03 May 2019
Getting out of SA and into Mozambique was easy; it took about 45 minutes altogether, which included getting a visa ($100) and a free temporary import permit (TIP).
Outside, I tried to change some money as I knew that the upcoming tolls only accepted cash, but to no avail – nobody wanted USD! Some young lads were trying to sell me a SIM card, airtime and some data until an immigration officer appeared and they scampered off. “Have nothing to do with them,“ he advised, “they‘re not supposed to be here.”
I headed off and didn’t get far; just as far as the gate where a policeman flagged me down. At first, he looked a bit hostile, but smiles and the answer to the inevitable question, “Where are you going?” changed his demeanor, and we had a good chat. He was somewhat puzzled at the absence of space for my “chicken”, and we parted with a cheery wave!
Next was a stop at the fuel station 1km up the road – progress can be slow at times – where I had been told I could change some money at the bank. Unfortunately, at this particular bank you needed an account to change money, so no luck there. Fortunately, I was able to change some at the petrol station – after a bit of persuasion – and to get a SIM card. This was good and bad; I had comms, but the lad who sold it to me spent at least 45 minutes trying, unsuccessfully, to get it connected to the internet. It would take me another 2 days to achieve this.
So, onto the road at last. The road to Maputo was good and progress was quick. I thought the turn northwards was well before Maputo, but I was wrong, so there followed a long slow transit through heavy traffic.
My planned destination was Marrauene and Casa Lisa, a camp site I had found online and which had received great reviews. I passed through Marracuene and saw no sign of the place. Eventually I pulled up by a policeman hiding under a tree with his motorbike and asked for directions. I had overshot the place by about 20km he said. There was nowhere up ahead for at least 100km, according to my friendly Bobby, so back I went…
To Marracuene, where I was told Casa Lisa was in Bobole, 10km back the way I had just come. 10km later I stopped again, and again, and again, always to be directed another kilometre up the road – by the Heineken sign, they all said. Eventually I found the Heineken sign; it was outside a massive brewery. No sign for Casa Lisa though.
By now it was getting dark and I decided to go for the Blue Anchor Lodge, which seemed to be pointing towards where Casa Lisa ought to be. 100m down the road I was assured by three lads that this was indeed the road to Casa Lisa. Things were looking up!
Then the truck came. A huge beer truck appeared out of the gloom – well it looked huge as it bore down on me on the single-track road, which had now become rutted and sandy! As I was on the wrong side of the road, and the driver hadn’t stopped at the wider part by the corner he had just come around, I pulled over so he could pass.
Slowly, slowly he edged by; then dumph! as his mudguard hit the bike. “HEY! HEY! HAAAY!” I SCREAMED!!!! (Yes screamed, as I didn’t fancy becoming a smudge under his rear wheel).
Fortunately, he heard me and stopped before any major damage was done. By now it was dark, so it was difficult to assess the situation. What I did know, was that I was wedged up against this large truck on my left, with a road that was falling away from me on my right. The surface was soft and sandy which made any movement hazardous. And I couldn’t even get off the bike! All I could do was sit there and stop the bike from falling over.
Remember I asked for directions a little earlier? Well to cut a long story short, the three lads I had asked, caught up and joined in the fun. In the end someone – I didn’t see who – picked up the rear wheel and moved it over, then hefted up the front and did the same. Freed from the pantechnicon I was able to, carefully, manoeuvre past the truck onto the open road, and I could see the lights of Casa Lisa; the end of the road for today.
Except it wasn’t! Casa Lisa had closed in 2015, been taken over by Heineken, renamed The Blue Anchor and was used a boarding house for their overnight visitors. It was definitely not open to passing vagrants, and neither the security guards, nor their manager, were able to give me permission to camp in the grounds. The lesson? Don’t trust South African websites.
So, what to do? My only option apparently was to renegotiate the rutted, sandy track on which I had so nearly perished and check in to a (recommended) place in Bobole. This was achieved with the assistance of the headlight of the security patrol’s bakkie and they then guided me to the Complexo Suor del Trabalho, my newly recommended accommodation.
It wasn’t cheap – $70 for B&B – but I was in no position to argue; I certainly wasn’t going looking for somewhere else. Anyway, the room was well presented; the last time I had swans on my bed was in a rural town in Laos.
The first beer didn’t touch the sides; the second helped down the first, of many, meal of several chicken and chips I was to have in the next week. The 3rd beer saw me to sleep – as if I needed any help – I was still alive!
Belfast-2-Belfast-By-Bike 