Dale Morris tackles unknown territory with a group of Afrikaners and finds that the Voortrekker spirit is still very much alive.

Last year I accompanied a group of Afrikaners who were venturing into unknown Mozambican territory in the spirit of the Great Trek, only these chaps were doing it in air-conditioned 4x4s rather than ox-wagons.
 
Our appropriately stubbled and rugged leader, Frank Carlisle of ‘Bhejane 4x4 Adventures’, had previously scouted the route ahead for hazards, and on those evenings when we were forced to camp in the bush (due to a lack of civilization) we parked our vehicles in a circle, made a fire in the middle and prepared to defend ourselves against hostile natives.

OK, so things are a bit smoother for South African pioneers these days. For one, the women had hairdryers and, to be honest, the only ‘hostiles’ we were ever likely to encounter were mosquitoes. But nonetheless the sense of adventure was as authentic to us as it must have been to those hardy folk of yesteryear.

Our journey had thus far taken us through the Kruger National Park (where we had been caught up in a traffic jam comprised solely of buffalo), out through the Pafuri border gate and onwards towards the treacherous quagmire that is known as the Great Limpopo River Crossing.

“At this time of year the river is very low,” Frank told me as we pulled up to the bank, “but as long as you have a 4x4 with good ground clearance and good buddies to haul you out should you get stuck, it’s negotiable.”

After looking at the soft deep sand, many of the more level-headed members of our convoy decided to use a mopane stick causeway that entrepreneurial locals had built across the river’s sandy flats.

Those that didn’t, inevitably got stuck.

“Excuse me for a moment,”
said Frank over the sound of labouring engines and spinning wheels, “I must go rescue my clients.” And with that he expertly drove his faithful Land Cruiser through the mud and sand and then proceeded to tow the Limpopo’s next would-be victims to safety. Once we were all across safely we headed east along a series of deep sandy tracks, all the while keeping a firm eye on our GPS units.

Road signs in these parts are rarer than chicken’s teeth and without the help of a professional guide or a GPS unit used in conjunction with a ‘Tracks 4 Africa’ map, a traveller could easily get hopelessly lost. “And this is not a good place to get lost in,” said Frank over the two way radios we all had in our cars.
 
Mozambique is infamous for its landmines left over from decades of recent civil war, but thanks to concerted efforts by international organisations and an armada of specially trained sniffer rats, the majority of these death traps have been located and removed. But you should still never take chances on unmapped back-country roads; a fact that is often confirmed by the frequent sight of one-legged folk.

On our travels that day we journeyed through a rich and varied landscape of fever tree forests and open lands where primitive villages sat clustered beneath giant baobab trees, and that evening we camped rough in the bush – using a long drop for our toilet and a pit fire for a stove. It was pure adventure, just like in the old days, with the stars twinkling above and the sound of owls hooting throughout the night.

I slept well in my tent, lulled by a cacophony of snoring men, to be woken in the morning by the gentle sound of birds and hairdryers. For the rest of that second day of travel we ventured along oxidized sand roads which were as red as blood and as soft as paprika powder. Getting stuck was such a common occurrence that we barely went an hour without having to pull somebody free. But everyone helped each other out and the whole experience became an exercise in bonding.

The following day, after settling into the Estrele de Manenees beach lodge in the sleepy little fishing town of Inhassoro, we abandoned our 4x4s in favour of a more nautical form of transport and, despite the fact that farmers do not typically sit well upon the water, nobody, I am pleased to say, threw up.

The shallow sea of the Bazaruto Bay marine sanctuary was as blue as a summer’s sky and it was a wonderful treat to encounter a pod of dolphins that guided us across the final miles to the unusual island of Santa Carolina, aka Paradise Island. Here we snorkelled with tropical reef fish and marine turtles before exploring the hollowed-out shell of an enormous forsaken resort.

“It was abandoned in a hurry in the 80s,” Frank told us as we wandered around its eerily empty grounds, “and now it’s a national monument.”

A monument to what, I wasn’t entirely sure,  but it certainly had a solemn feel about it. Broken glass littered the floor of a dilapidated ballroom, paint peeled from restaurant walls and plants grew in through smashed and empty widows. There was a shattered airstrip, an empty chapel and hundreds upon hundreds of ruined and crumbling rooms.

In its heyday the resort must have been bustling and busy, alive with the sounds of happy families. But now it looked more like a film set  from a post- apocalyptic movie; a mysterious ghost town with a strange and spooky charm.

The next day was a 4x4 enthusiast’s idea of heaven – an unhindered beach drive of 40km along one of the most beautiful and fascinating strips of sand I had yet visited. Along its entire length, clusters of local fishermen and their families hauled in nets heavy with fish, squid and other denizens of the deep.  We paused from time to time to watch them as they sorted out their bounties, tossing fish of all shapes and sizes into baskets while returning turtles and sea stars back into the waves.

Young men, bodies glistening, proffered fistfuls of tempting lobsters to our convoy. But Frank warned us against buying any despite the ridiculously low price. “They are way too small,” he told us over the radio, “and it’s also illegal to buy them.”

The same authorities that had issued us with permits to drive on the beach could be trusted to make an appearance should we break the rules by driving above the high-tide mark or by buying undersized seafood from the locals.
 
Beach driving has been banned in South Africa because of individuals who enjoyed driving their 4x4s all over the local wildlife. They destroyed delicate habitats, filled their bakkies with fish and made the beaches unpleasant for all. But the ban didn’t stop them from taking their ‘toys’ over to Mozambique where, until recently, they continued to conduct themselves in an equally unpleasant manner. Thankfully though, several high profile exposés by the media have forced the Mozambican authorities to clamp down on such moronic behaviour.

“Beach driving, if done sensibly and within the rules laid down by the authorities here, can be both enjoyable and non-destructive,” Frank told me as we made our way across the hard-packed sand to the Inhassoro Peninsula. “We obey the laws, we pay for the permits which support the park, and we respect others who are using the beach.”

At the end of our scenic drive, we stopped for sandwiches and cool drinks and watched as an armada of traditional fishing dhows rounded the point where Bartolomeu Dias, the famous Portuguese navigator, is rumoured to have stopped off for a packed lunch of his own.

Two days later, and back on the road, our intrepid convoy passed through colourful towns where every building (and quite a few of the trees) had been painted with cellphone slogans. “It used to be alcohol that robbed people of their money,” said Frank, “but now it seems to be airtime.”

We traversed hundreds of kilometres of potholed roads and journeyed beneath miles upon miles of coconut plantations. Worldwide, more people are killed every year by falling coconuts than from shark and crocodile attacks combined. With that in mind I prayed to the Almighty for safe passage past the dangerous trees.

On the eighth and final evening of our great and adventuresome trek we settled down in a campsite in the Great Limpopo Transfrontier Reserve overlooking the serene beauty of Massingir Dam. Home was a mere hop and a skip away, so we toasted ourselves for a job well done as a Fish-Eagle circled above, crying plaintively. We had survived the ravages of the bush, the sea, the (slim) chance of landmines, potholes, coconuts, roadside donkeys, deep sand and the Limpopo River. And, what’s more, we had done it together as a team.

Thanks to Frank and his leadership, and the strength of our mighty group, we all felt that the Voortrekker spirit was still very much alive and kicking.

Bhejane 4x4 Adventures 044 535 9257, www.bhejane.com
Tracks 4 Africa www.tracks4africa.com