INLAND WATERWAYS EXPEDITION PART ONE: THE TREK NORTH

The plan, or at least that’s what I called it, was to follow a rough route from Kosi Bay border where we camped, into Moz, then up to a campsite on the Limpopo River mouth, to coastal Vilanculos and Cahora Bassa Dam before exploring Lake Malawi.

Far easier said than done, the trip would require a vehicle fit for purpose, plenty of patience, and a new understanding of how things work in Africa. Neither my partner Sara nor I had ever travelled this far north, and we figured that from the ups and downs, Africa would educate us the old-fashioned way.

Given the option (and the benefit of hindsight), we’d have preferred to double both the timeframe and budget. As it was, and doing without such luxuries, the 25-day trip would test us both. Long days in the saddle, not enough rest, and high stress levels can fray one’s personality quickly, so it was of utmost importance that we knew where we would be sleeping every night, and that we were comfortable. If only...

Naked fear in Moz

It was on our very first night in Mozambique that we realised planning anything would be more of a challenge than we’d expected. Having crossed the easy Ponta do Ouro border near Kosi Bay, we drove onto the brand-new Chinese-built R201. Like a string of spaghetti laid across a dirty dinner plate, the road snakes its way through areas where infrastructure has never existed. Impromptu villages have popped up all along this ribbon of tar that snakes its way to Maputo, joining Africa’s largest new $700m suspension bridge. Viewing foreign infrastructure on this scale, in a place where locals barely scrape enough food together to exist as subsistence fishermen and farmers, is shocking.

Beyond the Maputo metropolis, the money dries up quickly; and reality bit as our lovely black ribbon was replaced by potholed tarmac peppered with roadside stalls selling anything from cane rats, to bricks made in home-built kilns.

Pushing from Ponta to the Limpopo mouth would be a long drive; but, having faith in our GPS, we headed off down the main road on increasingly narrower tracks. Set to ‘shortest distance’, we quite literally found ourselves in the driveway of an elderly woman’s home, asking for directions to the mouth.

Winding our way through villages in the dunes before dusk at maximum speed wasn’t ideal, but being told at sunset, by stubborn, blankly-staring camp staff that they wouldn’t let us in, was even worse. We had nowhere to go, were utterly lost and desperately tired, and in need of a meal.

Then a narrow, unused bush track through a swamp gave us a glimmer of hope as it tracked east toward the mouth. After the dense undergrowth we’d been pushing through, the last gasp of daylight led