Zimbabwe to Mozambique
Chilojo Cliffs are a must-see in Gonarezhou National Park. It’s worth the two-hour trek to get there.
What is it like in Gonarezhou? And how easy is it to get from Zimbabwe to the coast? Kathleen Schroeder and her family packed their camping gear and went to find out.
We’ve travelled from Pietermaritzburg, but the real adventure begins when we leave Makhado at 6 am. We negotiate the scenic route through the Soutpansberg and arrive at Beitbridge to find it… calm! This despite all the scary stories we’ve heard. Things go smoothly on the South African side of the border and then we make for the Zimbabwean side.
Touts swarm us. It’s a little overwhelming, but they are only armed with the documents we have to fill out anyway. The officials plod on with nothing more advanced than Bic pens. They wave us through, more focused on harassing returning Zimbabweans in vehicles laden with provisions that have to be laboriously unpacked and repacked.
We’re hungry, but the derelict site of the old Wimpy means that there are no more Sunrise Breakfasts at the border.
So we drive north on the A4 to Bubi. The road is in good condition, no worse than in many parts of South Africa. The only traffic is a couple of donkey carts and children pushing watermelons in wheelbarrows.
At one point we pass a burnt-out vehicle with South African plates smouldering next to the road. The driver is nowhere to be seen, but there is a man guarding the impressive-looking boat the vehicle was towing.
There are three adults and one child in our group: my husband Wally and me, our son Aidan, and friend and colleague Brent. We’re driving two vehicles: a Pajero and a Land Rover Freelander.
Brent is a former Zimbabwean and he directs us to an old haunt, the Lion and Elephant restaurant on the A4, just after the bridge over the Bubi River. We have the place all to ourselves and order bacon and egg rolls all round.
A staff member tells us that things are changing in Zimbabwe and that there are more and more South Africans passing through.
Full of brunch (and a little nostalgia), we continue for another four hours to Gonarezhou National Park, in the south-east of the country, on the border with Mozambique.
Alone in paradise
During summer, some of the roads in Gonarezhou National Park are only passable in a 4x4.
Game is plentiful in Gonarezhou. Some animals are skittish, though, maybe due to poaching.
Getting to Gonarezhou is easy, although the road from Chiredzi is a little corrugated. There’s a polite, proud man at the gate who gives us a salute as we drive through.
At reception we’re faced by the sad reality of Zimbabwe’s national parks: There’s no electricity and we have to squint in the darkness as the receptionist works out our fees on a calculator.
We buy two fishing licences for two days, which works out to about R200 – fairly pricey. We’re allocated Site 7 at Chipinda Pools, and then wait while the receptionist goes to get change from a house near the gate.
A light rain falls as we drive to the campsite. The road is muddy and the middelmannetjie as high as the car. It’s obvious that few people have travelled this route in recent times.
We are the only visitors in the park and Site 7 is wonderful. There’s a thatched lapa for cooking and sheltering from the rain, and hippos snort loudly from the Runde River a few metres away. The camp is on a rise, with a view of water and baobabs.
We pitch the tents, open the gin and tonic and light a fire with mopani wood. The rain continues to fall, but we are as content as can be.
Later, I trudge the 200 m to the toilet in the dark – quite tentatively, as the receptionist told us that a pride of lions was spotted in the camp two days ago.
During the night we discover that our brand-new tent is not waterproof.
The early morning is everything a morning in the bush should be: sunshine, birds, hippos and condensed milk coffee. A park official named Sasa brings us more firewood and cleans the already spotless camp. We ask him whether he can get us worms for bait so we can catch some fish for supper.
We walk the few kilometres to a good fishing spot down the river and spend the day stewing in the heat. The fishing licences are proving to be a pointless expense.
Back at camp we resurrect last night’s fire and grill fillet and rump steaks, which we eat with a blue cheese sauce. The fruit bat family in the tree above throws down muck onto our new, leaky tent. This is camping luxury!
We’re all up at 4.30 am, ready for the two-hour drive to Chilojo Cliffs. We decide to take the Pajero, as the road is very rough in places.
At the base of this wall of red rock the sandy banks of the Runde River are littered with all sorts of animal spoor – including crocodile. There are birds everywhere and game abounds, although the animals are shy and skittish, quite likely the result of poaching. We wander the length of the river, stopping to take photographs. We’re the only people here.
We wanted to camp at the cliffs but were told at reception that the site has been closed. This is not surprising, as it hasn’t been used for some time and the ablution facilities are in total disrepair.
This must once have been a great place to camp.
The drive back to Site 7 is long, but we are rewarded with sightings of elephant and the spectacular views over the river and surrounding plains.
Four days later, we leave Gonarezhou with reluctance.
Days of sun and seafood
Wally (back left), Brent (front) and Aidan (right) enjoy a breakfast of coffee and biscuits next to the EN1 on the way to Inhassoro.
Mutare is dusty and grubby. There is no power and the traffic lights don’t work, but we manage to track down fuel and cold Cokes. We head for the Forbes/Machipanda border post.
Today is not a good day. We have vehicle trouble and the youths hanging around at the border are intimidating. They steal a knife and my husband’s contact lenses out of the door panel of the car – silly of us to leave the window open.
We drive slowly through the Mozambican highlands, quite worried about the alternator in the Pajero, and eventually we check into an overpriced motel outside Chimoio. On a small veranda, sheltered from the rain, the men pick the car apart by the light of their headlamps. It’s a success – the alternator seems to work again.
For dinner we eat delicious peri peri chicken at the motel restaurant. Back in our pricey quarters, the showers overflow, but it’s comfortable enough for a decent night’s rest. Tomorrow we have a seven-hour drive to Inhassoro.
The men are up early, checking the alternator and other engine parts. The restaurant isn’t open yet, so after a few hours on the road we pull off for a breakfast of coffee brewed on a camping stove and chocolate biscuits.
A number of people passing by stop to offer help, thinking we’ve had a breakdown. They share a biscuit and we all lament about what Mugabe has done to Zimbabwe.
Finally we arrive at the Seta Hotel campsite in Inhassoro. The campsite is basic but has five-star ablution facilities.
The hotel restaurant is close by and we’re seconds away from the pristine beach, right in front of our camp. We assist the local fishermen hauling in their nets, astounded at how difficult it is and at the patience that is required. They return a turtle unceremoniously to the sea and abandon the inedible reef fish on the beach – a horrible waste and an indication of how the survival of man often comes at the expense of the environment.
The sea is warm, and when the tide is out you can walk for a great distance into the water, collecting pansy shells. This is how we amuse ourselves for the next few days, with occasional visits to Orlando’s Afro Bar on the beach.
There is a market nearby and we make daily trips to stock up on things like bread and Tipo Tinto, the local rum.
Lorenzo, an entrepreneur and con artist, organises some crayfish for us at a very low price. He also arranges a boat ride across to Paradise Island, the location of the recent Survivor series, about 15 km offshore from Inhassoro as the crow flies.
He assures us that the boat is seaworthy and kitted out with life jackets, but it turns out to be a dodgy rust bucket with zero safety apparel. It’s not ideal, but we get aboard anyway, loaded with food and drinks for the day.
There is no shelter and we’re drenched every time a wave slaps against the bow. Our son Aidan starts to complain about a headache, but once the clouds clear everyone seems to cheer up and we’re no longer as annoyed at Lorenzo.
We spend the day snorkelling and exploring. Other, more fortunate, travellers arrive in better boats, accompanied by professional guides. We gaze longingly at the sleek craft, which take an hour less to traverse the choppy seas and, we learn, offer a cheaper fare than we’ve paid.
The feelings of resentment return as we board our creaking vessel for the trip back to the mainland. The crew coax the outboard engine back to life with a spanner and splash buckets of water over it to keep it cool. Next time we’ll find another operator!
We spend the next few days in a haze of sunshine and seafood, then pack up and drive to Xai Xai, about 550 km to the south, with a weepy and pale child. The Pajero’s oil light glows menacingly, but luckily it keeps going.
At Xai Xai we check in at Parque de Campismo – the only campsite in town. The ablution facilities are appalling, but there is hot water and power. And other, noisy South Africans. We miss Gonarezhou, where we had the place all to ourselves.
We spend the next couple of days swimming, fishing and relaxing. The campsite has a decent restaurant and we even manage to sneak into the nearby hotel
to watch the Sharks play rugby.
We buy huge crabs in town and explore an old railway workshop. While I am taking
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