I sleep well and the peacefulness of back-to-back properties here in Swaziland is giving me a – perhaps misleading – view on this little gem of a country. 

Jabu sleeps longer and I enter to find Jonas boiling water and preparing food.  “Morning.  How did you sleep?”  “Oh, so well man! And yourself?”

“Ah great.  Yes me too, all good.  Hey I was wondering… while you’re here with your car, can we go to pick up a window nearby.  I have a carpenter making it for me and it’s ready…” 

“Yeh, of course.  That sounds good… we can go anytime.” 

He has laid out fruit and banana bread and tea to eat before we walk up to the building by the shed where my car is parked.  His immediate focus is to prepare it as his first means of income.  We clear it out and fix the door, preparing to really bring it to life.  Jabu stays behind as we drive down the valley to see the carpenter.  It is another spacious property with fruit trees and dogs and vegetables growing, an excellent assortment of hand tools and timber creations in the workshop.  The window is heavy but we secure it and I drive carefully on the bumpy track back up. 

Jonas climbs eagerly on to the roof when we stop to pick up the old lady.  He rides on to his property like he never has before and we pull up beside the same building.  He explains that this window is to replace the existing one which is smaller and broken.  Gabriel is restoring that same wall and I suggest we change the window right away to let him finish everything once we are done. He likes the sound of that and we get right to work pulling the existing wall apart. 

It is all built naturally and is interesting for me.  Main posts create the frame and thinner sticks are nailed horizontally from one to the next, both internally and externally.  That cavity created between the thin sticks is filled with rocks, forming a solid wall to which a cement and soil or sand mixture is applied to finish the walls off cleanly. 

The opening of the old window will not accommodate the newer, larger one.  I get to changing things and cutting as necessary and we lift the new window into place fairly easily.  Jonas is impressed and surprised at how quickly it happened, though I tell him good naturedly that it’s cheating when someone knows what they are doing! There is another issue with a wall that is not well connected.  There is a lot of movement and we join it to a post in a way that was overlooked previously.  Tomorrow Gabriel will apply the external layer of cement mix and the small private suite will be in really nice condition. 

“Great!” says Jonas, “Then just some more paint inside and that will be a really nice space for guests!” 

It’s good for today and Jonas is very happy with the unexpected progress.  It was a pleasure to work alongside Gabriel for the afternoon and we return to the house to find the stove warming away with Jabu playing his guitar in an armchair. 

The old dog is called Velvet and she takes in his music.  Sadly, she is now so sick that she can hardly leave her mat.  She has been steadily deteriorating for weeks now.  She is weak and defeated and hobbles around unsteadily if she really must.  James – originally from Scotland – is a friend tending to her.  He is a natural healer – like a Shaman – and his partner has also cured herself of cancer at least twice.  They live in Swaziland now and James sets his remedies out for poor old Velvet.  He gives her drops of hash oil and pills of charcoal that he makes himself.  He mixes each with certain other ingredients – all found in these mountains – and claims to have helped many people through his treatments. 

Together we make the evening pilgrimage to the sunset rocks and again I feel blessed to be here in this amazing nature on this exposed hilltop property with these uplifting people.  Every experience is a new education… and today I got more than I gave – even though I’m sure Jonas feels the same way! 

The rasping chainsaw interrupts the mountain silence.  It’s the exasperating intrusion of the buzzer when a customer holds the door across a sensor too long. 

The mid-morning sun welcomes us to the balcony when we step out to look down on the sound.  From our elevated position, more than half of our environment is sky and we have to look down to see the valleys of yellow grass. 

“They are stealing wood again,” Jonas mutters.  “They are directly below us, see?  It is difficult to get down there so I don’t usually go, but it is my land.” He looks to me, “You fancy a drive down there for a chat with them?” 

Again, Jabu stays behind.  He has settled into the chill-out part of the deck.  The guitar and tranquillity will keep him company and he won’t go far now that he is stoned on the beanbag.  I am already enjoying the sounds that come with him.  Some songs that I recognise and others I’m glad to hear for the first time.  He is younger than Jonas and I, his angelic songs seemingly paying testament to that fact.  The world of hardship and isolation he knows has left him searching for his place, but I will be driving him back over the border now that our stay with Jonas is coming to an end. 

I am happy to be of use and support to my host and new friend, Jonas. I like that he automatically climbs onto the roof of my bakkie – even though the passenger seat is free.  He doesn’t have these adventurous moments so often out here and I am glad to lend him that moment too. 

“Turn off the driveway at the bend and head towards those trees…”  He is directing me through my open window as we leave his property.  It’s definitely more fun driving off-road instead of sticking to the designated tracks. 

We drive down to the clump of trees that is already well below the elevation of his house. 

“Now turn down into the valley.  Past those rocks…”  His directions are no longer necessary.  It is obvious enough.  What wasn’t obvious is exactly where his home is situated! 

There are steep mountains all around but the veranda that we were standing on just minutes ago is suspended right out over the side of the enormous cliff in front of us!  Our view of the wood thief was obstructed by the cliff itself, but from here it appears we could have dropped a stone on him… Or at least thrown one at the correct angle. 

The car is on quite a heavy slant as we cross the mountain face from the cluster of eucalypts to the base of the cliff and I drive carefully to make sure Jonas is secure.  Hitting a rock or hidden pothole would be unwelcome at this gradient but I am also enjoying the adventure of bringing the car here. 

The man is flustered as we arrive with the intimidating vehicle and sets the chainsaw beside the small fuel canister at the base of a tree, picking up his flannelette shirt as he does so.  He wears jeans and thongs, his shoulders muscular and long hair tied back. 

I park to one side and let Jonas approach him first.  This is their situation – I firmly intend to play a minimal part and take his lead.  I wasn’t expecting Jonas and Matias to know each other.  Neither was I expecting Jonas to be so composed and methodical in his approach to the discussion. 

“It is not your wood… This belongs to the community!” Matias is saying, pointing around animatedly. 

“It is OK Matias.  But why are you so agitated right now?  Why are you so upset?” 

It is true that he is unsettled and anxious.  He is being loud and his distress points towards guilt.  The Africans are never good liars. 

“…. Frances said to come here but it is fine!”  he says. “This is not your wood but OK, no problem!” 

“Hey Matias just calm down… We have talked about this.  Why are you shouting?  We have talked about this already… You know and Frances knows and everybody knows that this is my land.  There is wood here for everybody and I am happy for us all to have it…  But come and talk to me before you start cutting and taking it away huh?  It is only fair…” 

Matias is calming and Jonas has taught me a lesson.  He sits quietly on a log which defuses the situation further. A gesture of peace.  Matias lights a cigarette and hands it to him after some puffs. 

I have not been acknowledged and I keep my distance.  I am an observer and I squat by a bush with my body turned away to show that I too bring no aggression. 

“It is hard for me to come down here and fetch this wood.  I have no car.  Up at the house there are no trees and I too need some of this that you are cutting.  It’s for this that I want you or Frances or whoever to come and talk with me… I would like some to be dropped by my house when you are loading it…” 

The conversation is drawn out.  The result is that Matias leaves the area – empty handed, but dignified by Jonas’ patient and fair resolve.  It was an admirable display of confrontation and I tell him so as we drive back up to the house. 

“Well you know, you have to be reasonable.  It’s the only way to get anywhere and – ultimately – we all have to live here together…  I don’t want to go around screaming and swearing, but he comes to take this wood and then he sells it to other people.  That’s not good either.” 

His time of remoteness and reflection has bought him wisdom and thoughtfulness beyond his 27 years.  His face shows a firmness blossomed from integrity and stability is set on his brow.  It is printed there from the work in his vegetable gardens and greenhouses and building constructions.  It is that deliberate and methodical work manner that has become part of his personality – as it does with anyone who spends time quietly working the land for that life that is its own reward.  He is clear and pensive and uses his words carefully – wasting none. 

He cooks the same way as he works and the same way as he speaks.  With attention and pride and consideration.  Intent and transparent. 

Velvet bumbles past.  A miracle directly from the heavens above!  She is still skinny and weak, of course.  But there is life in her eyes and swagger in her step.  It seems that – for a moment – she has forgotten her pain.  She has been drawn from that gloomy cave of death.  She has returned to the light and her wagging tail whips past me as she heads outside to her water bowl and then back again to say hello.  I bend down, cupping her throat in one hand while stroking her neck with the other.  I look at her and she shows me her personality, appreciating one of few good moments she might have left, while I marvel at the wondrous natural remedies that crafted this transformation.  By the secrets of nature that we are so far from mastering, yet endlessly desperate to conquer. 

“She is looking good huh?” Jabu is happy about it too.  He hovers behind Jonas in the kitchen, wanting to be helpful without knowing how to assert himself. 

The benchtops are littered with potatoes and pumpkin and fresh herbs and chillies and half a loaf of sourdough that a neighbour made yesterday. 

There is always something new to observe.  A poster or wall decoration or piece of furniture that I didn’t notice in the past days.  I take my camera in a bid to capture this story with appropriate positioning and zoom, photographing the house from different angles.  The relics standing in a neat row along the handrail of the balcony in the sky make a lovely picture.  Their grimaces relaying the height they sit at and the eternal views they are faced with. 

Again, I imagine where Jonas wants his yoga deck.  I see it suspended out over the cliff below us.  I see the rondavels he hasn’t built yet and the chicken house that could go behind the greenhouse.  I would like to stay here and build a chicken house. And a yoga deck and a rondavel.  And eat this food and see these mountains and speak this way. 

I re-enter the kitchen to catch the end of Jonas’ story.  About the time he walked around to where our bedroom is below the deck outside.  He had startled a huge Black Mamba which had reared up in defensive alarm.  “Man those things can stand right up on one third of their body!” he is telling Jabu, “It was more than two metres long so it was up and looking me right in the eye…  I felt for the stairs and managed a quick look back, but I got away from there real fast!  Man, if one of those bites you and you’re not near a hospital, you’re better off getting comfortable under a tree and just laying down peacefully...”  he looks to me solemnly as I reappear, emphasizing the issue. 

“Are there a lot of snakes here?”  I ask. 

“A lot,” he says back surely, “I even know where some of them live.  There is one under the step of the shed.  And under some different rocks, around.  The Black Mamba is feared in Africa – with good reason.  They do actually kill people here.  They are aggressive and when they strike, they will bite you repeatedly – in fast succession.  Tuck tuck tuck tuck tuck!”  His hand becomes the snake’s face – tapping an imaginary victim rapidly. 

“So tomorrow we are leaving yeh?”  Jabu looks to me, having heard enough on the dark topic.  I know he needs to get to Tofo and assess the situation with his father since their house burnt down last week. 

“Yeh man, tomorrow morning we can head off…”  I look to Jonas.  I am sorry to leave.  But, I am sorry to leave every place I go.  I look back to Jabu, “You left some stuff at Isabelle’s yeh?  We should go past there and say goodbye to her too?” 

I got to wake up from a blissful sleep in that beautiful mountain house again and step into that enveloping view one last time.  I got to heat a jug of water on the old cast iron stove again, putting it into the shower container and filling the rest with colder water.  I got to go down to where Jonas had met the big black snake and release the water onto myself – standing under it and having that amazing wash on top of the world one last time.  That shower with two sides only – the rest of it right open to the thin air and rocky valley below.  Yes, I got to do that. 

And I had another moment with Velvet and saw the veggie gardens and Gabriel finishing the wall around the window for the construction project we had worked on together.  I thanked Jonas for the hospitality and wished him well for his endeavours here and took Jabu and drove down the mountain.  I left my copy of ‘Tracks’ with a message inside the cover from one traveller to another: ‘To keep journeying with power’.  But Jabu took it with him instead. 

We drive through the ‘city’ of Manzini and toward Malkerns and onto Isabelle’s tree lined driveway.  The blue heeler dog wobbles over and the little boy who is my friend comes running too. He climbs onto my shoulders as though I were a pine tree and then covers my eyes so I can’t see where I’m walking.  But we find the kitchen and Isabelle crushing plucked raspberries for a dessert which we are sorry we won’t taste.  We thank her and take Jabu’s things and set off for Mozambique! 

Then we cross the Swazi lowlands.  The part that must surely exist in an African country with the highest incidence of HIV and Tuberculosis in the world.  The part down in the basin that is boiling hot with no relief.  Further from good drinking water.  Further from towns and education and hospitals and money.  Further out of the way in general. 

It isn’t the idyllic lifestyle of pristine, permaculture properties.  It is perhaps a taste of what is to come.  Africa for the Africans.  Where the destitute live in hoards – unashamedly neglected – without electricity or housing or transport other than what they have created from nothing. 

“I guess the Isabelle’s of Swaziland live up in the Highlands, hey Jarbs?” 

They made me a visa.  Not through the embassy or on a computer system or with some laminating machine.  But right there, in a side office.  By hand, for cash. 

That worked so it’s fine.  What could be more of a problem is my paperwork situation, as a driver.  There are many ‘insurance’ vendors just over the Mozambique border telling me that it is the law to buy insurance.  But Olve’s words ring clear in my mind – that in the event of a problem, the insurance companies would never help.  But more importantly, his graphic warning stays with me: To not help or stop or take injured or dying or dead people, even if you hit them yourself.  Do not stop.  Mob mentality is strong and lynching can become a real and sudden danger.  “You don’t wanna be caught in Africa with a body and waving your insurance papers to an enraged mob,” he had said, “You are best off getting away and reporting the incident at the next police station.  It’s not a game and it’s not a joke.”  It was one of many lessons before he left me with his vehicle. 

I am prepared – for traffic police at least – with the cover letter of my travel insurance policy, which lists all the countries that I should be covered in… Should.  But that’s another story.  So this document is also void. 

We get away from the border easily enough but the first police check point is blocking the road ahead now.  Countless stories from the Norwegians have prepared, but nothing will teach me like my own experiences. 

“Usually I am in the car with my Dad or his friends here…  And they are always smoking weed so it freaks me out,” Jabu mutters as he sees the police.  Though stoned or not – he is still edgy with the authoritative figures ahead. 

I get an army-style salute which I should have reciprocated, but I wasn’t ready.  “Boa tarde… Tudo bem?”  Good afternoon… Everything good? 

“Boa tarde.  Sim tudo bem Obrigado.  E você?”

I present my insurance letter at the word ‘Documentos.’  As Olve had said: “Just give them something to do… Finding their country on your paperwork is ideal.”  They had written up all sorts of documents at internet cafes.  “Put some logos and a signature at the bottom.  They love a stamp too… The right stamp would be a great investment here – and your ticket to absolute freedom!” 

He had even given me a paper saying: “This is just… whatever you need it to be…”  It had some made up words and information and serial numbers and dates.  “Anything you slip into a plastic folder will look super official!” 

The officer hands the insurance letter back and asks to see my registration card.  I produce a photo copy of the original, which I have tucked in the car’s safe, beneath the centre console.  The registration card is all in Norwegian and he reads it for a while.  He nods slowly – satisfied – and hands it back to me.  Now, neither of us reads Norwegian but he was definitely studying the paper upside down. 

Next is the driver’s licence.  It is Australian and expired in February this year.  I had only noticed a few days before leaving home and the new one must be sitting at Mum’s house now, arriving after I left.  February 9th could also be understood as September 2nd – that’s a possible plan – but I don’t imagine many of them would pick that up anyway. The photo was taken years ago, before India.  My face is rounder and I am depicted with shaved hair and fairly cleanly shaven – unrecognisable to my current travel colour, bush beard and rough haircut! 

I do also have a backup ‘International Licence’ which expired four years ago.  You really need to pull the paper out of its plastic housing to see the stamped date – which has never happened – though that license is truly smudged and damaged.  A general insult to any intelligence.   

All is well, it ends well.  I was confident he would not pick up the expiry date and the other documents are ‘basically legit.’ 

We pass another checkpoint before entering Maputo which goes about the same.  There has been a lot of hype around the law enforcement here and so far both the border and police stops have gone smoothly.  I am relieved.  My confidence is also intact and – really – what else do you need? 

CHAPTER

Maputo is Mozambique’s capital city.  I don’t have high hopes for this place but am happy to be arriving.  Amanda has been here since we met in Cape Town and I have Jabu directing us to the hostel she recommended. 

Isaora is an attractive middle aged woman with a young child and has run this hostel for over two years.  She is native but has lived in Germany in her life so her English is impeccable.  Her child is known as a ‘cappuccino baby’ as a result of having the European partner and is totally adorable.  She is easy to talk with and emphasises that we must always carry our passports if we leave the building.  It is the law and police in the street commonly use it to get money from tourists. 

My plans are to be here until the day after tomorrow.  German Dani – from Afrikaburn – is coming after all and will meet me here!  She will have two weeks until her exit flight from Beira, which is another large city halfway up the country.  The plan works well and the company will be good. 

Jabu, on the other hand, has just run into Chris here in the hostel.  Chris is an English guy in his forties who has started a transport business – moving and collecting the growing number of tourists from Maputo airport to Tofo directly.  He has just delivered clients and will be returning to the tourist destination early tomorrow.  Jabu will go with him and we will meet there again. 

It’s time to eat something and Isaora points us to the main road, where a restaurant will be down a small street.  We step out but I quickly run back inside to leave my phone behind.  I don’t want anything to go missing but I do have 3,000meticais – equivalent to 50USD – folded in my shirt pocket. 

The dark road is quiet, the sidewalks paved in tiles.  People mill about; coming out of a bar and manning their convenience stores and selling snacks and sitting together in small groups.  We turn right down the small street and walk to the end as described by Isaora – only to find the restaurant is closed. 

“All good Jarbs, we’ll find something else.”  He shrugs casually and we turn back to the main road – Avenida 24 de Julho – July 24th Avenue.  A uniformed man had walked behind us and is now coming to us along the footpath. 

“Oh Fuck Jabu!  Dammit…”  I pat my pockets and I have nothing!  “No passport bro!”  Just the 3,000mets in my shirt pocket.  And 20rand from Swaziland in my shorts.  2 dollars. 

“Ah shit bro!  Are you serious?  She told ya…!” 

How stupid indeed.  I go to walk past him but he steps onto the road and approaches us.  “Passport.”  Green shirt, green pants and green cap.  Worn.  An old black belt.  And an older AK-47 slung lazily over his right shoulder.  “Passport!” 

Jabu produces his and I have nothing.  I point to the end of the street and start to say that we just arrived and our guest house is right next door…. 

“Passport!”  His hand is extended.  “No passport?  Under arrest!  Pay fine now!  Empty your pockets!” 

“Ey ey ey Take it easy man!”  As I pull my pockets inside out to prove I have nothing, a smoked cigarette butt flies into the gutter.  I hadn’t wanted to throw it on the ground earlier I guess.  It catches his eye and he goes sifting through the leaves and shit.  He’s getting worked up now – holding the butt triumphantly to the light.  He smells blood.  He smells money. 

“You smoke drugs!  You smoke drugs!  OK this big problem my friend.  You pay big fine here or you coming to Police Station! 15,000meticais!” 

“Ey No way…  What? 15,000meticais!  Haha You joking my friend!  You can’t just go finding things in the gutter.  That’s not mine brother.” 

He is on the phone – calling somebody to come and arrest me as well, apparently.  “Hello.  Look, sir.”  I put my hand on his shoulder and pull him back, interrupting is conversation.  “I have this twenty rand.  I’m sorry, we just arrived and I left my room with nothing by mistake.  I’m sorry man.  That thing you find… I don’t know.  It’s not mine, I’m sorry.  OK?” 

“Twenty rand?” he looks down, scoffing incredulously, “You can’t buy a glass of water from the Police Station with that.  Come!  You under arrest.” 

I turn to Jabu deliberately.  My right hand flashes into my shirt pocket and presses the money against his chest.  My left hand pats him on the shoulder, sending him on his way with a gentle push, “Take it and go Jabu!  You’re free…  Just go back and I’ll see you at the guest house.  It’s not far man, just there.  Don’t worry about me man, really.  I’m fine now!  But go away.  Please!” 

He is trying to obey me but he’s not moving very fast – he doesn’t want to leave me here. 

“Hey!  Where is he going!”  The officer is momentarily flustered seeing Jabu back away from us.  His surprise is good ammunition. 

“He is free.  You saw his passport...”  His confusion returns to general twitchy excitedness.  “So what can we do now?”  I walk toward him with my arms open.  I have no phone, no wallet, no ID and no money.  My shorts pockets are still inside out.  “You want to take me to the police station?  So, OK…  We can go.  Where is it?”  I walk vaguely past him in the other direction. 

“Hey!  Stop!” He shrieks.  He is thrown by my lack of fear, by my sudden rebellion.  “Now you make this problem go away…”  The authoritative facade is dismantled as he speaks.  His very words ride from a shrill, exasperated confusion, to a suggestive proposition, then fading to a desperate clutch and finally whining into frustrated defeat. 

“I’m sorry man.”  I put my hands up and start backing away from him too.  He presents me his handcuffs, but only when I look him in the eye.  It’s a losing battle, I really have no money.  It’s over.  I feel sorry for him now.  I’m sure he needs the money.  I don’t imagine the government is paying him much – if at all.  “I have this twenty rand only.”  He takes it, begrudgingly.  There is some distance now.  “Sorry man…”  I put my hands down and turn away from him, leaving him alone on the corner with his shattered hope.  There is no other car or police station.  Just a guy with a gun and an empty threat. 

I catch up with Jabu on the next corner.  He didn’t need that so I play it down – it’s no big deal.  “All good man that was my bad.  Sorry Jarbs.  After I gave you the money I knew I had nothing and that he wasn’t going to bring me to the station.  You did well man.  You OK?  Come on, lets get something to eat and get back.” 

I see Jabu and Chris off early.  I’ll meet him in Tofo in the next couple days.  He said we can stay with him.  I can park the car there and hang out. 

Tom is also in our dorm.  He is an American Peace Corps Volunteer – based up north in Pemba, near Tanzania. The American Peace Corps are for American volunteers to serve abroad.  It is a two-year contract following a three-month cultural training program, specific to their chosen country.  It was created by John F Kennedy in 1961 and has three main ideals.  1) To provide technical assistance.  2) To share American culture.  3) For Volunteers to learn another culture. 

Americans are not known as big international travellers and the ones that are newly out of their country can be cringe worthy in wider social settings – and these are the ones daring to leave!  Their ignorance to world affairs and geography is evident and their blind patriotism is as sad as it is disturbing.  This said, they are good people who have been let down by their media and system on this front. 

I have met countless Peace Corps volunteers already and my bitterness questions why they would not start off by fixing their own country, there is plenty to be done there!  But, I must say that the very best Americans I have met, the most reasonable and balanced and composed and socialised, are those that have spent periods of time outside of the US – away from their fear and poison and propaganda.  Several of whom I have met here in Africa as Peace Corps volunteers!  The Peace Corps has affected how communities see Americans, how Americans see other countries and cultures, and how Americans see their own country from an outer perspective. 

Tom is a really well-rounded guy and it is a pleasure to speak with him.  He describes the hidden paradise of Northern Mozambique with romantic nostalgia.  He talks of finding unexpected treasure in this culture and language he has come to enjoy so much.  He loves how they eat and how they play and how they talk and how they share and how they smile.  He describes the rural village he has ended up in and what it takes to get there.  He describes the children and things they have done together and what it has taught him.  It is a pleasure to hear such things and I wonder if the Peace Corps could be America’s greatest international achievement. 

He is in town to meet other volunteers.  It is an organised meeting for a short break away from their allotted stations.  It seems they are totally immersed and isolated to their communities otherwise.  And two years is a big commitment. 

I also have a plan for the day.  It has been suggested to me to get some paperwork signed and stamped with the Mozambican Federal Office.  Apparently, any paperwork with this authorisation is a huge help with authority along the way. 

I get to writing up some documents with my own information as an Australian and as the owner of this red Hilux and various other ideas.  I assemble passport copies and print out of my licence from Australia and my Yellow Fever certificate and set off with my old faithful satchel bag that I bought for 100pesos in Mexico.  It has come a long way with me and has many scars and replaced zippers to show for it.  It has held my passport and journal and camera safe over many a distance. 

The exercise is largely to walk around Maputo with some direction.  I see nothing terrible and nothing so amazing.  Ordinary buildings, though nothing high and ordinary cars with ordinary footpath traffic.  Restaurants and offices and fruit stalls and pharmacies and banks.  The main roads are wide and generous with many taxi vans.  Motorbikes are not a thing here in Africa, from what I’ve seen at least.  People tend to walk long distances though. 

There is a queue and a cost to get the papers signed and stamped and people are dressed nicely to be here.  There is an unwritten rule to show respect in government buildings by dressing with pants and a collar – or at least clean and respectable clothes. 

It’s hard to follow exactly where the papers are after the lady takes them and drops them on a desk behind her.  She accepted some and not others and flatly states the price and points to the next lady along for payment.  Behind them is a group of ladies with stamps and staplers and piles of papers all around.  It seems that each lady is responsible for one job – so each paper goes from station to station.  But I watch for a while longer and that’s not the case at all.  Then the papers are not even going to each lady.  They bounce from one to the next and then back and around from desk to desk.  I cannot decipher any kind of obvious system and my papers start coming back to me from each direction.  It’s something between a cryptic riddle and a comedy skit! 

I tuck the papers into my bag, invigorated by the latest episode and continue my loop back to the hostel.  I stop to buy a new SIM card which will give me internet data during my stay in Mozambique.  It is ridiculously cheap and I have fun with the young sales people at the TIM stand. 

I walk past an area for bars – ‘nice’ bars for rich people or any Whites around.  Such places have circles of expats that need to cling to affluence with their own kind.  “Ugh, I couldn’t think of anything more boring,” I think as I picture white people in shirts eating expensive foreign food – cooked by a local – and sipping their cocktails, served by locals.  Why would you do that?  It just makes you stand out more and be disliked more too.  They are obviously not concerned with how they come across to the people that live here. 

There are also Portuguese living here – for benefits – with passage through their colonial linkage. 

The hostel is good for a short rest and I even manage a journal entry.  I always keep them when I travel but have never read over one.  There must be all kinds of things in them that would be otherwise lost in the oblivion of my many encounters and poor memory. 

I organise the blue folder under the driver’s seat with all the documents, trying to put the ones that I might need in front for efficiency when I’m stopped again. 

Lunch from my food box is next with some time chatting to Isaora and other guests.  But I am keen for another little loop towards the train station, towards Avenida 25 de Setembro and beyond that towards the coastline.   There is a port this way with big storage yards for shipping containers so I can’t see anything too exciting.  It doesn’t feel strange or out of place, I just don’t know where anything is or how this city is laid out.  I approach the ‘Workers Square’ which boasts the Maputo Train Station in the background.  But my attention is caught by the assembly of men off to the left.  They are crowded around and craning their necks to see.  I want to see too and they are happy to shuffle around and include me, though most are too fixated to notice. 

A concrete slab with indentations is on the ground which is what they are gathered to see.  Four rows of indentations in the slab in total – the game is called ‘Ntchuva.’  Two men play, facing each other across the board, each only able to control his own two rows.  Every new game starts with two stones per hole – or nuts or bottle caps or marbles. 

They take the stones from one hole and pass them around the other holes, dropping one in each as they go.  Where they stop, they take the corresponding stones from the opponent’s hole and continue around.  I have no idea what they are doing – and they are playing fast.  But I am fascinated to find the game and this hangout and excited to be welcomed by them. 

I gesture to my camera and my new friend nods fervently.  I shuffle to my left for a good angle on the game, meanwhile sharing the photo I am taking through the display with the men behind me. 

“Sta bem?”  I ask.  “It’s good?”  They nod happily and I smile with them.  “Sta muito bom!”  They agree. 

The guy wearing the white beanie with a pink stripe is champion.  A murmur runs through the onlookers as he wins another round.  They don’t play for money, which is nice.  They play for a sip of gin, the little bottle set down by the pile of stones taken from play. 

I wave goodbye and thank the guys nearest me.  My bald friend in particular.  I look up to the station and tell him it’s a lovely building.  He accepts the compliment personally – as intended – and I exaggerate my eye contact and happiness for them.  It means I can walk away with at least two more smiles in the world – one for him, and one for me! 

The big green dome atop the large central arch is the first thing that strikes you about the Estação de Trem.  Second story verandas connect the main dome with a smaller one on either side, creating the attractive symmetry.  There is a large clock above the entrance with the letters CFM beneath it, but I don’t know what they stand for.  It is mostly white otherwise, the endearing intricacies of classic style trimming draws the eye to every detail. 

Architecturally inspired by the main terminus in Johannesburg, though with a much grander façade, there is no doubting it’s beauty and the authority it commands over the vicinity below.  It is said to be ‘probably’ the most beautiful terminus in Africa and is rated on a world scale also.  With every mention of this building, comes the side note that it was designed by the same man in charge of the Eiffel Tower in Paris – Gustave Eiffel.  I take it as truth because, why wouldn’t I?  But am subconsciously tentative about the latest ‘fun fact.’ 

“It was designed by the same man that did the Eiffel Tower!” says a voice behind me, “In Paris.” 

He is an older man wearing old man’s clothes.  He has the old man cap and a shirt tucked into old man’s pants.  He has old leather shoes and a dark coloured suit jacket.  “Could you allow me to escort you inside?” 

I didn’t plan to go in.  I have a photo and my mission is accomplished.  Besides, that suspicious voice of the tourist – the privileged – when approached by a ‘street person’ is never far away.  “Oh man, what does this guy want?”  “Is it a set up?”  “…Then he’ll ask me for money!” 

“If you don’t mind my good sir,” the old man insists, “I love to practice my English, though I rarely have the opportunity…” 

“But you speak so well,” I respond naturally, turning to face him, “What is your name?”  I offer him my hand. 

“Ah thank you.  But you are too kind.  I am Antonio.  And that is my taxi…” he points to the old red Mercedes station wagon.  I like its character and I can picture him grinning at the wheel under his old man cap.  He takes my hand and starts with a shake, but holds on to it as he looks at me and continues our dialogue.  “You must always keep improving if you like something.  My father taught me to love education.  And language is opportunity here, you understand?”  I am happy to hold the old man’s hand.  I am not uncomfortable.  In fact, I like that they do that.  It is a small act but a monumental statement.  It is togetherness.  It is respect and connection and love and tolerance.

“Ah yes thank you Antonio.  Your father was an intelligent man.  My name is Luca and I am pleased to meet you.”  He lets go of my hand when we take our first steps and I tell him that I am from Australia and excited to be in Mozambique.  I tell him which part of the city I saw earlier this morning and that I was watching the men play Ntchuva a moment ago. 

“You know Ntchuva!” It is easy to bring excitement.  We walk up the stairs together and into the cavernous foyer and then along the charming platform.  I tell him names of places I saw on the map and local food that I have heard of.  I keep the conversation simple and relatable to maximise flow and understanding. 

“I am very happy to talk with you Antonio… And thank you for showing me the lovely station.” 

“You can find me here every time my friend Luca.  Maybe tomorrow I can show you Ntchuva..?” 

I step away from him with that sensation I get from such encounters – that sensation which threatens your balance and everything else you thought was real.  Like when you hyperventilate and you are tingly – your pulse is fast and you feel different.  The day momentarily changes around you until your breath returns and you find your feet. 

This road should take me towards home and I enjoy every moment and every step.  Life is all around us and I am grateful for the very gift of gratitude.  One thing is lacking, of which I have a clear image in mind.  My eyes are peeled for places that might sell a mattress.  But it should be made of foam.  No… sponge!  ‘Esponja.’  I am sure it will fit perfectly in the Hilux and then roll up and tuck away neatly. 

Tom and I have dinner and I am impressed by his Portuguese.  Not because he is American, but because he comes from an English-speaking background. 

I am beyond lucky to have learnt Italian as a baby, being the first born to Italian-speaking adults shaped an ability to pronounce other sounds from the beginning.  I have seen countless people try to learn Spanish or French or any other language.  It’s not impossible – obviously – but is much harder for English, Australian, Irish, Canadian etcetera to master a new accent. 

We are both awake for breakfast and exchange details in case our paths cross somewhere to the north.  I leave Isaora and her little baby at reception.  There is a chance I might be back, but would really prefer to get out of town today and see the ocean!  Either way, I will send people here – they tend to listen to my travel advice. 

The roads and driving environment don’t scare me, even though the city is a little busy, and the airport is not far away. 

Dani has already arrived when I roll in.  She has flowing clothes and a bandana in her light coloured hair.  She wears dissimilar earrings which are made by her friends and has a nose ring like me.  She has a small backpack and is travelling light. 

“Hey!  Well, how about this?  Haha You made it…”  I give her a hug.  It’s strange to see her.  We didn’t know each other so well to begin with but it felt easy and natural. 

“Yeh for sure,” she says.  “It’s been a long travel and I haven’t slept much…  Wow so this is the car huh!” 

Probably some more small talk might have been good.  But I had stopped at the entrance where I saw her and have to keep the car moving.  Her bag goes in the back and – very suddenly – she is the passenger as we drive out of the airport. 

There’s no real direction but I had seen that some mattress factories could be close by.  “So, there’s something I am hoping to find quickly… Hopefully this is the place!” 

She is impressed with my Portuguese as we navigate a ‘showroom’ searching for “Esponja.”  She speaks French and some Spanish so she can follow the modest flow.  Well, I thought she could. 

We are directed to the next store to continue the search.  “Boa Tarde.  Eu quero um colchão de esponja… Voçe tem isso aqui?”  Good afternoon.  I would like a sponge mattress… Do you have this here? 

There is a stack with the smallest mattresses on top.  “Isso!  Quero isso por favor!”  It’s perfect!  I’m sure even without measuring it.  It will fit between the wheel arches in the back and is exactly the thickness I was hoping for too!  It couldn’t be better and it couldn’t have been easier or better timing…  I am complete! 

“Tem um travesseiro tambèn?”  I turn back to him.  I will need a pillow too. 

He frowns for a moment and reveals a long sausage pillow.  It’s like the thing you put behind the door to stop cold air getting through, only bigger.  Its length seems the exact width of the mattress!  Dani thinks it’s silly and is wondering if I’m serious.  Well, it is silly.  But it will also work!  I already like the pale green colour and the lacy decorations. 

“Come on Dani, lets see!”  We cross the road and slide the mattress right into place!  Tonight I will lay out the plastic wrapping to protect the underside against the rubber surface beneath.  I am envisioning covering the mattress with this plastic once it is rolled up.  She throws the long pillow in and we get back to our seats. 

We have to plan the first move and I take her to the train station as a starting point.  It is a relief to hand over navigating duties, even though we quickly end up lost. 

“Haha there was only one turn we had to follow!  How have we ended up here?” 

It is tight and jam-packed.  The buildings are brightly painted and bunched together.  People fill the streets because they can’t fit on the footpath.  Women sell small fish and vegetables and charcoal for the cooking fires.  There are small phone stands and baskets and toiletry products.  They wrap themselves in those colourful materials and their heads in another.  The colours are crisp and clean against their dark skin and their posture is perfect from balancing weight on their heads over a lifetime.  When they bend, they bend totally in half – from their hips – keeping their legs straight as their shoulders approach the roadside. 

It must be a shock for Dani.  I don’t know how Morocco looks, but she went from there to Germany for a week to leave some things at home.  She will not return to Morocco but – instead – will start a travel trip of her own from here. 

A policeman is walking along the stuck cars.  There is an elevated concrete section running between us and the lane going back the other way.  He is trying to sort a traffic issue that we cannot see and is pleased to see that at least our car can free itself.  He points to the concrete platform and indicates for me to drive onto it and go back. 

Dani understands at the same moment and looks to me, “Can we get up there?”  She is sorry to get us lost already. 

“Let’s see.”  I am quietly confident, shifting directly to the low-range gear.  We edge toward the step and I rev the engine as we touch it.  We don’t bounce up so easily so I rev it harder, forcing the front right wheel up first.  Pedestrians are close and most have stopped to watch.  The front left wheel climbs up next and now everybody is watching.  I’m giving the policeman a thumbs up as he redirects people for me and smiles enthusiastically.  It’s an uncommon sight for everyone and he is excited to play an important role. 

More bumping and dramatic revving drops us safely onto the other side and returning to freedom.  Dani is laughing and I am relieved that it went well.  I doubt it would have been as smooth without the low range gear though.  And she wasn’t laughing a moment ago.  I caught a flash of uncertainty after our first violent bump, as the policeman was closing in… 

I was just about to comment when the next police officer stops us on a big roundabout and directs me to where other cars are also answering questions.  Navy pants with white belt.  Crisp white shirt and matching hat.  Stern face.  He goes to Dani’s window first, asking for her licence.  She is shocked and now it is me laughing.  He follows my gaze to the steering wheel in my hand but the peculiar situation hardly cracks his expression. He comes around to see my best licence first, but he detects the lapsed validity.  I produce my international one and he makes me take it out of the plastic case, pointing to the date.  I tell him the ‘truth’ about how I was robbed in South Africa – my current licence having been in that wallet.  Luckily, I have this expired one as a backup…! 

He starts demanding money.  5,000mets.  I don’t have experience here and sorry Dani has to see this right now.  He asks for more papers and the ‘insurance document’ is fine at least.  We waste some time and I give him the blankest looks I can.  I explain that I just arrived from South Africa and need to find a hotel.  “Sabe onde podemos encontrar um?”  Do you know where we can find one? 

He sends us on our way finally but that was the toughest one I’ve dealt with, on the road at least.  I recount my first night with Jabu as we arrive to the train station, adding that this could be Maputo’s best attraction. 

It might be a tough introduction so she is happy to leave the city and stop a night somewhere on the way to Tofo.  Good result.  She hands me two little gifts that she bought for me.  A small leather wallet and a key ring of a Hamsa Hand – which is an ancient Middle Eastern amulet symbolising protection. 

“Oh Dani!  You didn’t have to do that…! Wow that’s so nice…. Thank you!” 

“No, Thank you!” she says. “This is awesome and I’m so excited!  It’s taken a lot to get here so now it’s time to enjoy!”  And then, “Yeh I’m also happy to get away from here…  You think we can find somewhere tonight?” 

Yeoww! “For sure we can!”  Bang!  “On the road we go then hey Dani!” 

We can put her gift to good use right away too.  “Are you happy to just both put the same amount of money into this little Commonwealth here?”  I hold my new gift up cheekily.  “Things that we share, we can just pay for with this?  If you’re happy?  Like food, accommodation, fuel…” 

It’s just so much easier than keeping count and paying each other back and splitting bills. 

“Check out this app I’ve been using too… Maybe you can find a place for us for tonight…” 

She is happy to load up on roadside produce and that is great with me.  I wonder why we haven’t done it more when I realise there hasn’t really been this opportunity!  There are people selling everything along the road here.  It’s fresh and cheap and healthy!  It takes a moment to understand what we’re seeing…  The trees, loaded with plastic bags hanging from each branch is how they exhibit their produce. 

Cashews and mangoes and bananas…  Dates and watermelon and coconut!  “Wow it’s amazing!”  She is excited and so am I!  I stop at the next exhibition, even though there is no one.  We consider how many tomatoes and papaya we want when the children come running from behind some trees.  The oldest is a girl.  She might be seven years old.  The next girl is carrying the baby on her back.  Their hair is short like boys’ and none of them have shoes, but they have this inquisitive innocence and radiant smile!  They are quiet but sharp, they are gentle and excited and naturally stunning. There is a depth to them and when Dani leans across me to see them better, we almost want to stop the car to stay a while. 

We get bread and cashews and bananas and cheese as we progress along the road to Chidenguele. It looks about 300km along with several campsite options near the coast.  The road is scarce.  There is life but not activity.  Young men race to hold up flapping chickens as we pass and I wonder how many times those same chickens have been waved around today.  It is bushland between simple villages and everyone turns to look as we come by.  I smile, leaving inclusive eye contact and waves as we go.  I want this car to leave a good feeling behind.  It was given to me in good will and was acquired by the Norwegians in the same way.  It has a positive story and I intend to carry that legacy forward. 

I approach that idea with Dani, though she is also very light and friendly and does not need directing there. 

“Oh shit!”  Far out.  I want to buy some onions but can’t find the wallet.  We just loaded it with 5,000mets each this morning and I’m sure I know where I left it.  Just as I was feeling good about possibly arriving with daylight to spare too.  I must have dropped it when we stopped to eat by the road and I’m bitter about it.  It’s $100 each and, at this rate, should probably last some time. 

Usually I’m the positive one in such a situation.  Like when this same thing happened, arriving in Maputo and Jabu had dropped his passport on the road.  He was worried but I knew we would go back and find it.  As we did. 

Now I’m annoyed.  Everything was going so well and it was me that made the mistake.  I guess I am generally hard on myself.  But as I explained to a travel partner once: “I am happy to be hard on myself – and others.  It is the surest way to maintain high standards and I do not apologise for that trait…” 

We discuss going back for the wallet and I am fairly sure I can find the place again – though it will be dark by then too.  It was about 40km back and a particular stretch of straight road with a decent shoulder hugged by bush that was more dense than average. 

It might be the most annoyed that Dani will see me and I’m not sure why this has got to me so much.  I wanted the smoothest transition possible.  We leave the ladies selling onions and turn back.  We go back through Chicumbane and along the baron road and past Macia too. 

She is positive and encouraging the whole way even though I am the one more confident of finding the spot again.  The shooting star is special. It fires perfectly downwards in front of us and I recognise the distinctive trajectory as a sign that we will be rewarded for our efforts.  Despite my enduring grumpiness, we are on the right track. 

“This is the place…  Look, you can even see our tracks as we returned to the road.” 

Somehow we were looking for a sign that she remembered and a particular tree in a selfie.  It is all here and the mood is forgotten with the joy of our exciting discovery. 

I am oddly side-tracked by the car’s tyre marks, giving Dani the first chance to explore the dark roadside.  “Here it is, you see?”  She holds up the wallet, smiling victoriously.  “I knew we would find it…  And well done on finding the spot!”  Haha All is well that ends well. 

We are stopped by night now as we approach Chongoene.  Flashing lights and loud music come from the tin shed behind the officer and I guess that is the local bar.  He asks me vaguely for my licence but it seems like he is feeling me out more than anything else.  I am calm and assured, adding some comments and the usual smile.  We have direction and purpose and are feeling good as he walks around the car.  He calls me to the back and points to the registration plate.  It is being held by zip ties which I thought was quite secure.  He agrees because the issue is not that but the broken light. 

“Each car has a small light, which illuminates the registration plate…”  He is explaining in Portuguese. 

“Ah yes sir… I understand.  This model does not use that system,” Of course, my Portuguese is not so concise, but I can definitely communicate that.  “These cars don’t have a light here…” 

He gets right down and points to the faulty light globe and looks back at me, at the same time pointing out a passing vehicle with the same feature for added credibility. 

“Ah brother,” I laugh to him, “You pulled me over from the front… So how did you see this fault from that angle?”  I hadn’t mean to be so patronising.  But it works beautifully. 

He fumbles for a response like a reprimanded child in a classroom, “Estou trabalhando…” he looks down sheepishly.  “I’m just working...” 

I get back in the seat and he asks again, “What will I do?” 

“No brother, sorry… I am going now OK?”  I put my hand on the key and look to him, waiting a moment in respect before starting the engine. 

“What about a cold drink?”  Haha Sorry my friend…

Sunset Beach Lodge is just great!  We turn off the rough tar road and follow the sandy track past the lake and right to the ocean.  There are rooms near reception but that’s not what we want.  The groundskeeper leads us around after we speak to the manager, encouraging us to choose any campsite we please and pointing out the facilities.  There are neat and sandy areas under cover or among trees and we get right to cooking our first campfire meal.  Veggies, spices and rice.  Standard.  But Dani loves it. 

Sleeping to rhythmic sounds of waves crashing unseen, the sensation of trees swaying gently above is a dream come true.  It is solid and deep and comfortable and peaceful, the exposure an improbable parallel from the depths of the best mattress and warmest little cocoon ever.  I awake feeling rested and subconsciously excited for the many times I might get to relive this. 

I lower the tailgate and roll onto the soft sand, already smiling at the next incredible sensation of the day.  “How good is this!  And how awesome was the new mattress?  Yes!” 

Dani was exhausted from her flight and the stress of packing down her life and starting this new one.  “Totally!” she agrees, “I didn’t move the whole night…  Such a great way to sleep!” 

She is a healthy and active person and wants to do some beach exercise.  I am more than happy to get down there also and notice a sign pointing down to the beach “4WD Vehicles Only” on my little exploration of our vicinity.   

“Dani!  Come and check this place!”  I call back towards the car from the deck I have found.  It is huge by anyone’s standard and the carpenter in me is beaming.  I climb the wooden steps three at a time and spring onto the highest area.  Nestled among the bushland below is a bigger deck with banana chairs and an infinity pool!  Its water is only a shade or two lighter than the pristine Indian Ocean behind it and I can’t believe my eyes! 

We could clearly walk down to the beach, but the sign sets the adventurous idea in motion and besides, we can eat down there too if we have everything with us. 

Here we go!  The first bed pack-up.  I try piling the pillow and blankets along the edge closest to me and rolling everything inside the mattress together.  I push down with my body weight as I roll the mattress and then continue to roll the last part into the plastic.  So far so good.  I take the little rope I had ready and roll the mattress over that too, tying it off before removing my weight.  The result is perfect and I am ecstatic!  It rolls up just how I had wanted and tucks nicely under the boxes in that dead space – out of the way! 

Now we can take the buckets for dishes and utensils and water and press them against it.  I loop a rope from one side of the canopy structure, through each handle and across to the other side, securing the three buckets, which – in turn – hold the rolled mattress in place.  Wow it’s perfect and Dani is as impressed as I am! 

“Lets bring him to the beach then!  Does he have a name?” 

I tell her about the previous Norwegian owners and how they came to the obvious name of combining both of their names together.  “Bolver” was the result, but she scrunches her nose up.  “It just doesn’t suit him…  He is definitely a boy though!” 

I do agree.  It doesn’t slide off the tongue well.  It doesn’t depict his character or his image at all.  He is a gentle giant.  He is kind but rough, sturdy and reliable – a long distance, off road beast.  He is a once-in-a-lifetime vehicle.  She folds my pink chair and passes it up as I stand on the wheel to load the steel box above.  “You see…?”  She says, fingering the small black words.  “Bush Baby…  Now that makes more sense!  He is Bush Baby…” 

It is a good moment.  And she is right!  It does suit him better.  It is definitely more appropriate.  Bush Baby…  “Hmm I like it,” I agree, “It’s not ‘who’ he is exactly, but he is definitely a Bush Baby!” 

“Though maybe it’s even Beach Baby at this moment…!” Her vibrancy draws camaraderie, her enthusiasm welcome. 

My arm is out the window as we slide past the big sand dune on the left and down toward a beach.  It’s the first beach I’ve seen since Namibia! Nothing else really matters right now and climbing this track later must be possible if this is the way to the beach for cars like this one. 

You don’t drive over sand.  You sail in it or glide over it.  The beach opens up and suddenly there is no end to what we can see.  Greenery comes down to meet a pale yellow before becoming blue for the rest of eternity.  You can’t dismiss it as ‘blue’ because it changes form as it hits the horizon and loops all the way overhead, giving the greenery a chance once again. 

Our momentum only carries us so far before the soft sand becomes a dense burden, threatening any further progress.  “Well I guess this will do…”  You can always reverse a little and I turn the wheel so we are facing the waves.  Every wheel is half buried, which Dani also notices as we get into beach mode. 

I do have some stretches and ideas for little exercises, though I often settle for a few nice breaths and a reflective moment over any thorough work out.  Really, I’m just happy feeling the sand and taking a picture, tasting that air that only comes with such a setting.  I cut papaya and banana and orange into the pot while Dani twists into different yoga positions.  I roll cashews and peanuts into a tea towel – smashing them with the glass bottle I carry for cooking oil – and sprinkle them over the fruit with some oats. 

It’s a wholesome breakfast on our private beach and an excellent way to start the another chapter.  I throw the peels into the bush and wash the pot with the waves and sand.  “Right.  Let’s see how we go getting back up there hey?” 

4WD for sure and low range gears in the sand.  I clear some space around the wheels and get us rolling on the firmer sand.  I can feel the struggle and our progress is slow, sometimes having to roll back before pushing towards the track up to Sunset Lodge. 

Dani is apprehensive and I don’t have good answers at the moment.  “If this really fails, we can follow the beach and get out where we saw those other cars…”  But I’m sure that if any car can do it, it must be this one. 

The slow advance back to our entrance has me realising that climbing in sand could actually be impossible.  But I’m stubborn and I want to see how this works.  I need to try.  I stay in the tracks that I made coming down, but the sand is fine and falls to the lowest point like liquid.  I go back and then forward.  And then back and then forward.  Except I’m not really going forward at all.  I keep trying and pushing but the ascent is long and my optimism is fast evaporating. 

I do also note – perhaps for the first time – that this is like no ordinary city car I have known.  Holding the accelerator at high revs might sound like the world is ending with a normal petrol car.  But not with a tractor or heavy machinery.  It operates differently and will work as it needs to.  I push and he shows me his limits.  We redefine them.  If the resistance matches the gear, he can handle the open throttle.  So all four wheels spin together in sand and I let them.  I swerve the steering experimentally as we inch painfully through.  I edge back and speed forward but we still haven’t hit the steepest part and the soft sand continues to impede each wheel mercilessly.  My head is far out the window and I am taking directions from Dani, who is watching from the sand dune to the right. 

I have one last move to try as I think back to men more experienced than myself, searching my mind for any idea or answer.  I press the release valve on the compressor pump and start letting the tyres down.  “We go as low as 0.6 bars out on the dunes…!”  Dries had said back at West Coast 4X4. 

“That means I can easily bring it as low as 1 bar,” I think confidently, “Maybe just a fraction less while I’m at it!” 

It seems like a lot of air has been released from the four tyres and the shape of them should have changed significantly, if that is really what happens.  I start the car, taking a moment to reverse just a little before selecting first gear.  The car lifts noticeably – rising from the earth like a zombie at full moon – and I can feel that I am suddenly driving on the surface instead of pushing laboriously through every tiny particle!  Wow I hadn’t expected such a drastic change and I have to move to second gear quickly to settle the screaming engine.  I shoot straight past Dani and even use third as I pass the “4WD Vehicles Only” sign, coming to a halt again at our campsite. 

That was incredible!  I am proud of the car and happy about the knowledge I just gained too!  I run the compressor and am already pumping the first tyre back up to 2 bars as Dani arrives.  “Bush Baby is Beach Baby and that was wonderful!”  She exclaims. 

“Yeh That was awesome wasn’t it!” I agree, “And so cool to see these theories in action.  I can’t believe how well that worked!  So, we should definitely check that infinity pool before heading off hey?” 

“Wow there is even a bar here!” She says.  I hadn’t noticed that from above, but this deck is even bigger and more luxurious than I had seen earlier! 

It’s time.  I strip down to my underwear and slide in, swimming to the open edge and the ocean ahead.  It’s a great feeling and I enjoy looking down and around when I get there. 

“I guess neither of us expected this… Amazing isn’t it?” I marvel, “Just a casual dip in paradise after the new bed and beach brekkie and the 4X4 challenge!”  Happy Days.