WE got to the border at eleven o’clock. It was obviously the wrong time to arrive.
They still hadn’t cleared the people who had been waiting all night for the gates to open. It was only when we stopped in the traffic jam that we found out how hot it had become. We looked at each other and said “lime juice” but even such a simple desire presented problems.
By the time we had found the lime juice, the traffic had moved, so we closed the boot, got in the car, drove 20 metres and stopped again.
Then we found the cups, closed the boot, got in the car, drove another 20 metres and stopped. It was obvious that we would not be able to extricate the water carrier from the back of the boot in time for the next move, but Deidre hit on the idea of fishing some ice out of the cold box and waiting for it to melt. In spite of the heat and the slowness of the traffic, we reached the border before we got our lime juice.
The frontier was absolute chaos. We had to fill in a form declaring everything we were taking out of the country, and get an import permit to bring it all back again. Then, on the Mozambique side, we had to fill in a form declaring everything we were bringing into the country and get an export permit to take it all out again.
Then there was the problem of insurance.
We had the choice of limited or, for twice the price, unlimited third party insurance. The proposal forms were in Portuguese, and no one could tell us – except in Portuguese – what the difference was. It was all most confusing. We decided to play safe.
The only thing which saved us from going completely mad was that the vending machine worked and the Coke was actually cold.
We eventually got into Mozambique at two o’clock in the afternoon and, armed with unlimited insurance and a tank full of petrol, we attacked the Mozambique roads. I had been told what to expect, but this was ridiculous. The only road from the border to Lourenco Marques was single track and full of pot-holes. I pretended I was on the Safari Rally and hit the pot-holes at seventy (miles per hour, that is!) At this speed you miss most of the bumps, but begin to feel the need for an altimeter.
We by-passed Lourenco Marques and wound our way through 80km of semi-civilisation on the main road northwards. Then we hit the swamps.
A partially tarred road, with stinking green ooze all the way to the horizon on both sides.
There were a few grass huts sticking up out of the water. The natives earned a precarious living, selling bananas to passing motorists.
It was in this ghastly wasteland that we hit trouble. I was still doing my Stirling Moss act, and a Volkswagen had pulled into the rough to let us pass. At sixty, with two wheels off the road, the off-side front tyre burst. For one frightful moment, I thought we were going to take a nose-dive into a sea of malarial sludge, but somehow we stayed under control.
Once back on the road, we stopped to inspect the damage – an eight-inch split in the tyre and a horribly buckled wheel.
Then the fun started. If you have ever tried to jack up a car on sand, you will know what I mean. I compressed the sand beautifully but lifted the car not one inch.
While we were struggling, Hell’s Angels arrived on the scene.
We had cursed them earlier in the journey for riding four abreast and not letting us pass, but now that we were stuck and the mosquitoes were beginning to bite, they were Heaven-sent. They spoke no English and we spoke no Portuguese, but our problem didn’t even require sign language.
One Hell’s Angel picked up the spare wheel, while the other seven picked up the car, and we were on our way in ten minutes, with a motorcycle escort.
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