The riverbank was a maze of food stalls, people, animals and vehicles of every description ... too many vehicles for my liking. It looked like it could be a long, possibly overnight, wait. We spotted the small, primitive-looking ferry, already travelling halfway across the river carrying two trucks (the maximum capacity) to the other side. Pat commented drily“It's not exactly P&O, is it?”. Our doubts were reinforced when, to my amazement and amusement, I noticed that the ferry was starting to drift uncontrollably downstream. Engine problems? A crowd started gathering on both banks. The commotion increased as the ferry floated further and further into the distance downstream. Canoes started paddling urgently from the shore. The crowds on the shoreline got bigger and noiser.

We needed no further persuasion to try “Plan B”, which was to drive about 60 km upstream to the village of Sena, where Africa's longest railway bridge, now converted for road traffic, would allow us to cross the Zambezi with a little less adrenaline. Driving back through the market, we spotted some Pao (Portuguese bread rolls) and some fresh Zambezi fish frying, which we bought to eat later for lunch at our destination.

Fish for Lunch

On our way out we spotted a posse of South African 4x4 vehicles heading towards the ferry and I commented to Pat that they were going to have a long wait ahead. The road to Sena was originally intended to be a tarred road, but the construction had stopped halfway through when funds dried up and was never completed. The road therefore consisted of only had the bottom layer which, we had been warned at Catapu, consisted of sharp, tyre-unfriendly stones. It turned out better that expected and was quite an interesting drive, so we arrived at Villa de Sena, home of the longest railway bridge in Africa – the 3.7 km long (formerly) Dona Ana Bridge across the Zambezi, built in 1938.

Bridge across the river Sena

The surly police officer on duty at the bridge asked for a cooldrink. I replied that all that we had was water and made a point of mentioning that it was from Beira (in other words undrinkable unless boiled!). He declined my generous offer.

Safely across the Zambezi River, at last

Having crossed the bridge – it took a good ten minutes – we proceed along the dirt track which would lead us back to the main road north of the Zambezi. At last we were north of the Zambezi. The track was a tiny, windy, challenging bush road, taking us through small villages – really off the beaten track. After about an hour, to our horror, our path was blocked by the Chire River, and we noted that this required a ferry crossing. The ferry boat was even smaller than the one at the Zambezi. This was a shock! There had been no indication on any of our multiple maps, guidebooks and discussions with other travellers that a ferry crossing was required on this route.

Shire River Ferry

There were a number of vehicles already waiting at the ferry – including the posse of South African 4x4's which had also decided to give the Zambezi ferry a miss and had passed us just after the railway bridge. They informed us that the ferry was not currently running – the owner was having a “siesta”. It already midday and I could sense it was going to be another long day ... and there were no vendors selling food or drinks on this riverbank.

Waiting for the ferryman to finish his siesta, the South African posse had some disturbing news. It turned out that they were told that the Zambezi ferry was not operating. They were told a tall story which they did not believe – perhaps to was just a ploy to get them to spend money at the market while they were stuck there. So they decided to get a canoe across the Zambezi to verify the story. There they discovered that the story they had been spun was indeed true ...

It transpires that what we had witnessed earlier that day when we saw the ferry drifting uncontrollably downstream had a tragic tale behind it: A passenger (for reasons unknown) had quite calmy and deliberately jumped off the ferry straight into the river in midstream. The ferryman bravely jumped in after him to try to save him. Ironically, the crazy passenger managed to swim safely ashore – but the ferryman was not so lucky – and was promptly eaten by a crocodile! This explained all the commotion we had seen and the boats rushing from the shore towards the ferry. I thought: Yes, the real wild Mozambique certainly begins at the Zambezi.

We learned the sad truth about the problem with the earlier ferry

Meanwhile back at the Chire River, our ferryman appeared from his siesta and began marshalling us aboard. It could only take eight (small) vehicles and we were eighth in the queue - until another vehicle arrived and tried, in true African minibus fashion, to push in front of us! We persisted – and managed to get aboard. After much manoevering of the vehicles back and forth, the ferryman actually managed to squeeze all nine vehicles aboard. There was mere finger's gap between the rear of our vehicle and the bushbar of the vehicle behind us! I prayed that the driver had engaged his handbrake firmly! Nervously, we watched the ferry slide into the river – and to our relief we made it to the other side without mishap. To exit the ferry on the other side, all vehicles had to reverse all little, carefully, to allow the ferry to beach properly.

We were on our way again – at 2:30 pm – truly north of the Zambezi! We followed the small bush road round Monte Morrumala, the majestic mountain causing a major detour in the road.

Bush road north of the Zambezi

We thought about the late ferryman and his distraught family almost constantly through the journey. For hours our GPS indicated that we were consistently 150 km from Quelimane – almost spooky. I was reminded of Pat's comment that morning: “It's only about 200 km to Quelimane, isn't it?” Eventually we were travelling in pitch dark (the sun sets at 5 pm so far east) and just as we were about to give up, GPS still indicating 150 km from Quelimane, we reached the main road at 6 pm. Here we found a roadsign that indicated “Caia – 10 km”. Caia was the town on the other side of the Zambezi that we had been through that morning! It became clear to us that it had taken us a trip of almost ten hours and 200 km to move 10 km up the road – but with the important difference that we had crossed the mighty Zambezi.

We drove through the night, reaching Quelimane at about 8pm! Once there we searched in vain for somewhere safe to stop over, driving back and forth between Quelimane and neighbouring Nicoadala. It was raining. It was north of the Zambezi, where accommodation is virtually non-existent. After rejecting what we thought was a truckers overnight stopping place (which turned out to be abandoned vehicles) and passing the same police roadblock outside Nicoadala three times, we plucked up enough courage to ask the policeman, in my best Portuguese, “Please may we have permission to camp here, we cannot find anywhere to stay tonight?”. The answer was “No”. Not being one to give up easily, I asked the identical question again. This time the answer was “Yes”. I guess he couldn't bear to see us going back and forth through his roadblock for the rest of the night, which was our only alternative!

Our rooftent was quickly erected, and at about 10 pm we had “arrived”. As the rain pattered on the roof, we couldn't help thinking of the poor ferryman's family and of our words this morning: “It's only about 200 km to Quelimane, isn't it?”.

This brilliant red sunset made a fitting farewell to a brave ferryman