worynjay Jane Flowers is the author of two fiction novels and a number of marketing ebooks.Her books and articles are sometimes produced under the pen-name of Woryn jay. She is an accredited journalist with the Australian news Agency and holds a Diploma in Media Studies from the Australian College of Journalism. Jane works from home as a freelancer, author and Webmaster. She was born and raised in Africa, and now lives in New Zealand View all articles | Contact author

Maputo  Elephant reserve. An Adventure Travel Experience

It should have been a burning question, but foreign shores and wild adventures had cloaked me in bulletproof optimism. I was more worried about the f-stop settings on the camera, than the fact that I was photographing a warning poster about landmines. Could I get close enough to capture the bullet holes in the wall?

In search of the Maputo Elephant Reserve, we were less than one hundred kilometres from the South African border, but it had taken us two days to find the place. Even so, it was quite by chance we found ourselves at the entrance to this vast wilderness Reserve at all.

Along a road littered with long dead bulldozers, we came across a miracle – a newly graded T-junction. The road repairs had thus transformed ribbons of muddy tracks into the only smooth road surface we had seen, so we took it gratefully.

Instead of finding ourselves at Bella Vista, where we had planned to reprovision, we found ourselves at the original destination we had been seeking.

The entrance to Maputo Elephant Reserve was grand by third world standards. Someone had put a bit of money into this famous place. Uniformed Game Scouts proudly led us into an office. There were no chairs and they had to borrow our pen to fill out a stained receipt for our entrance fee. Nevertheless, they seemed delighted to have visitors and in no time at all we were surrounded by curious on-lookers.

Between the four of us our mastery of the Portuguese language extended as far as to ask for a 2M beer, so it took a while to obtain directions to a campsite.

As we bumped our way past a cavernous workshop and spruce huts painted in sparkling white lime-wash, we felt confident our journey was nearly over. In a few minutes at the most, we expected to be in the splendid dune forest next to the pristine beaches of Mozambique.

The Maputo Elephant Reserve is a vast area encompassing hundreds of square miles of coastal wetlands. According to the map, we were only a few inches from the coast. On the ground, we thrashed our way along unmarked, almost invisible tracks, through swamp and sand forest and finally along a great muddy gash that required low-range.

Three hours and 12 kms later we found a construction crew. This was more evidence of a country rising from the graveyard. They were installing new power lines to God- Knows Where.

The African contractor could speak Zulu, which was a Godsend as one of our party could at least talk to him.

"Did you see the dead man in the thick forest where the road has slipped?" As Frank translated the question, I was less than thrilled.

It turned out that the elusive Maputo elephants were indeed around in considerable bad-tempered numbers. If we had missed the dead man squashed by rampaging pachyderms the day before, we were on the wrong track.

Suddenly, my desire to camp out in the wilderness with the wild elephants of Maputo lost its appeal. I thought of the narrow sand pits we had literally hacked our way along. I thought of broken trees and signs of elephants in the thickets. I thought of not being able to dig ourselves out the mud-holes in time to escape. I thought I would just pack up and go home and feed a banana to the old elephant at Sydney Zoo.

I hid my thoughts and opened a beer. The conversation degenerated.

"He says", said Frank thumbing an uncertain gesture towards the grinning idiot who had frightened my socks off, ' that if we take the next turning left we should hit the coast in about ten hours. The road is bad and if we stray we will probably find some landmines."  Now, Frank is an ex-soldier. I am not. I have no desire to find mines of any description.

Next came the ultimate blunder travellers can make in Africa. We took the construction worker at his word that he knew of a short cut. Our unanimous decision to give camping a miss was made in a single breath. Short cuts back to hot showers and elephant free Portuguese hospitality seemed the obvious choice at the time.

"Just look out for Galla. There you will find a road that goes straight to Zitundo, which is only a few kilometres from Kangela, your destination," said our newly appointed saviour.

We looked out for Galla. We looked out for stray land mines and we kept our bulging eyes peeled for pissed-off pachyderms. All that concentration was exhausting.

We had lunch at a pan that looked like all the other millions of pans we had passed. I think we had perhaps passed the same pan a number of times. Of Galla, there was no sign.

On the horizon, wetlands spread into infinity. The road to Galla disappeared into a Lake. We were lost.

Perhaps lost is the wrong term. If we drove south long enough, we would find South Africa. If we went west we would eventually find Swaziland.

We were lost because during our low-range, 4wheel drive search for the short cut; we had guzzled up all the petrol in the spare containers. Miserably, we shared a last beer as we stood around the Toyota and contemplated the fuel gauge.

We set off west, in search of Swaziland. I had a quiet conversation with God about being good if he would stretch the fuel consumption. I had another chat with him about anti-personnel mines, when I had to scurry behind a bush to take a pee.

Suddenly, in the middle of no-where we found a police roadblock. Salvation! We could ask directions. Our jubilation turned to despair when our driver informed us he had left the papers for the truck back at our base camp.

The Policeman was not happy. We all went for a ride with him to a nondescript village littered with more dead bulldozers. Hours passed. Money changed hands. We were directed to Bella Vista. Bella Vista was the only place South Of Maputo that had petrol.

As the lengthening shadows dropped the sweltering temperatures, we rolled to a stop in Bella Vista. This was not a town where much happened. I could tell this by the hoards of volunteers who helped us push the van two blocks to the fuel station.

Petrol is called petroleo or gazolino in Mozambique. Diesel is called something else. I forget what it was. Our painful conversation to decide which kind of fuel we needed was of no consequence in any event. The town's generator was switched off at noon. The hand pump was broken. There was no petrol to be had. In my current mood I was certain the female attendant said this some relish.

Frank's brother promised all his worldly goods to a bored bystander if he could help. I felt like Richard Attenborough. I saw the fellow come to life as if he had been captured on time-frame exposure. In moments he was pedalling a battered BMX down the road to find the chief generator switcher-on man.

Whilst the negotiations went on in the electricity yard I sat on a concrete ledge in Bella Vista and drank a beer. Bella Vista had beer. Beer was the only beverage for sale.

The buildings were peeling and the garage seemed to occupy a defunct sugar mill. The great Maputo River snaked through the limitless wetlands below. Hundreds of thousands of whistling ducks slit the sky with their V formations. Time moved slowly.

There was no rush. In her seasonal way Africa's wheel turned, things eventually got done. We got our petrol. Inexplicably, I felt content.