The Airlink plane touches down in Pemba (northern Mozambique) and the feeling of anticipation and excitement, amongst our quartet is palpable. The arial view of the Indian Ocean, as we make our final approach is deceptive.
The sea looks beautiful. The coastline looks exquisite. The whole country looks inviting.
It is an illusion.
From this altitude, you cannot see the incredible poverty. You cannot see the failed infrastructure. You cannot see the failed government. You cannot see the corruption, and you cannot see the ongoing insurrection. There is an awful lot you cannot see from 30,000 feet.
Don't worry. You can see it all on the ground. Just don't hang around. Clear Immigration, get on your charter flight and get out of Dodge.
That was the plan.
The Airlink flight rumbled to a halt - the doors opened, and in swept the hot, stifling, African air that was to become our constant companion for the next two or three weeks.
Somehow or other, every other passenger from our flight seemed to wend their way through Immigration until it was just us four losers left.
There was a problem with our Visas.
African visas. Fing nightmare. There are two options.
1) Get yours in the UK Embassy in London before you travel. We did this last time. Tiresome, expensive, painful and not to be repeated.
2) Take the advice from your P.H. who assures you that you can 'pay on the day' at Pemba Immigration and sail on through.
There was much discussion amongst our group about which option to take. We went with Option 2. Mistake. Big fing mistake.
The Immigration IT system was down. There was nothing the Immigration Officers could do (even if they wanted to) as their IT system was down. Funny thing. Their payment processing IT was not down, so they still managed to take $50 from each of our accounts. But they could not process our actual visas.
I do not understand why - but two previous work colleagues had retired out to Mozambique (I know!) and they had arrived at Pemba to meet us and facilitate any 'communication' issues we had with the locals. It mattered not how loud they shouted at the Immigration Officers (in Portuguese) - the IT system would still not work.
At this point, our Charter Pilot appeared (as if from a scene from Mr. Benn - for those old enough to remember Mr. Benn).
"Hi guys, what's the story?"
"The fing Visa IT system is down, and we have been stood waiting for two fing hours to get the fing things sorted out".
"Well we are time critical, I cannot land in camp in the dark, and so we need to get a rattle on".
"What is the latest time we can make it?"
"If we are all walking towards the plane by 3.30 pm, it will be OK".
I looked at my watch - it was 3.50pm.
"But, it's 3.50pm now!"
"I know. I will see you all tomorrow".
"Tomorrow? What do you mean tomorrow?
It was too late, I was already talking to the pilot's back as he walked out of the airport.
The bastard.
We were stuck in Pemba overnight.
Nothing good about that sentence.
Eventually, and way too late to help, we all got out $50 visas curtesy of the Immigration IT system. The irony was not lost on me, that in the days before IT, a 'cash fee' of $50 and the liberal use of a 'rubber stamp' would have seen us all make that charter flight.
It gets better.
"We have the permits for two of your three rifles"
"Jesus Mary and Joseph! Now what!"
It turns out that they have only received paperwork for two of our group's three rifles.
Two of our party are bringing "London's finest" double 500s in. Me and my mate are sharing his .275.
They are missing the paperwork for our .275. It is a pain in the arse and we will not see this rifle again until we are on our way home.
That said.
If we had to be missing a permit, I am glad it was for the .275. Me and my mate are 'half-gunning' and in the big scheme of things, it is no drama to use the camp rifle.
Our other two Guns are using their beautiful 500s (one double 500 and one 500x450) and there is no way the camp could supply a replacement for such an iconic rifle. I am genuinely happy to 'take one of the team", in these circumstances.
So there we have it.
Stuck overnight in Pemba, (at least we now all have visas) with nowhere to go, and only two of our three rifles.
Our old colleagues come to our rescue. Dear God. What are the chances that we know someone in such ashithole Godforsaken remote place?
Somehow, they load us all into their 4x4 and we drive thorough Pemba. It is a sobering ride.
The poverty and lack or infrastructure is acute.
Our Saviours take us to a local bar. It looks over the Indian Ocean, and provided one does not look back over your shoulder, towards the street, you can (with a beer in your hand) kid yourself, that all is well with the world...
After one of the largest kebabs I have ever seen (unable to get near finishing) and several beers, the visa nonsense and enforced overnight in Pemba is starting to appear funny.
Whilst we are in the bar, I notice a Chinese family come in for a meal. The Chinese are everywhere in Mozambique. What I do not notice, until we leave is their 'security'. Out the front of the bar are eight armed 'security men', some with Kalashnikovs, some with Pump-Action shotguns and some just with 'short shields' and batons. An eclectic mix. I cannot help but notice that there is no security at all on the 'water side' of the bar. Terrible tactics - but I am sober enough not to raise the issue with them.
On our way to our host's house, I stop off to buy 8 lites of tonic (to go with the 8 litres of Gin we have) from the Pemba equivalent of Waitrose. Only it is not Waitrose. Each till has its own security guard. You cannot leave, without having your receipt 'stamped' by a Chief Security Guard.
There is no outdoor lighting and your short jog back to the car is fraught with danger, from beggars, scammers, robbers and worse.
It is most definitely, not Waitrose.
We retire back to our host's house and break out the duty free Gin, and kick the bloody arse out of it. Two bottles down, and our host produces a really decent bottle of Single Malt (a gift from the American Embassy). That really decent bottle of Single Malt does not survive the evening.
The time comes to retire to bed. Our hosts have two 'chalets' that look out over the Ocean.
We have to be escorted to these 'chalets' because the dogs that surround the property are not pets.
"Don't leave the chalets until light. Do not wander around the grounds in the dark".
It is like a scene from "American Werewolf in London"...
"Don't stray off the path..."
Somehow, I fall asleep and mange a couple of hours before the African sun streams in through the shuttered windows.
With the dawn of a new day - new hope.
The Gin and Whisky from last night has turned a terrible situation into a bearable situation. It was fun.
Today can only get better.
I rise earlier than everyone else (I always wake before everyone else) and make full use of the W.C.
When I come to flush, nothing. The fing thing is not connected to the water. I did what any civilised Englishman would do in those circumstances. I put the lid down on the W.C. and hoped nobody would notice what was in the pan until I had left the country...
When finally, one of our host's employee's came to escort us past the Hound of the fing Baskevilles, back to the main house - we all enjoyed copious cups of coffee and a (can you believe it) bacon butties.
I was pleased to see that our hosts had complied with out requests to keep their pet monkeys locked away (Rabies) whilst we stayed over.
It was soon time to bid our generous hosts farewell, and to return to Pemba airport and catch that charter flight into camp.
Surely, things can only get better...
The sea looks beautiful. The coastline looks exquisite. The whole country looks inviting.
It is an illusion.
From this altitude, you cannot see the incredible poverty. You cannot see the failed infrastructure. You cannot see the failed government. You cannot see the corruption, and you cannot see the ongoing insurrection. There is an awful lot you cannot see from 30,000 feet.
Don't worry. You can see it all on the ground. Just don't hang around. Clear Immigration, get on your charter flight and get out of Dodge.
That was the plan.
The Airlink flight rumbled to a halt - the doors opened, and in swept the hot, stifling, African air that was to become our constant companion for the next two or three weeks.
Somehow or other, every other passenger from our flight seemed to wend their way through Immigration until it was just us four losers left.
There was a problem with our Visas.
African visas. Fing nightmare. There are two options.
1) Get yours in the UK Embassy in London before you travel. We did this last time. Tiresome, expensive, painful and not to be repeated.
2) Take the advice from your P.H. who assures you that you can 'pay on the day' at Pemba Immigration and sail on through.
There was much discussion amongst our group about which option to take. We went with Option 2. Mistake. Big fing mistake.
The Immigration IT system was down. There was nothing the Immigration Officers could do (even if they wanted to) as their IT system was down. Funny thing. Their payment processing IT was not down, so they still managed to take $50 from each of our accounts. But they could not process our actual visas.
I do not understand why - but two previous work colleagues had retired out to Mozambique (I know!) and they had arrived at Pemba to meet us and facilitate any 'communication' issues we had with the locals. It mattered not how loud they shouted at the Immigration Officers (in Portuguese) - the IT system would still not work.
At this point, our Charter Pilot appeared (as if from a scene from Mr. Benn - for those old enough to remember Mr. Benn).
"Hi guys, what's the story?"
"The fing Visa IT system is down, and we have been stood waiting for two fing hours to get the fing things sorted out".
"Well we are time critical, I cannot land in camp in the dark, and so we need to get a rattle on".
"What is the latest time we can make it?"
"If we are all walking towards the plane by 3.30 pm, it will be OK".
I looked at my watch - it was 3.50pm.
"But, it's 3.50pm now!"
"I know. I will see you all tomorrow".
"Tomorrow? What do you mean tomorrow?
It was too late, I was already talking to the pilot's back as he walked out of the airport.
The bastard.
We were stuck in Pemba overnight.
Nothing good about that sentence.
Eventually, and way too late to help, we all got out $50 visas curtesy of the Immigration IT system. The irony was not lost on me, that in the days before IT, a 'cash fee' of $50 and the liberal use of a 'rubber stamp' would have seen us all make that charter flight.
It gets better.
"We have the permits for two of your three rifles"
"Jesus Mary and Joseph! Now what!"
It turns out that they have only received paperwork for two of our group's three rifles.
Two of our party are bringing "London's finest" double 500s in. Me and my mate are sharing his .275.
They are missing the paperwork for our .275. It is a pain in the arse and we will not see this rifle again until we are on our way home.
That said.
If we had to be missing a permit, I am glad it was for the .275. Me and my mate are 'half-gunning' and in the big scheme of things, it is no drama to use the camp rifle.
Our other two Guns are using their beautiful 500s (one double 500 and one 500x450) and there is no way the camp could supply a replacement for such an iconic rifle. I am genuinely happy to 'take one of the team", in these circumstances.
So there we have it.
Stuck overnight in Pemba, (at least we now all have visas) with nowhere to go, and only two of our three rifles.
Our old colleagues come to our rescue. Dear God. What are the chances that we know someone in such a
Somehow, they load us all into their 4x4 and we drive thorough Pemba. It is a sobering ride.
The poverty and lack or infrastructure is acute.
Our Saviours take us to a local bar. It looks over the Indian Ocean, and provided one does not look back over your shoulder, towards the street, you can (with a beer in your hand) kid yourself, that all is well with the world...
After one of the largest kebabs I have ever seen (unable to get near finishing) and several beers, the visa nonsense and enforced overnight in Pemba is starting to appear funny.
Whilst we are in the bar, I notice a Chinese family come in for a meal. The Chinese are everywhere in Mozambique. What I do not notice, until we leave is their 'security'. Out the front of the bar are eight armed 'security men', some with Kalashnikovs, some with Pump-Action shotguns and some just with 'short shields' and batons. An eclectic mix. I cannot help but notice that there is no security at all on the 'water side' of the bar. Terrible tactics - but I am sober enough not to raise the issue with them.
On our way to our host's house, I stop off to buy 8 lites of tonic (to go with the 8 litres of Gin we have) from the Pemba equivalent of Waitrose. Only it is not Waitrose. Each till has its own security guard. You cannot leave, without having your receipt 'stamped' by a Chief Security Guard.
There is no outdoor lighting and your short jog back to the car is fraught with danger, from beggars, scammers, robbers and worse.
It is most definitely, not Waitrose.
We retire back to our host's house and break out the duty free Gin, and kick the bloody arse out of it. Two bottles down, and our host produces a really decent bottle of Single Malt (a gift from the American Embassy). That really decent bottle of Single Malt does not survive the evening.
The time comes to retire to bed. Our hosts have two 'chalets' that look out over the Ocean.
We have to be escorted to these 'chalets' because the dogs that surround the property are not pets.
"Don't leave the chalets until light. Do not wander around the grounds in the dark".
It is like a scene from "American Werewolf in London"...
"Don't stray off the path..."
Somehow, I fall asleep and mange a couple of hours before the African sun streams in through the shuttered windows.
With the dawn of a new day - new hope.
The Gin and Whisky from last night has turned a terrible situation into a bearable situation. It was fun.
Today can only get better.
I rise earlier than everyone else (I always wake before everyone else) and make full use of the W.C.
When I come to flush, nothing. The fing thing is not connected to the water. I did what any civilised Englishman would do in those circumstances. I put the lid down on the W.C. and hoped nobody would notice what was in the pan until I had left the country...
When finally, one of our host's employee's came to escort us past the Hound of the fing Baskevilles, back to the main house - we all enjoyed copious cups of coffee and a (can you believe it) bacon butties.
I was pleased to see that our hosts had complied with out requests to keep their pet monkeys locked away (Rabies) whilst we stayed over.
It was soon time to bid our generous hosts farewell, and to return to Pemba airport and catch that charter flight into camp.
Surely, things can only get better...
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