and piss-off. Paid up for John’s services – there was a bit of final negotiating with respect to price and extent of “bonus”. Payment was requested in Rands but, as we only had meticais, we had to do a conversion – surprise – John whipped out his loverly new cell phone and deftly performed a series of calculations which had our heads reeling – this from the bloke who advised us every morning that he had had no breakfast (due, we thought, to the fact that he was rather cash strapped).
We ducked at 09h00 (with two boards in the trailer still considered to be virgins) and had sufficient time to gooi a quick draai through Maputo. Dodging potholes must be the town sport. Maputo has also seen much better days and is like an old lady without makeup. The potential is there but the willingness seems to be lacking. Once again, most activity seems to revolve around “subsistence” industry. Apparently there is quite a large contingent of sailors (including kite surfers) in Maputo and they even have a club-house and “boat shed”. Water in Maputo bay is incredibly flat and looked good for some Formula sailing – we could imagine the itch in Julian’s backside.
Headed back to border post. No hassles to get passport stamped Moz side. We were about to drive through when some chancer came to tell us to reverse back so that “they” could check the car and trailer. With a couple of cheerful piss-offs he was sent on his merry way. On the ZAR side, it was a novel experience having to walk through the dip bucket in our plakkies to cure us of transporting any foot and mouth.
What did we gain from our “soul trip” ? Moz is a cool place if you go with the right mindset. Don’t expect five star treatment (although this can be obtained in Maputo at great expense). Locals are friendly and really are not too interested whether you are from SA or not or the colour of your skin. Most food is cheaper than here, petrol is R5.50 per litre, the beers in the pub were 25,000 meticais each (which is about R7.50 and make a good change from that SA kak called Castle). According to Gabi and co., the restaurants are cheaper than back at home. The locals are poor but not to the extent that they are emaciated – it may be different further north. We never saw any beggars in Bilene. They’ll rather trade you cash for some or other product (nuts, prawns, fruit etc.) – this said, they’re not too flexible on bargaining and will try to rip you – you can usually get about 20% off the price initially asked – it’s good to discuss pricing with other tourists to get a rough range of pricing. However, being as poor as they are, one doesn’t feel too good about negotiating too hard. Roads to Bilene were good and travelling was never really a problem. A 4x4 is not a requirement to get to Bilene – that said, one or two of the hotels in Bilene do require a 4x4 to gain access (not so for Palmeiros) and having a 4x4 was fun.