Leaving the park was a bit like joining
the human race again. There were peo-
ple everywhere and lots more traffic. In
Komartipoort we saw a new stadium
under construction for the 2010 World
Cup. With time available it was decided
to divert ‘a few K’s’ (we thought) to see
something Marc had often wondered
about, but never seen, passing on the
way – indeed actually sampling – mile
upon mile of sugar cane and banana
fields.
In 1986 a Russian airliner carrying the
then President of Mozambique, Samora
Moises Machel, crashed on the borders
of Mozambique, South Africa and
Swaziland. A memorial has been
erected in his memory, which is fine and laudable, but the edifice is truly vast and, bizarrely, is centred
on the wreckage of the aeroplane. The staff were helpful and knowledgeable, but a bit edgy as it was
nearly five o’clock and we were certainly the only visitors – maybe even for the whole day. It was def-
initely worth a visit, but the whole question of how appropriate it is could open forum threads that run
for months. Interestingly, Machel’s window, Graca Machel, is now Mrs. Nelson Mandela.
Back on the road, we needed a few more miles to get to Nelspruit, our intended base for a trip to the
Sudwala Caves. Strangely, although the Sat. Nav provided literally hundreds of suggestions for ac-
commodation in Nelspruit, none of them seemed terribly willing to actually provide it. One in particular
required that we negotiate a maze of roads blocked off by security gates – with guards. Once there,
the ‘lady of the house’ took us on a tour of the facilities, pointing out the advantages of the many features,
how many rooms there were and in what combinations and so on. However, in answer to the question
‘have you got two double rooms for the night’, her answer was ‘Oh no, we’ve only got one single left!’
The Sudwala caves were quite interesting and, as an old potholer myself, they seemed very old. Caves
only exist – for any length of time and in any size – in Limestone, yet this stuff looked slightly volcanic
and was certainly far, far older than any European cave I’d ever been in. I’m sure Henk would explain.
The ‘Dinosaur gardens’ we visited afterwards were not, we didn’t think, to be treated seriously.
Then it was next stop Johannesburg, except ….. After more than two thousand miles in some pretty
remote places, Marc finally misjudged our fuel situation and we found ourselves on a motorway, with
not enough diesel to get where we were going. There was – according to the GPS - but one option;
Ogies.
As I said in the blog, I try not to be unkind to anywhere we visited, but for Ogies I made an exception.
Existing for one reason only, in the centre of a huge plain on the rim of the High Veldt and surrounded
on every horizon by power stations, Ogies is a power station, a railway station, a gas station and little
else – none of it of merit. If God was going to give the world an enema, Ogies is where he’d stick the
pipe. The people were lovely, but Ogies is not. We came, we saw, we bought diesel and we did what
the shepherd tells us; we got the flock out of there.
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