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This Is Soweto

Possibly the most infamous place in SAR and Joburg is Soweto, and most of the struggle against apartheid was fought in and from here. The name Soweto is an acronym, made up - in apartheid days - from the first letters of the words 'south western township'. Its history started in the 30s, when the first people were relocated in Olando township, in an attempt to remove 'black spots' from downtown Joburg. In 1976 this was the birth place of the student uprising that later spread across South Africa. The sprawling cluster of townships is today home to over 2 million detribalized and largely streetwise people - the biggest black urban settlement in Africa. Luckily the Jones are cool with that - they have actually moved from Durban to Joburg and like it here, so they were the best guides into the contemporary Soweto. So we hoped on, David, Sam, little Layla and us two, on the family 'bus', and took a long Saturday drive through Soweto. No guns, no paranoia, no expectations.

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If one expects decrepit misery and menacing gangs, Soweto will disappoint. Homes are ranging from makeshift shacks to extravagant mansions, and a local lingo - tsotsitaal - an eclectic mix of several local languages, Afrikaans and street slang - has been developed and is used mainly by the young. We have seen far worse looking African capitals, not to mention certain East European towns. We parked in the guarded (!!!!) parking lot in front of the famous Wandie's. Inside a bus-load of tourist were enjoying the excellent buffet with live music.

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The food was a fusion of south-african and tribal cuisine. Even ice cream and fruit for pudding. Not threatening at all. We loved the atchar, a spicy pickled carrot relish.

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The Mandela House looked even less scary. It true that it's been rebuilt and re-opened as a world-class museum in 2009. Located at 8115 Orlando West, the first township of Soweto, where few authentic shebeens (bush bars) still exist. The house was originally built in 1945 on the corner of Vilakazi and Ngakane Streets and Nelson Mandela moved here in 1976, but spent little time living in the house in the ensuing years as his political agenda became all-consuming.

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Born in 1918 at Mvezo, near Qunu, son of a chief councilor to the paramount chief of the Tembe, Mandela spent early childhood in the Transkei, being groomed to become a chief. Later, he become founding member of the youth League of ANC, invigorated in the 40s the present SA ruling party and became a key figure in the uprising and subsequent fight for freedom and reconciliation during his imprisonment on Robben Island and after his february 1990 release, when he returned for a brief 11 days to 8115. In 1994 Nelson Mandela became SAR's first president voted in democratic multi-racial elections, uniting both the country's racial groupings and a fragmented public service. Today the 1993 Nobel Prize winner (award shared with former SA president F. W. de Klerk, a key figure in ending apartheid) symbolizes the struggle of oppressed people around the world, and is universally considered a quintessential peacemaker & negotiator. In 'The Long Walk to Freedom' Nelson Mandela said about this house: 'It was the opposite of grand, but it was my first true home of my own and I was mightily proud. A man is not a man until he has a house of its own.'

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There are not one, but two shopping malls in Soweto.

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And the scariest fact about Soweto might possibly be the bungee hung between the two graffitti-ed water towers

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Time To Go


OK, we were well trotted, rested, fed and with at least one new visa sorted out. Our next task was to patch the tent, that has been leaking for months. So we bought some waterproof material from Oriental Plaza and glued it on the damaged seams.

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Nobody was happy to say good-bye

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A last finger-licking lamb potje - traditional South-African hot pot slowly cooked for many hours

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Sunset over Joburg� We'll miss this skyline.

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Thank You to Our South African Sponsors

Almost two months in the South African cosmopolitan jungle has taken a toll on our wallets and moods. I guess we felt encouraged by Gui and we thought the corporate world would fall on its ass learning how we had arrived here with no sponsor, but it was not like that at all. Fundraising and scouting for sponsors eats into the good spirit, we even started to despise ourselves. Then, when least expected, we met some wonderful, generous, positive people.

Thank you Linex Yamaha - the leading Johannesburg Yamaha dealership - for providing complimentary service for our bike. Thank you Danny, Roger, mechanic Jacques and the whole team! And thank you Yamaha South Africa for offering free genuine parts (clutch kit, brake pads, front brake discs, hub rubbers)

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Thank you Arai South Africa for offering complimentary service for my Tour X3 helmet and a new visor.

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Thank you Bike Gear, Porth Elizabeth for new ROK straps and an Air Hawk for my sore arse.

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Also thank you: Wayne (for the waterproof HB bag), Dirt & Trail Magazine for the interview ( www.dirtandtrail.co.za), Gear Up Durban (for fitting our tyre and friendly advice), cheers to the whole motorbiking community that helped us along: Charl, Bernard, Terry & Doryanne; and thanks to our super hosts: Iulia, Carla & Charl, JJ, Eric, Bernard, Martin & Camy and the fantastic Jones. Love u all.

Between Heaven and Earth
 

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Crossing the border into the country where we would go back to our free camping routine was a bit of a hassle. No sign of the infamously laid-back Batswana. First, the VAT office in SAR had been shut down, so to claim the beefy 60 euros we were directed back to Pretoria. Then I had to drive back and forth between the two borders to be repeatedly refused exit or entry stamp in our new temp passports. Then we learnt that Botswana - for which we luckily didn't need a visa - demanded 240 Pula to allow us driving through (1 year road tax, driving permit and insurance). Tried to talk our way out of this, in vain. Only after we were way out of the customs premises I realized that the border bureau de change had paid our fees by mistake, giving us double the amount due for the dollars I wanted to exchange. Serendipity or poetic justice, anyway it was too late and we moved on. Gas is 8,9 Pula/l. BTW, even if in the local lingo (setswana) it means 'life giving rain' (key survival parameter for this land 80% covered by the Kalahari), the name of the Botswana currency will make any Romanian giggle.

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Riding Botswana is like that say: flat, horizonless, boring, straight but decent tar cutting through sketchy villages lost in a largely dusty, deserted mass of land.

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Except for curious meerkats standing by the road and for the surreal natural salt pans - world's largest - that stretch for 12,000 sq km. The life auspicious conditions will prevail on Earth for less than ten percent of the planet's overall lifespan. Our habitat is narrow, excluded by the deep ocean from two thirds, yet imagine that million years ago water was even more prevalent. These pans were once part of a massive inland lake that the San people (the original inhabitants of Botswana) have seen in their time. You could wander for weeks in the Makgadikgadi without encountering another human being, let alone the swarms of safari vehicles that make some of Africa's game parks seem like vehicular feeding frenzies. In rain season herds of wildebeests, springboks and one of Africa's last great zebra migrations turn the Makgadikgadi into a movable feast for predators such as lions, cheetahs, jackals and the rare brown hyena. This harsh wasteland becomes a lush green carpet of savanna grass. Shallow lakes also form then, providing nesting grounds for Africa's second-largest gathering of pink flamingoes. The pans remain - like many other natural wonders in Africa - largely off limits for motorcyclists. In the Mopipi pan, just a fraction of the Makgadikgadi system, we could hear ourselves self think.

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Clouds of gray clay dust in this epic emptiness

Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/articl...#ixzz1w8gjlnbI

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Since the 1966 independence Botswana has been enjoying a peaceful democracy, a happy accident in sub-saharan Africa. Barely 2 million people inhabit over 580,000 sq km, you bet it feels lonely. That also meant you could stop and camp at will and nobody would be appalled that we are shopping for groceries at the street side stalls and take water from pumps. This had been our last snack in South Africa:

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We hit the 50K on the clock as well

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After starting the day at 10 degrees Celsius� and barely able to venture outside our tent around 7.30 a.m. �

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� we ended it one sweating copiously in the tourist hub and entry gate to the Okavango Delta, Maun. The town was too civilized for us to sleep like bums on its outskirts, so we would camp for the night at the Old Bridge Backpackers. The 'backpackers' attribute - we had learnt since Namibia - has nothing to do with actual backpacking, not in the southern-african subcontinent. It may well be the case for the entire East coast as well. It just means that camping in allowed on the premises and that sometimes accommodation in dorms is also offered, besides other sleeping arrangements. This place was laid back and friendly, but slightly run down and poorly maintained. Built a while back with less money than the very similar Ngepi in Caprivi, but just as expensive, clearly not targeting the budget travelers. As always when we slept in tourist hubs, we had a hard time falling asleep with all the partying and drinking going on at the campsite's bar. In the afternoon we had toured the airline offices at the airport to inquire about scenic flights over the delta, as the alternative to visit the Okavango by mokoro would take too long. Luckily by late evening we had met two travelers from Munich, who would made an old dream possible - so in the next morning our party of four (us two, plus Dominic and Stefan) was reporting for a ridiculously scrupulous security search in the diminutive Maun airport.

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Airplanes being given a hand wash

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Some fun data about our aircraft: also known as the �StationAir�, the sport-utility Cessna 206 is capable of taking up to five passengers. Fuel consumption 1l kerosene/ minute; range 5 hours. During our 45' flight we traveled for 228,82 km, covering 109,707 ha with a maximum speed of 300 km/h.

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Andras, our US born pilot ( www.majorblueair.com) < link http://www.majorblueair.com/index.html > , heard that that was our maiden flight with a light aircraft and offered to entertain us with the 'adventurous' version. A frisky take off and a couple of funky maneuvers and we were hooked. The whole gang was trepidating with adrenaline. Eventually all the Gs made my head turn, so Andras suggested piloting the 4 seater would make me feel better!

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Have I mentioned that all this awesomeness was happening a few hundred meters above the Okavango Delta, one of the Earth's most magical places?

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The 16,000 sq km Okavango Delta is one of the world's few deltas that do not end into a river or the sea. First the Gumare rift changes the incline of the Okavango riverbed, thus the Delta is born. The river splits into three main channels, which later further split into dozens of others. The Thamalakane rift is where the inner delta ends, so the Okavango never reaches the ocean, partly evaporated, partly absorbed into the Kalahari. The Delta is a complex mosaic. Innumerable lagoons and water channels are cut perpendicularly by a radial network of trails (made by animals). Around them there are circular escarpments populated by water lilies and papyruses, the 'islands' of the Delta. Finally, there are the peripheral dry patches that never get fully flooded and that are mainly covered in grasses.

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We had already had a glimpse of the delta's fringes back in February, when it was in full flood. Now we were Yann Artus Bertrand wannabes, attempting to gain perspective of the ensemble. During the 45 minutes we witnessed many intimate scenes of this unique biome: elephants and giraffes making their way across marshes, some lonely bull hanging out by a stream, hippos grazing or chilling while fully submerged in the many pools, zebras scattering, a rhino family, a huge crocodile basking in the sun, herds of antelopes and flocks of birds enjoying an unspoiled paradise.

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The colors of water, sky and earth, the many shades and textures of grasses, the dry patches bearing the scabs of later summer's burnt trees - simply stunning.

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The Delta was not at the peak of the flood, but the changing of the season was revealing new aspects of life in this vast, complex ecosystem. As we are short for words, please enjoy some humble photos of an only a corner of the amazing place we call home.

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This small poem appropriately describes our experience

" High Flight" by John Gillespie Mage Jr.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered winds;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there
I've chased the shouting wing along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

After such an exhilarating morning, we needed a moment to clear our heads. Our German buddies bought us a couple of iced lattes in a s****y cafe across the airport, a nice place to chat a bit with our cool pilot. As it turned out, the job is good for hours, but it doesn't pay well enough for his ambitions that should see him landing a commercial airline job somewhere in Europe. What followed was a quite appropriate monotonous drive across Botswana. We were all adrenalined out, and anyway motorbikes are probated to enter inside the arguably wonderlands of Nxai or Makgadikgadi Pans or on the Kubu island. This in turn offered the space to digest the memories of the Delta as seen from the sky.

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We knew the road to Zambia would cross Chobe National park and incidentally the migration corridor of many wild animals. So we pitched camp within reasonable distance from the known cut-off, and warn the critters of our presence with a safety fire. One of those perfect spots it was.

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Charged by another mesmerizing sunrise, we rolled - impatient to see lots of wildlife - into a large operation to enlarge the road, which has disrupted the migration path of the animals crossing from Zim to Chobe. But we did spot some big game though, many many miles further north, besides duikas, warthogs, elands and many species of birds.

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It's mind boggling how these giants have adapted to man's presence and ever increasing appetite for territories.

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At the border we met with a large group of super equipped South African holiday makers.

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Together we hoped on the 15 minutes ride across the Zambezi by a 30 Pula ferry.

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A group of mokoros zoomed before our eyes across the channel, the fishermen looking as smooth and athletic as their Durban kaiak rowers counterparts. Just that these people are not exactly doing it for fun.

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Back in Zambia we were jolted back to the realization that we were back in the Black Africa as well: chaotic border control and hoards of middle men trying to extort newcomers. As the police had the South-Africans by the balls, we managed to slide under their radar and make our way out of the mess without paying a dime. But faith was awaiting in Livingstone: while negotiating the exchange rate of our last 160 Pula for the local Kwachas, an opportunistic money changer seized the moment and simply grabbed my moneys. Before I could step off the bike or alert anyone he was gone. The Spar supermarket that had been under construction in February was now open for business, so we wiped off the bitterness with chicken and rice, then loaded with fresh veggies from the market we were off to Rapid 14.

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In Livingstone the turquoise cabs were desperate for customers.

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Riding the steep track to Nsogwe, we could smell the falls, see the wave of mist now a shadow of its February might. We had butterflies in our stomachs. It felt like coming home: returning somewhere for the first time in over 10 months. There we knew people's names and every single corner. There we had a past, and we had come back to recover that link. Surprisingly, wifi is hard to find in Joburg and even more a precious commodity in Botswana, so we hadn't warned of our imminent arrival. But we found everybody in good health and received some very happy news for the end of the year. Laura's parents were ending their visit with a vow to return in a couple of years. Some things were different though:

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The colors had faded away into shades of rust and gold, after simmering all summer. The camp looked older, as we were as well, wiser, as we hoped to had grown. More drama was filling up the gorge, the Zambezi wider and now flooding the rocky beaches under its swarming rapids. But the roar of the river and those awesome sunsets that only happen at Rapid 14 were just as we remembered them. Unfortunately this time we would stay for three nights only, to spend time with the gang, clean and organize our stuff.

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The base was now fully operational: teams being shipped into the field, dozen of staff working around a very busy schedule. That would go on for months. The night of our arrival also the founder of Overland arrived. Phil told us that after serving in the South African military, he had traveled independently for six years throughout more than 40 countries, then worked as international instructor for Camel Trophy. In 1999 he founded Overland with his wife Sharon, committing to bring the Gospel, humanitarian care and economic opportunities to communities that remain isolated by geography. The couple had been rated one of the top 30 emerging voices in the USA for their work in developing nations.

A few years ago, Pete had taken part in an Overland expedition in the Amazon. Then we went briefly to Zambia. Next year he stayed at the base for 3 months, next year for 7. In 2012 he decided to live permanently at rapid 14. 'If you need something done, I am happy to help', he offered. We could squeeze some bike work, I thought. Together we fabricated the bash plate bracket, a 2.0 version, sturdier than the original already broken twice (Lumbumbashi & Namibia). We also welded some holes in the exhaust to temper a tad its scream.

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Way too soon, it was time to leave. Laura could not have put it any better: saying good bye twice was not going to cut it. Next time we needed to make a plan and stay. Verba volant, scripta manent: there will be this next time. As we were preparing to go, Pete was summoned in the field. It was one of the expeditions' trucks. Stuck somewhere deep in the bush in the Nyhawa chiefdom, the field team having to push-start it for days. 'It's a one day job', Pete said: 'go in, replace the part, go out'. 'You should come along', he suggested, 'spend the night in the village with the expedition, then continue to Lusaka the next day'. Brilliant, let's do it.

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90 kays north of Livingstone, in Zima, we went off the tarred road down to Nyhawa central. Lucky that the pastor's wife correctly suspected that we should track down our people in the Siamundele village.

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We got to see some field action. The young US missionaries have been living in the chiefdom for a week: walking for hours to visit the huts, helping the villagers with house chores, offering counseling and spiritual guidance, organizing school activities and even a football match.

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As we have seen across Africa, the church offers a common ground for artistic expression, personal and spiritual engagement and much more. African would always incorporate dancing, choral music and even theatrical performances (as we had seen in DRC in Mission Kalonda) in the worship. And of course there are a lot of animist beliefs still shaping every day life. In this particular cluster of villages, like in many other in the unseen and little known Zambia, there is a quite influential 'witch doctor'. People would employ this dude for protection, only to become dependent on his expensive manipulations.

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Watching the kids taking part in the activities made us think of the DRC. Zambia looked so different now than back in February. On the main road and in the towns the globalization was striking, but here, deep in the rural Zambia, not so much. Sure, Zambians are tamer and shyer than the Congolese, but they share a helluva lot of common features. It was exciting to experience simple life, even if mass consumerism is slowly taking over the country. But people suffer from lack of proper education: severe migraines caused by dehydration, diet poor in nutrients, sketchy agriculture, the same story. Overland projects focus on education and teaching: how to feed better (introduce cheap proteins like beans in children's diet), how to grow food better.

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Tonga, the dominant ethnic group in south Zambia, have an end of day ritual: dancing by the fire with the 'shetenge' (African skirt). We had seen something similar in a Gabonese orphanage.

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After a full day of riding, dancing and story telling by the camp fire and after having our first ever SMORE ( an American 'give me some more' camping desert: roasted marshmallow sandwiched with a piece of chocolate between two rye cookies) we were knackered. Since leaving Cape Town weather has been warming up, but days have also become shorter and shorter. It was now getting dark around 6.30 p.m. and the mornings were at times very chilly indeed. This time we woke up more frisky than usual, as Pete had come up with a new plan.

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10 years ago Jako left his home in South Africa behind, and Amber left the States, for a lost corner of Zambia. 6 years ago these pals of Pete founded an orphanage and a preschool, out of the government radar. To learn more about Jako's project visit Mission Of Love Community Orphanage Zambia - Home.
The plan was to ride across the bushveld to visit Jako, Amber and their sons, Jacob and Jeremiah. To reach Jako all we had was a hand drawn sketch by the Nihawa pastor and our navigation skills. We knew the locals would guide us thru. It was a 70 kays task. A maze of trails. In Southern Africa we learnt that this kind of terrain is called cotton soil. A deep layer of a powdery unstable mix of dirt and sand, tricky in dry season (and we were lucky to be in that benevolent time of the year), but deadly in the wet. When it is drenched, its sticky, swampy, but solidifies like concrete between downpours. Ironically, cotton plantations doubled the cotton road.

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That must be how the Kinshasa - Lubumbashi road would unfold in the dry. I'd do it again, 2up even. Crossing in the rainy season was slightly insane. In Zambia we found that confusing pattern of deviations and footpaths, but no anonymous heroes to work the road.

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The most crucial aspects separating Zambia from the DRC are that the tonga villagers will eventual hit tar, thus a vital network of motorized food and medical supplies; many Zambian villages have beet fitted with water pumps, rendering people less vulnerable to drought. The rainy season is also more forgiving in this part of Africa, the government less corrupt, allowing some cash to flow into the infrastructure and some humanitarian projects to develop. End of rant, back to the road. Pete has some problems with the tyre pressure.

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At Jacko's we had had some time to see the project and had lunch. 40 km of 'cotton' later, in Kalomo, we parted ways with Pete. We scrambled for a bush camp in the tall grasses, another reminder of the DRC. In the morning the tent was drenched in dew.

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Before noon we were out of Lusaka: Bomoko oats and roasted chicken from Pick&pay - check, Motul oil from Ali Boats Yamaha - check. East Zambia had a more tropical feel and as the nights continued to become longer, they also became warmer. Crossing the rolling valley of Luangwa we could imagine that the northern and southern national parks must be beautiful. Here the parks were unfenced, bordered by GMAs (Game Management Areas), populated by both game and humans. But we were determined not to cross borders on sundays, so we a bit in a hurry to be in Mozambique the next day.

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Sunset had been at 5.10 p.m., sunrise was scheduled for 5.56 a.m. At 5.15 a.m. the horizon was already blushing. Tent wet again, little puddles have formed where the poles reach the ground.

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We had devised a system to warn critters we were there: poke the grass with a long stick, as there are snakes around here and last night we had some rodent foraging about. We had also capped the exhausts with the beer bottles we had for dinner.

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Tudo Bem?
 

Mozambique 19-23/05/2012

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With the exception of the Tete and Niassa provinces - where we would enter it - Mozambique lies within 300 km of its 2500 km coastline. Two thirds the size of South Africa, it lured us not only with its legendary tiger prawns that were supposed to be jumping straight into the pan along the beaches, but also with the unique blend of Latino and African cultures. Besides vernacular Bantu, some Arabic, Makonde and Swahili in the north, the official language of the world's best sailors' colony is Portuguese. Romanian is closest to Portuguese. Hence, we were very keen to practice.

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We had our first attempt at Portuguese right at the border. Our successful conversation - as sketchy as it was - beefed up our enthusiasm for this 17th country we were visiting in Africa. In less than 30 minutes, chit chat with the lovely chaps on both sides included, we were stamped in Mozambique, no muss, no fuss. We had payed 27 Meticais - not even 1 Euro! - for the 14 days Temp Import Permit. We asked which side of the road were we supposed to drive, and off we went. Brilliant. We already loved the place.

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Let's talk about how much fun is riding on a dirt road suffocated in a cloud of dust. How about a lot? Now, don't get us wrong. We play the game, too. Saving time and rubber, not breaking every bone in our bodies and arriving at embassies in decent shape are all good. The unpredictability of the African infrastructure though is that temporary escape from the Tar Prison we live in. We might look like a mess when we apply for our next visa and inspire a few odd stares with our frizzy hair and shredded soiled gear, but, yeah, baby, nothing beats the open - literally road. We knew well of the over-developed southern half of Mozambique, so we had planned a less traveled route: across the Zambezia province, thru Tete. The idea being to ride off road along the mighty Zambezi, then cross it - if the ferry was operational - somewhere before Caia, after which we would finally get a taste of the Mozambican tarmac. Our plan worked pretty well.

Day two, 2.00 p.m.

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Day four, 12.45

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Rewinding to day one, we spent the better part of the day riding through a very poor, but quite picturesque rural region, dirt huts, most people on foot. Maybe once every two hours a shiny 4x4 would UFO through. In Tete we got some bad news: petrol was the most expensive so far in Africa, about 15 Rand/l (6,5 Ron) and the roads we wanted to take after the Moatize were now private because of coal mining. Our target for the next day, a bumpy dirt track, was behind the baobab forest.

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Dawn at 5.22 p.m., we had a bush camp with a view of Malawi. We fetched supper - potato samosas(1 Metical a pop), avocado, tomatoes, bananas and the famous Mozambican bread rolls.

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We almost went full retard on day two. The sunrise kick started us, so by 7.30 a.m. we had an awesome off road swagger. The road has everything you could ask for. Demanding, if not a bit technical, alternating gravel, dirt, deep sand, rocky plateaus, even dry river beds and huge rocks. This must be a ***** in the wet.

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While trying to find the best passage thru this temperamental road profile, we almost collided with a scooter taxi coming from the opposite direction. I had to stop in the high dirt bank. Right mirror broken (again!), some scratches on the fairings, new dents in the pannier, and 15 km later I noticed the right light also missing. So for the next 60 kays we cooled it down to about 40 kays per hour. Sunday, we noticed, was a regular weekday around there: women do laundry, harvest crops, fetch water from pumps or boreholes, carry fire wood, sieve maizena; men go about their business, kids play in the dirt or help with household chores. Our lunch time snack of canned tuna, avocado and bread stirred some interest from the villagers, but nobody bothered us. These people are different. Chilled, shy even.

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At the odd junction with the rail road I got a 'boa tarde' from a cyclist. I was glad I knew how to greet him back.

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We had been out of water for hours, when finally spotted a pump. Thanks EU!

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After 279 km of powder and sun we were spent. We had hit the Dona Ana Bridge, at its time the longest railway bridge in Africa, spanning for 3,67 km the Lower Zambezi. The bridge cost more than �1,400,000 in 1935 and is even today an example of engineering achievement.

link http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dona_Ana_Bridge

sau http://mikes.railhistory.railfan.net/r150.html

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As we were waiting for the train to pass, we spotted pedestrians and cyclists coming from the bridge. Could we cross it as well, instead of searching for a ferry ahead that might be working on not, especially on a Sunday? That required some investigation.

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The villagers helped us navigate the maze of paths leading to the bridge, where we discovered we needed to climb a 45 degrees flight of stairs in order to access the pedestrian way. With the panniers off and the strength of me plus other 4 men combined, the bike was up. I generally don't give money to people, but I figured it was the decent thing to buy them some beer.

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Seen from up, white and purple water lilies populated islets on the Zambezi, making the river look like an immense delta. You would never suspect somewhere on this calm flow of water the untamed Victoria. Midway across, there was a couple of concrete slabs missing. The crowd cheered when we lifted the bike across the gap. That's what the end of the bridge looked like on the other side, next to a small market:

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You're on African off road if it's covered in man. Most are walking, some cycling, some even napping, completely zoned out on a bag of maize. The African road is a place of awe and companionship. We often get to see man's most ingenious attempt to carry a ****load of stuff, be greeted by passer-byes and get waived-through by policemen with a boner at the sight of our bike.

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In Caia we crossed Zambezi for a second time.

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We found gas and in the next village tomatoes, avocado, bananas and a crumbly cookie of crystallized sugar, honey and ground nuts. People kept surprising us with their laid back attitude, minus the occasional snap. We had a feeling they could become a highlight for our African travels.

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By now a habit of serious landscaping for every bush camp had been established. To pitch a tent in the 1,5 m tall grass meant we had to work for 20 minutes, using our boots for shovels and our hands to clean up the spot, while various species of bugs would feast on our sweaty bodies. That's what the campsite looked like after packing up:

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Morning fog

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Midmorning we had reached sleepy Quelimane, now only a shadow of its former glory, when it was an important port for the gold, ivory and slaves trade. David Livingstone was appointed the British Honorary Consul to Quelimane in 1858, and later started his crucial exploration from the Zambezi from here. Splendid but crumbling down colonial ghosts lie next to moldy Corbusier-era architecture. Housing complex, residential villas, public buildings, this place would deserve a future.

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The internet was painfully slow in the only shop we could find, but while searching for a cyber cafe, we stumbled upon a Mozambican tradition: the pastelaria. If we had arrived in this country for the rumored seafood, we were to stay for the bakery. A moist desiccated coconut cookie and an aerated sponge cake with a hint of dulche de leche introduced us to local pastelarias.

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Coconut-palm plantations stretch as far as the eye can see, but go largely unharvested along the 33-kilometre run down to the Zalala beach.

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The fishing village was nothing like the palm fringed beaches we have heard about; we were the only non-fishermen, so finding a place to camp generated some commotion in the village. We settled on the lawn of some deserted guest house, whose owner proved to be the chief of police. The office was actually right across the sandy road, so at least we were safe. Within 10 minutes we were off to the beech to find fish and fishermen. Less than 24 hours later we were packing up after one of our most efficient pit stops. We had managed to: buy and grill seafood, make the unpardonable mistake to buy fish that was a bit off (the guardian took it), do all our laundry and shower (with a bucket and cold rainwater of course). We were back roughening it up, baby. Ana had given me a fresh haircut using the frontal Petzl as only light (which in the morning we unanimously decided it's a good tradition to start).

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The venue for our next breakfast, back in Quelimane, turned out to be the best pastelaria in town (owned by friendly Arabs). Very good cup of coffee, but the pastries! The caramel danish, the mille feuilles with a fragrant vanilla filling, the house special almond muffin. As we sank our teeth into the crispy outside layer of the last pastry on the plate and felt the moist coconut concoction inside, oozing with flavor, we were in love. We knew the only way to put an end to that delicious delirium was to pay our bill and just go. Running away from guilty pleasures that was.

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The Mozambican bakers also produce some of the best bread rolls and an astonishing variety of doughnuts (eaten for breakfast in a maizena congee), cookies and biscotti, prices ranging from 2 to 5 Meticais. Savoury street food is limited to samosas and hard boiled eggs, the rest are a proof of the Mozambican sweet tooth.

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The uneventful tar to Nampula soon collapsed in the purest African spirit, swallowed by gravel and dirt, decorated with all the potholes in the whole of South Africa and Namibia combined.

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We had no choice that night but to camp in a field of cassava. Chance to test the people of Mozambique for friendly attitude towards squatters. A villager spotted us after a few minutes, and later came back accompanied by 3 other men. They waved shyly and asked permission to approach, then we had a basic chat, just said we are sleeping there for one night, and that was it. Nobody else came, not that night, not in the morning. If these are not the most peaceful Africans we don't know who is.

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Nampula may be Mozambique's third largest city, but it felt less alive than Quelimane. Slightly run down, a handful of notable buildings, and this interesting mural. If you will be going to Maputo you'll spot plenty of these. Mural art emerged in Mozambique in the 1970s in the context of the revolutionary struggle and then the transition to a postcolonial society. The renewal of the physical urban environment and, more broadly, of the social, economic and political fabric of the entire country, spawned a national identity, even arguably a national style. The artists used Makonde mapico (mapiko) masquerade or machinamu ancestor figures, slogans and symbols of European domination to investigate the mystical power attributed to colonists and to interrogate the political future of the nation.

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We wanted to try the local pastelarias, but what a disappointment. The only one where we could sit down and eat was this communist establishment where the pastries (even pastilla de nata) were boring and the clientele looked like the local mother ****ers' convention. Totally reminding us of our parents stories from the communist Romania, when the restaurants were empty, menus were pretentious and ample and nobody could afford them. We have see plenty of similar places across this part of Mozambique: ancient restaurants and tourist spots where a chicken dish would fare 400 Meticais, in a country where a big bread roll is 5 and a regular one is 2. So 200 of these babies would just buy you a questionable plate of stew and corn meal. Pretty damn sad.

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The ground nut and honey cookies were smashing.

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Fresh produce is local, just like in Morocco: pineapple, papaya, tomatoes, salad, cucumber, avocado and pumpkin can be found only in certain areas; oranges are available countrywide, as are bananas. Vendors tend to quote fair prices (except some dude who wanted to seel for LOL price of 700 a 50 Meticais machete). Moving further north we finally hit cashew nut country, wich you buy by the 150 Meticais basinet.

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Another chameleon moved from the busy road to the safety of the bush. We love these guys!

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