Driving 'The Beast' through Africa
Borders
by Isabelle Demaeght, November 25th, 2025
We have already ‘done’ quite a few border crossings and have now developed a routine. We start with an empty bladder and a full stomach. We then leave the country administratively, first the passports, then The Beast. Then we exchange our cash with one of the many pushy hustlers who often also offer themselves as fixers (people who ‘help’ foreigners with the local bureaucracy). After a round of negotiations and making sure that no one makes a few bills magically disappear, we are ready for the next country.
This starts with stamping passports, usually after handing over a handful of dollars (or the money we just exchanged) for an (e-)visa. Then we temporarily import The Beast (more dollars for road tax, tolls, administrative costs, etc.). If possible without being ripped off, we buy liability insurance. It usually takes two hours, with peaks of six hours. Finally, we buy two new SIM cards, to avoid FOMO.
In the coming period, we will be traveling through a number of countries so that we arrive in Mombasa on time (for the boat to Oman). We want to try to drive home: via Oman through Saudi Arabia and Iraq (Syria and Iran are less favorable options) to Turkey. From there to Greece and... then we're practically home, right?
In South Africa, we buy all kinds of food. As a result, we arrive at our sleeping place in Mozambique later than planned, also because purchasing a SIM card in the first chaotic city took more time than we thought.
We drive towards the coast. Ian had already predicted it: this is the pearl of Mozambique. The first places we find look trendy, even though we are here alone – the trendy crowd mainly comes during the high season (the summer holidays in December). The ocean stretches out before us, wild and untamed. There are no tourists on the beach, only fishermen toiling in the bright morning light. A group of 10 men and women very slowly pull a net out of the sea. Their movements are rhythmic, but the work is hard, the net unyielding. We help them for an hour and afterwards find it hard to imagine that this is their daily life.
To our surprise, the biggest catches are not BBQ-sized fish or valuable shellfish, but huge, slippery jellyfish, which they resolutely throw aside after removing the small fish from their tentacles. It's unbelievable that this group of fishermen has to make do with such a small haul: they barely collect five crates of small sardines and some bycatch. And that's after hours of pulling on miles of ropes. After seeing the jellyfish, I decide to skip swimming in the sea today. Adriaan is not deterred.
We stay at two other places on the Indian Ocean. Our last coastal stop is Inhassoro, where we find an idyllic spot on a vast white beach, soft as powder, framed by swaying palm trees. Here, too, there are no other tourists, only the fishermen on the beach and those scouting the horizon in their (sailing) boats. We decide to stay a second night. We take a long walk on the beach, hoping to buy some fish (from one of the fishermen). While we are on our way, a tropical downpour breaks out, which lasts all day. Soaking wet but smiling, we receive two BBQ fish from a friendly fishmonger and make a meal that tastes like the sea itself.
This is followed by long days traveling through the interior. The roads are sometimes almost impassable, worn out by neglect, heavy traffic, and rain, full of deep potholes that make every kilometer an adventure. The landscape looks poor; the houses are simple, the rubbish along the road shows another reality of life here. There are no supermarkets, only a few shops here and there that resemble them, invariably run by someone from China. People wave, smile, but also ask for help – for food or money. Among the monotonous fields, mango or baobab trees sometimes appear, small patches of green that brighten up the monotonous landscape.
At the border with Zimbabwe, we see a huge line of trucks, ten kilometers long. Drivers wait here for four to five days, their patience a silent strength. We drive past them all, go through our border routine, and set course for our first destination in Zimbabwe.
La Rochelle is a place steeped in history and charm. It is a country house built by the British aristocratic (and philanthropic) couple Sir and Lady Courtauld. The lady of the house loved to entertain guests. To do so, you need a few things: a dining room and terrace, a lounge, a whiskey collection in a separate bar, a library, and, of course, a few kitchens with lots of staff. Everywhere you look, there is attention to detail and tropical wood furniture that gives the whole place extra character. We see scenes from “Out of Africa” come to life here. The very wealthy husband enjoyed his beautiful orchid nursery and lush botanical garden, which is home to some 300 tree species from all over the world. It's funny how this suddenly makes us feel like we're back in Brazil or Mexico.
After the Courtaulds passed away, the entire estate was donated to the government, which (finally!) found the funds to turn it into a hotel-restaurant with a spa. We enjoy a four-course menu on the terrace and imagine that time has stood still. Life around 1960 must have been pleasant here.
We follow the picturesque route to the capital Harare, although the first few dozen kilometers are dominated by gold mines and the inevitable prospectors who swarm around them. The earth is churned up everywhere. Men wander around among the yellow-gray clouds of dust and blue tarpaulins, visibly exhausted, a shovel carelessly slung over their shoulders but with hard stares—suspicious of everything and everyone. n iedereen.
In a capital city, we usually look for an apartment or studio, but this time we follow Cheryl's advice. We set up our tent at Casa Rocha in Harare, a place that the very energetic 70-plus-year-old Robin renovated for his daughter Theresa and her British husband Arthur. It looks well cared for. Today it is particularly lively: Theresa, who is about to give birth, is surrounded by her entire clan. A sister from New Zealand, a brother from the United Kingdom, mother and stepmother – a warm but slightly chaotic family portrait.
While our laundry is being done, we pay a pleasant visit to Cheryl's elderly parents, who live in a retirement village and are happy to have our company.
Then we begin our journey through Zimbabwe. Just before the next border crossing on the Zambezi, we find accommodation: a lodge with a camping spot, complete with a night watchman who has to keep the hippos and elephants away if they come too close to our car at night. We do indeed see elephants and grazing hippos (but are not bothered). Adriaan watches the Formula 1 race in the lodge's restaurant and ends up—of course—in a heated discussion with a MAGA Texan (Trump grabbed them by the pussy, but Clinton did it in the White House!).
Then we cross another border, this time into Zambia. It's the same chaotic procedure as always, but everything goes smoothly in the end. The rainy season has now really begun. Along the road to the capital Lusaka in the north, workers under Chinese supervision are working on the new route. The road turns into a ribbon of stationary rows: traffic jam after traffic jam.
We spend the night about fifty kilometers from Lusaka, so we can start the next stage early. After a turn to the northeast, the road turns into Swiss cheese; we lose count of the serious accidents and uncleared wrecks. Ten crashes in a hundred kilometers? Maybe more. We cover 350 kilometers in nine hours.
Three hours' drive from the Tanzanian border, we treat ourselves to a day of rest in Mutambe Akasuba: a villa converted into a lodge with a restaurant, walking trails, and a series of natural hot springs, each with a different temperature. The spot where our tent is pitched offers a beautiful view over the 800 tropical hectares that belong to the estate.
Elections were recently held in Tanzania. The opposition has been thrown in jail and the result of 97% (for the incumbent president) is not accepted. The police and army brutally crushed the uprising. Belgium (and the Netherlands) have issued a negative travel advisory: do not go there. But for us, it is the only way to get to Kenya. (The alternative route goes through Congo-Rwanda-Uganda, where a rebel army rules.) With ‘only’ a thousand kilometers to go, we think: it'll be fine. At the border, we book a place to sleep in Mbeya, in the garden of a retired Brit. Piece of cake, right?
Before that first Saturday is over, we realize how optimistic that sounded. Three hours of heavy truck traffic for the 90 kilometers to Mbeya... Another 900 kilometers to go—by then, we're almost at the end of our rope.
Sunday should be quieter on the road. We think. We hope. But the reality is less charming: hills, heavy trucks crawling up at a snail's pace, and convoys that we hopelessly get stuck behind. Overtaking is a small adrenaline rush in itself. Because we drive on the left, I (as the passenger sitting on the right) lean forward every time, hanging over the center line to see if The Beast can make it. We are pulled over three times by the police (once for speeding, twice for overtaking where it was not allowed – all three times Adriaan manages to talk his way out of it). The many army barricades let us through without stopping. The journey now feels more like an obstacle course than a passage.
On Sunday, we cover 300 kilometers in almost 9 hours and arrive at “The Old Farmhouse,” owned by a British woman. A sign saying “Closed” in both English and Swahili hangs on the gate. It is not really closed, and luckily we are able to get in just before sunset. The atmosphere is tense. She is convinced that there will be more unrest and is ‘closed’ because she hopes that this way, any riots will pass by her gate. Her advice is clear: make sure you leave here in time. Not exactly what you want to hear when you know you are not even halfway across the country.
We push on and work long days (fortunately, the roads are a little easier) and finally reach the area around Kilimanjaro. Along the way, we see the local population: Maasai herding their flocks of goats or cows. Via iOverlander, we find a place to stay with a Westernized member of that tribe. It's certainly not a lodge, as he himself thinks, but it's a nice place to spend an evening and learn more about their culture. (“Yes, but how do you preserve the traditions of your ancestors?” we were asked after talking about life in the bush versus life in the Western world. “The hunter-gatherer era is so far behind us that Europeans no longer know those traditions.” Our conversation partner was shocked by this—for him, there is always traditional life to fall back on.)
Our next destination is a lodge at the foot of Kilimanjaro, but unfortunately the mountain remains shrouded in rain clouds. We finally allow ourselves a short break, because we are now only a two-hour drive from the Kenyan border. We would have liked to explore Tanzania a little longer... but circumstances dictate otherwise.
The border crossing into Kenya goes surprisingly smoothly (one hour) and by evening we roll into Nairobi, where we are allowed to stay with Nathalie and Gregg. (As a nurse, I cared for Nathalie's father in Hasselt.) Nathalie organizes trips and safaris in Africa that are planned down to the last detail. Their house is an oasis of calm after the past few days. We arrange insurance for The Beast, give the car a thorough cleaning, eat a delicious meal, and then let Nathalie and Gregg spoil us once again.
Adriaan not only hears every little sound The Beast makes, but now he thinks he smells (gearbox) oil after long drives. Long story short: on Saturday, a quick engine oil change (before we were to continue our journey) turns into tinkering with a leaking rear wheel bearing—the right rear brake is full of oil from the wheel axle. We have to stay on Sunday so that the problem can be solved on Monday. The neighborhood where we are staying is called “Karen.” Yes, after Karen Blixen-Dinesen, the Danish author (known for “Out of Africa”), who lived right here (before it became a suburb of a metropolis). The neighborhood is populated by wealthy Kenyans; we visit a mall with a Carrefour and a Decathlon. For a moment, it feels like we're back in Western Europe, a strange contrast after the chaos of the past few days.
We still have a few weeks in Kenya before The Beast is packed into a container. That will not be a routine border crossing...
See more photos and the route taken.