AND THEN THEY WERE FOUR

IN JULIA'S WORDS

5 May 2013

Sunday’s twilight was turning to murky dusk as the smells from Rehana’s pot of beans curry bubbling on our handy campstove thankfully overwhelmed the whiffynesses that occasionally wafted our way, depending on the wind, from the ablution block not far from our camp.

I was working next to her, literally elbow-deep in the stretchy goooeey putty that was supposed to be the dough that would become my very first ever batch of roti’s. Having no clue about what I was doing, and carefully following a recipe written by someone who also clearly had no clue how to make roti, I was deeply regretting my decision to become a camp baker (you would just love the dash of canary-yellow on my burgundy apron).

One of the first things Carol, Mike, Rehana and I had agreed on when we talked about making this trip: NEVER drive at night. Now light was running out. If Mike and Carol didn’t make it over the border in the next few minutes, they’d be driving in the dark on those demonsandroads to get to Ponta.

And then, in the nick of time, BINGO! there they were, right here beside us, in their Big Silva Mobile. Now at last, a day under a month since Rehana and I had started the journey, our travelling party was assembled.

Carol “Cavorting” Clarke, fresh from frolicking with the bottlenose dolphins

Rehana “Risque” Rossouw: Was there ever a snappier snorkeller?

Mike “McGyver” Martin, whose newfound love of Velcro ensures nobody sits on his panama hat

Jules “Groovin’” Grey, doing her bit to bring camp back into camping

Big Silva and Big Red together at last. Carol fears we are too big, too much. She may be right.

Ponta’s been quite lovely in its sandy higglee-piglee-border-tourist-town way, but it’s high time to get going. Tomorrow morning we break camp, to Maputo.




IN REHANA'S WORDS

Friday May 2, 2013

Another small complaint, if I’m allowed: The downside to being a few steps from the beach is that tractors towing the dive companies’ boats and their clients to the beach every morning pass our tent from around 6am. I'm hoping that when it’s our turn to go out to the reefs in one of those boats, we’ll also grin happily at the grumpy campers who scowl at us.

When we left Mabibi for the land of cellphone reception, there was a message from Lana: “I was waiting for this day. Ruhi asked if Nana is coming to fetch him later. He said he misses Nana. And then agreed that Nana is gone far away in the big red car.”

More bitter tears on the road. But I’m also very glad that Ruhi has realised that I’m gone away from him, and that he’s stopped waiting for me to come fetch him later. He’s my screensaver. Julia found his jacket under our piles on the backseat when we were packing the car to leave Mabibi. I’m taking it all the way with me to Egypt.

Our day started off on an anxious note. Jules woke up with a sore throat and apprehension about malaria. We took one of our testing kits and headed for the pharmacy in town. The no-nonsense, efficient pharmacist had her own test that she administered soundlessly.
Jules's finger was pricked, the blood was collected into the plastic test kit slider, she was cleared of malaria and sent away with Strepsils. Jules napped, I read for the rest of the morning but we made up for our slothful ways later with a two-hour walk on the beach.
I have no regrets about quitting work when taking an afternoon walk on a beautiful beach.

Ponta mall. The bakery at the top of the street had the best, freshly baked all day bread

We snorkeled on Wednesday at a reef about 20km from Ponta. It seemed like it took more time to get there in the inflatable dinghy than the time we spent in the water. But it was a stunning ride up the coast, skimming on crystal-clear water. 
We saw our first turtle, its shell the same browns and golds sprinkled on the reef. There was loads of interesting coral and very few fishies – on the open sea they’re the same spectacular colours as at Mabibi, but they’re proper-sized fish.

Yesterday Jules and I woke up convinced we had been eaten by mosquitos in the night despite all our careful precautions; but when the rows of bites turned to blisters and then developed hot, hard heads, we realised we were afflicted by the same itchy scratchy Jules had when snorkeling in Jamaica. We must find out what causes it and how to alleviate it.

Today we walked 7km along the beach to Ponta Malongane for Portuguese chicken and grilled barracuda. The meal was worth every step in the soft sand. We hitchhiked back to Ponta, our nerves failing on the hot sand after we decided to walk down the “main road” back into town. 
It’s been years since I’ve done that, but Julia’s thumb still works – two bakkies stopped for us. We had to stand at the back because we needed to cling to something on the bumpy road.

On the deck at Ponta Malongane

The most popular drink in Ponta is red Sparletta and rum. Everybody drinks large glasses of it: ouma and oupa, ma en pa, oom en tannie. Adults with red tongues look very strange.

Almost all the restaurants we’ve gone to cater for the Ermelo community. Julia calls it moskos, as in “dis mos kos”.  They all have the same menus: ribs and chips, burgers and chips, prawns and chips, fried calamari and chips, fried chicken and chips, toasted cheese and chips and snack baskets of fried dingusse with chips.

We had one good seafood meal in town but if the prawns don’t come fried in a snack basket its like R300 for six. Jules had a pizza at the Love restaurant that serves Italian(!) food. I had a salad, which should indicate to those who know me how kak the food is here. My first prego had a Steers salad dressing (I kid you not) as the sauce; the second was a piece of white steamed chicken breast on a roll with nary garlic nor chillies in sight.

Despite the fact that I’ve been grinning hugely for years at the prospect of travelling up the east coast of Africa, I’m surprised at how much sand there is on the coast. We’re barefoot most of the time, it’s easier than shaking out your shoes every five steps. Even flipflops get buried in the sand.

Every price in Ponta is hugely inflated. Sure, the roads are bad, but there’s a huge Spar just over the border with South Africa, half an hour’s drive away. A 500ml bottle of water is R12 most places and the Laundromat wants R100 for a load. Everybody quotes prices in rands, which is accepted everywhere, and every establishment arbitrarily sets its own exchange rate.

Jules and I are practicing our Portuguese everywhere we go, but the dominant language in town is Afrikaans. Last night we went to watch cricket at the beach bar a few steps from our campsite, where they played boeremusiek. Julia strained to listen to the words, and swore that she heard the word “kommies”. 

Since arrived we’ve been outdoors most days, only going up into the tent to sleep. We  sit outside at night under the pine trees shielding our campsite (hopefully with no snakes disguised as twigs). 

In Ponta, 25 degrees is hotter than it is in Joburg, but most days there’s a breeze off the sea and we can plunge in any time we want to cool off. There are vendors on the beach who set up gazebos for the pale Ermelo boeps. 

I can feel Joburg’s winter chasing us up the coast; we wear long sleeves at night and not only to keep the mozzies off our extremities. But we’re outside, feeling safe and cocooned, and an oom is only a few metres away if we need him.

Final observations on Ponta:

1. Such a fine camper have I become that I can wear the same pants for two days, and when I change I sniff them and put them away to be worn again. I am doing my own washing, by hand. I don't think I ever have before. I did wash nappies a couple of times (thanks Dad!), but my experience with handwash is limited. Fortunately, none of us brought an iron, which is why all our photos are taken from a distance.

2. I have not been in the sea for two days because it is a bit windy - see, I do have some standards. But I’ve not been a total sloth. I’ve read three books in the week we’ve been here, and between the four of us we have hundreds of titles. And we're all on holiday for eleven months!

3. A waitress said “dankie” to me; and despite being in Ermelo-by-the sea for a week already, I got a big skrik jong. Neil Diamond has a big following among the owners of local establishments.

 4. I drank a red Sparletta yesterday, without the rum, and was overcome by pity for myself. 

ERMELO-BY-THE-SEA

IN REHANA'S WORDS

Monday April 29, 2013

We had three non-negotiables about a campsite at Ponta do’Ouro in Mozambique: there should be electricity, grass and we should be able to walk everywhere.
We have all of this at the municipal campsite, making our lives so easy it’s practically slothful. Our battery is charged, our fridge is icy and our car is parked for a week. The roadside stalls, ATMs, shops and a variety of restaurants are all a short walk away.
Our downstairs room stores some of our boxes so we don’t have to rummage in the car every time we need something or crouch in the tent to get dressed. We are a few easy steps to a beautiful beach.

All set up for a week's stay

The drive here was unexpectedly horrendous and mercifully short. Our rooftent cover came off twice while driving the hour and a half from Mabibi to the border. A minute after we left the border post we found ourselves in castor-sugar soft sand. After a few hundred metres into Mozambique and the sand softened to sieved flour. Julia made a three-point turn and we tried again, finding the sand track to Ponta. 
There was not one signpost in sight all the way into town. All our Garmin offered was warnings about shifting sand, a screenful of faint unnamed tracks and a white arrow pointing the way.

A proud moment on our way into town: we rescued fellow travellers for the first time. As we came over a small sand dune Julia skillfully skirted a bakkie planted in the middle of the sandy track. Their rear wheels were buried in the sand. 
I quickly found our brand-new, bright orange towrope, stowed in a very organised way with other rescue equipment, we secured it and within two ticks Julia and the Big Red Car pulled the bakkie out of the sand.

The main drag into Ponta. The sand's quite firm as you enter town.

We had rescued Allie the Irish lawyer, Matteo the Italian cost-control trainee and Manuel, a Portuguese man who spoke very little English and couldn’t tell us what he did. 
They were taking a break from work, which was building a dam in Ladysmith to produce hydroelectric power. Matteo says he is the only one of his high school class who found a job after school, the rest are all unemployed. He says youth unemployment is worse in Italy than South Africa. I'm going to miss Silvio Berlusconi, he makes Zuma look good.

We told them to follow us and drive in our tyre tracks all the way to town. Our car’s number plate starts with the letters CRG, which Julia says means “courage”. I second that.

Ponta, unfortunately, is exactly what I expected. Most of our fellow tourists are from Krugersdorp, Pretoria east and the North West and they all sport enormous boeps. Even their children. They seem particularly fond of quad bikes and jetskis. Which I absolutely abhor!

Our campsite's in the clump of trees to Julia's left

IN JULIA'S WORDS

29 April

We’d been eyeing neighbours over the sand road here at Tandje campsite in Ponta d’Ouro somewhat skeef, on account of their unmistakeable Boernessness and our unmistakeable prejudices.

They were a party of, say, 10 - ranging from a chubby littlie to a chubby oom, oh so organised in their tents, pagodas and camping chairs. They were laughing and dopping and having a fine time.

Our BRC we’d parked neatly between two trees across the sandy strip of road from them, with enough space for our New Groundsheet and our New Camp Table and Two Chairs. 

Air’s warm; bats squeak; ocean rolls.

Then a bit past nightfall, on the second night of our stay, Rehana and I encountered our first campsite snake.  We’d been sitting in the kind air writing this and doing that, and I was just stubbing my fagend into the sand on the edge of our groundsheet before throwing it into our plasticbagbin that hangs on a fencepost when a twig near my fingers moved in a very untwiglike way. Snake, you might think. I did. And it was, mebbe a ruler long, thin as a twig, pale underbelly and a bland-brown top with just a drizzle of grey. 

“eeeekkk”, breathed I. “A snake”, as it snaked through the sand and a bit up the treetrunk right where we’re parked, camping.

Rehana whipped out her headtorch just like that from her handydaybag, and trained its dimbeam on the reptiletwig, now coiling about, now still and flickingsnakeytongue. 

It settled on a patch of bark near the bottom of the tree and I trained the headtorchbeam on it while Rehana dashed to her computer – thankfully right there on our table AND with internet – to try and find out more about this snake and whether it’s poisonous. She searched “venomous snakes Mozambique” and the link she clicked on told about the recent discovery of the “twig snake” (Thelotornis Usambaricus). “With this discovery, the number of snake species known to exist in Mozambique has risen to 96”, said the internet.

“Let’s ask die oom,” said Rehana, pointing to the Boer campsite we’d been skeefing.

“Yes,” said I, gingerly nearing the snake on the tree so that the dimbeam of the headtorch could kinda see it.

Rehana went off to the Boer encampment and came back chortling with ‘n kerel and die oom, who joined me to stare at the snake on the tree (with their fantastically brightheadtorches). The young man knew his snakes and declared it friendly, and die oom gallantly fetched his braaitongs, lifted the snake from the treetrunk, and flung it somewhere else.

Just then, a woman from the Boer settlement arrived. Let’s call her tannie. She was on the wrinklyside of life and a lot that side of tipsy. Tannie had clearly just passed for white 40-odd years ago, her hair kroes as Rehana’s.

She had a good look at me, head to toe, after I greeted her in my politest Afrikaans, “Aangenaame kennis mevrou.” [A pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam]

Then tannie had another good once-over at me, and asked: “What is jy, eintlik?” [What are you, actually?]

As momentous as the question was, it took just a slight moment’s thought before I said:  “’n Rooinek”[A redneck], pulling the neck of my jersey down for full effect.

“Aaah, ja, ja, ek sien [Aaah, yes, yes, I see]”, tannie said.

Satisfied, she turned her attention to Rehana, and the conversation switched to suiwer Afrikaans. “I saw you this morning, when you walked to the tap. You gave me a look. I could see in your look that you were thinking ‘what kind of people is this’,” she threw the gauntlet down.

“I look like that every morning when I wake up,” explained Rehana. “Tomorrow it will be the same. You musn’t look at me in the mornings.”

I jumped in, “It’s true, she looks at me like that every morning.”

Tannie wasn’t finished yet. “I saw that look and I said to myself, ‘Ignore her, she’s just a faaaaaking bitch’.”

Said Rehana: “So don’t look at me tomorrow. When you see me in the morning, just look away. We’ll greet later, in the afternoon.”

The woman cackled and switched to English. “You girls should come have a dop with us. But not now, we already gesuip and we going to bed.  Tomorrow. That was my braaitongs that they used, to get rid of your snake. But you must call us if you have a problem, we will come help, even if one of you look like a bitch in the morning.”

“Thank you for the braaitongs,” Rehana shouted in her suiwerster Afrikaans to her departing back.

“See you tomorrow night,” I yelled, in English.

Our outstanding worry, of course, is that this apparently no-worrisome snake is worrisome actually and always comes in spakes (snakes in packs = spakes) of 500. And that they live in trees and surprise their prey by dropping from the branches on to their heads …

 

Spot any spakes in the branches above Rehana's head?