Another tale to remind
us that it would be very useful if we spoke Portuguese…
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| The open road stretching out until forever |
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| On the road with dirty feet |
Once upon a time, not so very long ago when these two cunts
were a touch younger and slightly less worldly wise, we went on a very big
adventure. 7 x countries, 7 000 x kilometres, 3 x best friends and 100 0000
0000 x fun. It was a pretty simple game plan: drive all day, party all night,
wake up and repeat. Sometimes it was hard and we’d sit in the car and just hate
the feeling of dust clinging to the sheen of sweat that covered every inch of
us. We’d not even want to look at the faces of our dearest, most beloved humans
in the world. Gah, how dare they exist near me when I'm this tired and grumpy?
But compared to every glorious sunrise and sunset, each dip into crystal clear
African water and the songs and the stars and the crackling fires, it was
barely a blip on the radar of rad times.
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| The intrepid travellers |
Until the very last night, of course. The drive had been
long and the heat so much more than balmy that we arrived in Maputo ever-so-slightly
overwrought. It was a Friday evening and the sun was sliding towards the
horizon in a way it only ever does in Africa; leaking out golds and pinks and
oranges that oozed across the growing shadows. It should have been beautiful,
but it wasn't. It simply reminded us that we would be driving in the dark. And
soon. For a good hour or so the needle on the petrol gauge had been tickling
empty so there couldn't have been much more than fumes wafting about in the
tank – we needed a petrol station fast.
And so we joined the procession of cars pouring into the
city. The car was completely boxed in by bakkies, trucks and even bicycles on
every side. Those in the know cut across lanes, following a set of rules that
clearly worked, but that we didn't understand; taxis stopped and started
collecting and dropping off passengers every 20 or so metres. And everywhere we
looked there were people: Walking in the road, gathered on the pavement; music
pumping into the air along with the billowing black smoke from fires that lined
our way. Desperate to escape the heaving masses, we spied a petrol station to
our left. Pushing our way through two lanes of traffic – red-lit intersection
be damned – we gunned it towards our target.
Now you might have experienced the Vaal 1-Stop on the last
day of the Easter weekend and think you know some things. Or stopped to fill
up, post-work, the night before a petrol price increase. You fools, you know
nothing. It was a plague. A plague of cars from every direction – even
directions you wouldn't have thought existed in a place that only had two
entrances – and every single car was aimed at one of the four pumps available.
What is a stronger word for gridlocked? Who the fuck knows, but it was that
word. Drivers hooted and shouted at each other, and at us, in Portuguese and we
could tell that obrigado just wasn't going to cut it. Someone, who we can only
assume to be the attendant, lent into the window and tried to grasp the credit
card from my hand. “Credit card, yes?” Head shakes no. We need cash. He points
through the surrounding chaos. An ATM? Again, we can only assume. Lynner climbs
out of the car and disappears into the mass around us. She returns, we pay and
needle closer to half a tank, we can go. Inch by inch we manoeuvre our way to
the exit.
What seemed like forever later we were belched out into the
river of headlights and followed the flow of traffic to god-knows where. Were
we on the right road? Were we heading in the right direction? Not a single clue
was had between the three of us, but then we experienced a traveller's miracle:
the kind that only happens when you’re far from home and well and truly fucked.
A familiar vehicle rolled up next to us, window down, elbow leaning out with
all the nonchalance of a gentleman in control. So cool and calm in the mania
around him; for heaven sakes the man wasn't even wearing a shirt! We screeched
our predicament with a childish hysteria and begged for assistance. “Sure
thing.” A quick explanation later we parted ways – our saviour in search of peri-peri
prawns and the three of us on the road back home.
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| Our saviour, earlier on in the holiday |
We eventually crossed
the border back into South Africa sometime around 11pm. Suddenly cold and
droopy-eyed, we pulled into the first place we could find with nothing but
sleep on the brain. Clean, crisp sheets with fluffy pillows and a mattress we
didn’t need to inflate…absolute bliss… Haha, not a fuck. Poor Norms – the bed
bugs swarmed and feasted upon her like it was Christmas. Not really blissful at
all.
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| Goodbye adventure as we head on home |
