‘Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves’ – Henry David Thoreau
While overlanding through Mozambique we found that we weren’t exactly lost, but our GPS and National Geographic African Adventure Atlas were having a bit of an argument. The GPS insisted we should turn back, ‘No ferry!’ The atlas, stubbornly and rather predictably, insisted that this dirt track, devoid of any vehicular or pedestrian activity for the last 50 km, led to a ferry which traversed the croc and hippo populated Shire River. Our apprehension was further exacerbated by two inescapable facts:
1. The sun was setting
2. Our fuel was running low
The 130 Defender, Mafuta, had never let us down over 20 000km of African driving but even Land Rovers need fuel. Our destination was Malawi, our point of departure Gorongosa National Park in central Mozambique where we had been attacked by a swarm of tsetse fly. We had been here before in 2010 and decided that the calm of Lake Malawi was preferable to the interior of this semi tropical, Portugese speaking country as camping options and activities are limited once you have left the park.
With Luisa (my wife) in the unenviable position of navigator and my two sweet kids as passengers and technical advisers / critics, we had made the decision to leave the tar roads and trucks and to follow the dirt tracks to a lesser known border crossing at Marka, Malawi. We had decided, when planning our route, to leave the beaten track as often as possible and have faith in the good nature of the Mozambican hombres.
This faith was proven to be justified as we arrived at the Shire to find a ferry and a nice couple of locals who were travelling from Inhassoro to the interior. They had arrived at the Shire half an hour before us as the sun was setting to find that the ferry closed at 17h00 on a Friday. They had sent someone to fetch the ferry master who agreed to take both our vehicles across at a slightly inflated rate. The ferry was operated via a human powered pulley system. We engaged the diff lock and drove the Defender down into the mud and onto the two rusty metal beams provided as a ramp to the ferry and 20 minutes later repeated the procedure to disembark in the now complete darkness.
The guide books advise that one should never drive at night in Africa but with our new friends taking the lead we drove the 30 km of goat track to the next town hoping to find suitable accommodation and fuel. It was Mozambique Independence day and celebrations were in full swing as we entered the town of Morrumbala after some interesting water crossings and mud negotiation, to find that there was no fuel station in town. Mozambican dance music was distortedly pumping through an army of unseen speakers, the roads were unmaintained dirt and the population seemed in very good spirits inspired, no doubt, by strong spirits. We thanked our new friends and headed for the border, which we had been advised was open until 20h30, deciding instead to take our chances entering Malawi.
The road to the Mozambican border is another goat track passable by vehicle but definitely not constructed for that purpose. At 20h30 with the fuel light well and truly burning my retina, we approached the Mozambican border and were greeted by a guard armed with a rusty AK 47 and a large, yellow can of Laurentina Premier Beer. Closed! Independence day! In our terrible Portuguese we explained we had no other options and eventually the guard was kind enough to disturb the immigration official, who in turn roused the customs official who promptly and slightly begrudgingly disappeared with our passports and AA Carnet to return 15 minutes later with all our documents stamped and in order. Now to negotiate no mans land and the Malawian border.
It was not to be that we would enter Malawi that night. Instead we were greeted, thankfully in English, by the Malawian border guard, Charles, who informed us that it was impossible to enter but yes we could camp in no mans land. The wife was not happy. This was the first time that our planning had let us down so spectacularly, but thankfully the Land Rover is fully equipped for bush camping so we rustled up some pasta and had a cold beer while watching locals arrive in their vehicles, lift the boom and head off to Mozambique with no documentary complications.
Not long after the roof top tent was opened and the kids put to bed, a particularly inebriated and unpleasant soul decided that he would pay a visit and inspect our vehicle. I puffed out my chest and approached him before he could get too close to the family and vehicle. His name was Thomas (that night without the silent H) and he persistently stepped over my imaginary boundary and was about to receive an unpleasant physical intervention when Charles approached and introduced Thomas – the customs official! Great timing. For the next hour we endured Thomas and his opinions, learnt that he was a good Muslim and fed him cigarettes. Eventually he grew bored and returned to the Immigration building to sharpen a large knife. In the morning I greeted him with ‘Salaam aleikum.’ He was astounded, ‘How did you know I am Muslim?’ Poor Thomas had an obvious hangover and no clue how to complete the Carnet. He proposed a customs fee of $150 – thanks but no thanks! After a bit of negotiation I paid him $25 and entered Malawi to look for fuel.
The previous night we had slept restlessly not knowing that the next day would be infinitely more frustrating, that our day would begin sans ablution at 4h30 and end at 1h00 after queuing for 12 hours for fuel in Blantyre.
