Ilha de Mocambique

Another night in a crappy hotel in Nampula. I heard Jon yelled out that it was 5am. Big deal, i thought, i need to sleep, you can go by yourself. Eventally i came to and we made our way to the station.

In the last couple of days we had seen another western woman traveler, passing through hotels and in bus stations. We were yet to speak to her, but when she saw us at the station that morning she came running over and asked if we spoke English. She was German, she spoke Portuguese, and had a map, but no guide book and was having difficulty navigating this part of the world. She was very stressed. She come from the South like us, and this part of the world had very little tourist infrastructure - or frankly tourist appeal. I wondered if id be in the same state if id tried to do this stretch alone. She was heading out to the Island as well - Ilha De Mozambique, a few hours away.

We took the German and pilled into a chappa for a couple of hours, then changed to a ute to cross the blowy causeway that connected the island with the mainland. It was midday and warm as we drove slowly down the old thin streets.

But after looking at one not very nice guesthouse, a nice guesthouse found us. Walking down the street an Italian, Gabriel, pulled up in his ute and asked if we were looking for rooms. He had some avalible at his place not far from here. We jumped in the back, i figured that a European would have a European toilet, and was already pretty sold on staying there.

Like all Portuguese style villas, facing the street was a simple concrete wall. But the second we stepped inside, i was stunned. It was beautiful. There was no way i could afford to stay here, but i was going to pretend just so i could look around.

The first room, behind the wall was a sitting area/foyer, a cement courtyard with an enormous coconut tree in the center. The room was painted terracotta red, orange and the doors green, just like all the bright old fishing boats used on the island. Through the opening was the lounge. Old clocks and African ordainments decorated the room, the center piece a wooden dugout canoe hanging from the ceiling, filled with cushions, to be used as a lounge.

We saw all the rooms and they were amazing. Everyone different and beautifully designed. The twin room had two double beds, the second was in a loft in the room, which i claimed immediately - it was more privacy that i had seen in months! It had its own bathroom, clean, with a flushing western toilet, and soap!! I was sold. Done. Whatever.

To our surprise (and slight annoyance) the room was a lot cheaper than the piece of dirt we had stayed in the night before on the mainland. We gladly accepted. I was stoked. I couldn't wait to use the toilet! The German went in search of some other options and we checked out the roof top terrace. "Would you like a coffee?" asked Gabriel. I nearly fainted.

Gabriel had lived on the Island for 6 years. He was an architect who had found enough work to stay in Mozambique, and had brought a derelict ruin her on the Island, which had the oldest buildings in Mozambique. After deciding the place would be too big for himself, he built an amazing guest house. He lived there with his child, Giovanni, a gorgeous little tuff of fluffy African hair, that only spoke Italian, and his partner. We talked over breakfast for about an hour. It was fascinating to hear about life in Mozambique from an expat. Surprisingly, they are a greater source on the culture of the country than a local. They have something to compare it to. I suppose it supports the argument that you cant really know your own country, unless you know another one.

We spent the afternoon strolling through the streets of the Island. Ilha de Mozambique was the capital of the Portuguese East Africa Colony. Kapuscinski, author of Shadow of the Sun, wrote that the colonial powers often situated most of their administration on the islands off Africa. Previous to these powers intervening, most of the islands surrounding the mainland were empty. With no fresh water, there was little reason for traditional people to live there, but for the Europeans, the islands off Africa provided a defense against the unknown interior of the continent, the "heart of darkness". Ilha de Mozambique (Mozambique Island) was established in the 15th century for that reason and to satisfy trade interests, and later to oversee the huge agricultural estates of the Mozambican interior.

The old building of the Island formed narrow corridors, some of them dark, old trees overshadowing the sunlight, others bathed in light, the crystal ocean appearing suddenly at their completion. Old abandoned former courtyards decorated with children playing, screaming, "photo! photo!". Tourists were much more common on the island than in the towns on the mainland, and everyone was much less shocked by our appearance than usual, but very welcoming.

Some of the older children spoke very good English. We met Jamal, a 15 year old on the street while his friends tried to sell us beads. He was very intelligent, his language skills allowed us to have a conversation with his, about the Island, his schooling, his life, his ambitions (he wanted to be an engineer). We found him really lovely and very interesting to talk to, and late afternoon he took us to the fort, at the end of the Island.

The fort had been built to protect the Portuguese to from attacks from the Dutch and British who had begun to take an interest in the area. Some sections of the fort dated back to 1522, could possibly be some of the oldest building still intact in the Southern Hemisphere. Our tour guide began by apologizing for his little English, but when on to conduct the tour perfectly. Jon walked along listening intently. I walked behind with Jamal. The history, age, and use of every building was interesting, for sure, but more fascinating i found was Jamal's story about how the forth had been use in resent times. Two years ago there had been a massive three day festival at the fort. DJ's from South Africa and the US performed from the former hanging stage in the center of the fort, the dance floor stretched around it. People slept along the lookouts where we were standing, various rooms were used as restaurants, different local food in different rooms. The old church in the center was used as a performance arena for Capoeira performers from Brazil. It sounded so cool, both Jamal and i were excited for it to happen again.

The next morning Gabriel joined us again for breakfast. "By now, everyone on the Island knows you are staying here" he said. "If you were to stay for longer, maybe a week, they would no longer ask you anything. Every person would know who you are and where you come from and why you where here. The Island is very small" he chuckled.

Across the road from Gabriel’s house was an amazing Mosque. In daylight it was beautiful, but at 4am it was very loud, designed to wake the whole island, calling them to prayer. The Island was tiny, 1.6 km long and 600 meters wide, but we were only across the narrow road from the very loud speakers. After this, Jon got up to watch the sunrise, the colors of the sky made a beautiful backdrop for the old white washed church on the beach, but there were quite a few silhouettes he hadn't expected. As the island slowly rose from their slumber, most of them had some morning business to attend to, and did so on the beach. We had planned to spend the day swimming; Beautiful warm Indian Ocean, an ancient island of the coast of Mozambique, views of colony mansions and grass huts - and a beach full of human feces...

Instead we walked around the markets, and had lunch on top of the roof, looking out over the markets and sea full of fishing boats. Every now and again, and child on the street would spy us sitting up there, and would squeal and yell with delight when we waved back at them. In the afternoon we found some guy, who promised he would tell some other guy to come and pick us up from our hotel and take us to the mainland in the morning.

We thanked Gabriel that night for his wonderful hospitality and for letting us stay in his beautiful home. "One question" said Jon "Why do people shit on the beach?" Gabriel laughed in a knowing way, and in his Italian accent you could taste his sarcasm "They will tell you it is the culture" he said smiling dryly "culture". "No its not culture. Out the front here there is a set of public toilets, not 20 meters away from where there going, there toilets right?" asked Jon. "Oh yes, they are toilets" said Gabriel "I built them" he laughs. "But if you can imagine having done this since you were a child, having no quams or need for privacy, a large expansive beach is a much nicer place to shit than a confined smelly toilet". In travel magazine in South Africa, Mozambique is flaunted as the next big thing in tourism. I wondered what all the resort loving, big buck spending, glossy magazine reading tourists these articles were calling would think of that.....

Despite not swiming, Ilha de Mocambique was one of the most amazing places i visited on my trip so far. I considering offereing my services to Gabriel as a governess for Giovanni, but my Italian wasn't going to cut it. After i couldn't figure out a good reason to stay for a few months, I settled for promising myself i would come back, and hoping that Gabriel would still have is nice house and western toliets waiting for me when I got there.

A dummies guide to Mozambican transport

It would take us four days of traveling north to get to Pemba in Northern Mozambique. The road less traveled, backpackers and holiday makers mostly clung to the facilities of Southern Mozambique, and while we had heard that the beaches were more spectacular in the north, we hadn't met many traveler's keen to suffer the long, hot and uncomfortable journey through Mozambique's central region, once dubbed as "hell" by the missionaries. It was Dave, from Bunalunga in South Africa who had first injected the idea of traveling the whole country into my head, and as it played on my mind, I convinced Jon with the rewards of adventure and the "real backpacking" we had avoided so easily among the established tourist infrastructure of South Africa.

At 3am Jon and i crawled through our dorm and said goodbye to Joel as he slept. We were at the bus half an hour early, at 4am, and already a massive amount of luggage had accumulated next to the trailer. Having done a few African bus trips, i was beginning to see how these things worked, but that didn't mean i understood them. Today we would travel from Vilankoulous, a small costal holiday town, with no rural agriculture, to Mozambique's second largest city. As they struggled to fit all the luggage in the trailer i wanted to ask some of the women, "We are traveling on a very small bus, do you think we could sort out the 50kgs of rice when we get there?" But i kept my mouth shut.

After much Portuguese conversation and input from passengers, the trailer was taken off the bus. Some passengers got off. They began to push start the bus. I sat on the dusty sidewalk with a group of old women. Sleep deprived and confused all i could do was laugh. At first they were shocked that i made a noise, but then they laughed too, looking and pointing and laughing with me. They spoke in Portuguese, made gestures that suggested that these guys had no idea what they were doing, and i nodded and laughed back. It didn't matter than we could talk in the same language, we all knew what we were on about!

The bus finally left at 6:30, two hours late, and many push start attempts later. I immediately fell asleep, only to wake up again everything the bus stopped. Then we went throughout the same routine; unload the trailer, push the bus, start the bus, run back and get the trailer. Eventually the bus stopped, wouldn't start again and we all just sat in the bus for an hour or longer.

But because this is Africa, something always happens, and sure enough a tractor soon wandered down the road behind us, to lead a tow. The bus trip was meant to be 10 hours long, but at this point i had to relax and had to accept that i could have no expectations of when we would eventually get there. I tired to ignore the cramped conditions, and focus on my book. I could hear the chickens, but i couldn't see them yet. Im kept checking it was in fact a pineapple my feet were resting on.

We paused in every town along the way, giving the boys and women along the road time to sell us oranges, bananas, cashews, softdrinks and phone cards. The great majority of sellers seemed to want to hang around at our windows. I wasn't sure if they were there because they thought we had lots of money, or just because they wanted to look. Whenever we walked down the street Jon would point out how people looked at us. They see your face and stare, then there eyes look down at all of you and back up. It didn't bother me, when it comes down to it, i was only here to look at them too.

The road got worse towards the middle of the day. Dust bellowed through every crack of the bus. All the windows were open, a feeble attempt to clear it, it may have made it worse, but the heat would have been to stiflingly to close them anyway. The dust was accumulating at such a rate that i couldn't finish a page of my book without wiping the brown dirt from the pages. Jon woke up, his white t-shirt now brown, laughing at the dust that bellowed from his jeans when he slapped them. Dust covered his face, beard and sunglasses. He took them off and inspected them, laughing with surprise. "Sorry" i said. "We tried to bury you alive whilst you slept" i reasoned.
"Yeah, no shit" he laughed.

That night in a cheap motel in Beria. I scrubbed my skin furiously, trying to release the dust and sweat caked over my body. My ears and nose were full of dust. When i stepped out of the shower, i was a completely different colour. I went to bed at 9 pm, and realized that it was probably the first day in about 7 years that i hadn't had a single cup of coffee. I fell asleep almost immediately.

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When the alarm went off at 5am, my first thoughts were again of coffee, and most distressingly, the reality that it would probably be late evening before i came across any. We caught a taxi to the bus station and our driver was amazing. We had no idea when the direct bus to Quailamane left, but as it turned out, we had missed it. He was armed with options, took us to another bus station and found a bus that would take half way, to the Zambezi river, where we should be able to find another bus once we crossed it.

I asked the guy filling the bus about coffee. "Cafe?" I asked, id learnt the important words in Portuguese, he didn't speak much English. But he laughed, and told me it was too early!!!! Too early for coffee?? Now I was confused. Major culture shock. I wasn't sure how a Melbournite was meant to deal with a country which could declare a time to early for coffee!

When we asked how much for the bus they said 200, but after they had a few moments to think about it, they decided the price was 700. We'd been ripped off on buses before, but at least they had done it subtlety . These guys were just being obvious. No, we said, argued and eventually one of the guys got on our side, said it wasn't fair, and told us 150.

The conductor started to collect fares when we neared the river. The price shot up again to 350. I was so mad. In Aussie dollars it was nothing, but i didn't appreciate being deceived. He had our 200 each in his hand and wanted more. I snatched the money off the non English speaking conductor, sat back in my seat and threatened to pay him nothing. He was furious, he climbed back into the front seat. He was a big guy. I began to think it hadn't been a good idea to make him that mad. "We will have to pay 350" i said to Jon quietly. He nodded.
"There gonna give us a hard time now" he said. I reached into my bag, and made sure i had the correct change to throw at him before he broke my knee caps.

Soon after we drove past a bus on the side of the road. Our bus pulled over and our conductor ran over to it. As expected, an English speaking guy soon appeared. We told him what had happened.
"Yeah, i don't know" said the guy "Maybe these guys are trying to cheat you, but i cant help you and they want there money". We understood, but he negotiate it to 300 for us, which felt like a small victory.

Later we both agreed that we forth over nothing, but we weren't going to be Neff tourist who blindly pay more for everything, we weren't idiots.

We got to the Zambezi River crossing around 3 pm. I was still annoyed and fuming from the bus. I didn't want to talk to anyone. One guy tried to help us, in the usual over helpful Mozambiqan fashion. "Yes, the ferry" he explained "It is across the water at this moment, but once full it shall return, you can get on it and it will take you to the other side." I raised an eyebrow,
"As is the nature of all ferries I suppose" I said sarcastically. Jon laughed. I instantly felt bad for my unnecessary snap and thanked the guy. We found a cool spot to wait in the shade.

Across the river we found a chappa going to Queilamane, but it wouldn't leave yet. We loaded our bags and hung out among the fisherman and shop owners. I lay back and read my book, watching all the commotion as people, animals are cargo passed across the river, sometimes by ferry, other times by the less stable traditional dugout cannons. A group of guys surrounded Jon, listening to his MP3 player and taking photos of each other with his camera. At first we saw this as a delay, but as the sunset over the Zambezi river, we watched with our new friends, and we were pretty glad for our delay.

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The next day we had planned a break from travel, and spent the day in Queilamane. We got to sleep in, and had breakfast in a cafe around the corner. At the markets we found a chappa to Zalala beach, which was actually just a ute. A first with only a few people in the back, the truck speed off at a ridiculous speed, and i closed my eyes and held on for dear life. Eventually, the fuller the ute got, the slower the driver went. Within about 20 minutes were were packed in. In Africa they tell you that "The bus is never full, there is always room for another person and their chicken". Fair enough, but i did wonder if there was really room for 2 more people, a bag of rice, a kid and a bicycle, but somehow they managed to fit and prove me wrong.

The ride was a lot of fun. Everyone on the chappa seemed really happy to have Jon and myself along. They shook our hands and spoke to us in Portuguese, and even though we had no idea what they were saying, all the atmosphere of a good time was in the air. The road left the city and traveled though little towns made of grass huts and fields of palm trees. When they dropped us at the beach, they drove us onto the sand, and cheered us goodbye as they drove off into the distance.

The beach wasn't nearly as nice as the beaches we had seen in the South. The sand was black with silver bits through it. There are lots of smelly factories in Africa, I wondered if it was pollution. I went swimming first and reported back to Jon that the water was "murky and funny tasting". He laughed and didn't bother testing it out for himself.

Back in Queilamane we went to the markets. That morning i had noticed the faint toilet smell that lingered around the markets, but when i stepped inside the stalls, i was overcome with it.
"Oh god, it really stinks in here" I said to Jon.
"Smells like toilet hey?" he said. Running thorough the markets were drains of thick brown slime. We came to the realization at the same time.
"Oh god, i think it really is shit" i said.
"Are we really going to buy bread here?" asked Jon.
"No were leaving" I made my way out of the markets.

Quelimane was not a rural town. It had apartment blocks, electricity, running water and too many mobile phone towers. In my mind there was no excuse for an open sewer to be running through a market selling vegetables, meat and fish. I was really disgusted, annoyed and perplexed.

The next morning i stood outside at 4am waiting at the bus stop. I chatted with a well spoken English teacher. "Do you mind if i smoke?" he asked. Sure, i though, people shit in your streets, why could i care about a little smoke? The smell is probably an improvement....

Meanwhile, on the coast of Africa...

If you can imagine your life as scenes of a movie, then Mozambique is the "meanwhile" scene. The main plot of the tale is set somewhere else, but then it cuts to a "Meanwhile, somewhere on the coast of Africa, Courtney enjoys a cold beer under a coconut tree". Life goes on here, time passes, but the story is elsewhere.

I'd been straining my bladder for the last few hours on the bus, after i visted the worst toilet of my whole entire life earlier that morning as we passed through Xai Xai. It was flooded, it didn't have a light, which meant it was almost pitch black, no basin and no flush. I hovered over the toilet bowel, holding my trousers off the wet ground, the door closed, and my breath. From the smell, I was glad i couldn't see anything.

Despite my full bladder, and bumpy road, i could still appresciate the amazing scenes out my window as we drove into Tofo, a small surf town famous among backpackers. Palm trees are planted on the sidewalks of some cities to make them look like paradise; St Kilda, the Gold Coast, Miami. We looked out over entire fields of palm trees. I figured this must be where paradise comes from.

Our hostel was beautiful, our dorm room was simply a gazebo with a reed curtain behind each bed. I woke the first night to a stong wind rushing over my body, and i thought i must have fallen asleep outside. "Mozquitos" was my first though. Every backpacker i had met who had caught malaria, caught it here. Someone walked past the reed curtain with a torch and the strips of light filtered through and lit up my moziqito net like a spiderweb. I relaxed, but it still took me a few minutes to remember where i was.

The next morning Joel made Jon and myself pancakes with spiced caramalised pineapple and custard for breakfast.

I had planned to take some more surf lessons, but the surf instructor had been in bed sick for days. I wasn't too disappointed, the fantastic beach i had seen yesterday evening beckoned. The Indian Ocean is warm, like nothing i had ever swum in. The ferocious waves left behind exhilarating sea foam which tingled on your skin. A few years back i went swimming with my grandfather in the ocean in Tasmania. He hadn't been in the sea in years and yelped and jumped around excited and refreshed by the waves and the salt. The water felt so light and warm, and so different, yet the waves so powerful, i was doing the same.

The next day myself, Jon and Amy, an American from our hostel, set off to explore Maxixne, a nearby town. From Immabane, you had to catch a ferry across the channel, or as we had hoped to do, find a local to take us across in a traditional dohw boat, a small boat powered by a large triangle sail.

"Ah hello people, are you going to Maxine?" greeted a young man leaping down the road towards us. "My name is Captain Bob, I am master of the Dohw, and i will take you across the water." At first Bob wanted 300 to take us across the water, but we had been told not to pay more than 20 each. We talked him down to 100, one way, for all three of us, which appeared to slice it really fine for Bob.

The dhow was beautiful and relaxed, it felt like the boat simply drifted slowly acrossd the water with the current, the wind doing nothing for the big sail. Other boats drifting by were so elegant, we all had our cameras out, and in overdrive.

The night before had been a big one, and after a few hours at the markets, we headed back to the wharf. Bob was waiting for us on the shore, but we had decided to take the ferry back as it was cheaper. There was no negotiation necessary. "No, 20, 20, 20" said Bob, without hesitation as we explained.
"Your a comedian aren't you Bob?" said Jon frustrated at how readily Bob would admit his inflated price on the way over.
"Yes, yes, yes" said Bob. "20, 20, 20."

We trugged back to the bus station at Immabane, and a chappa (minbus) was about to leave any minute, but was extremly full. Between Immabane and Tofo there is barely any traffic (except of course for small children crossing the road), and the drivers take the windy turns as if they were on a rally track. I didn't fancy standing up for that, but it was quite possible that this was the last bus for the afternoon, and i really fancied getting home and lying down.

There were 33 passangers on our bus (a normal sized van), and later on when we hit some bumps and heavy turns, two chickens made an appearance on the shelf next to my head. I was petrified that would get out of the shoe box they were enclosed in, but in a high speed minibus with 33 people Jon was already laughing and wishing for the senario that was playing out in his head.

All three of us were packed tightly against a the slidding door of the van. Jon and i were suspended, out bodies to tall to stand up right, across the bus, holding on to the other side. Underneath us, three children, one sucking a very large breast, and there mother. Amy was on one foot, her balance dependant on her bum resting against the door. Of course every time there was a potential stop, the driver would swing it open early in anticipation, and we risked losing the girl out the door of a moving bus.

Eventually the bus cleared, Amy sat in the front, and a passengers gave up there seat for Jon and I as he saw we had stood up the whole time. Genuine Mozambican manners..

We took our seat at the back of the bus. A few drops of water dripped on to our knees from above. I moved over and a long run of it splattered over Jon's trousers. "What is this!" yelled Jon at the bus conductor.
"Ah ..... water" he said thinking of the English term.
"No - oh!" agrued Jon, choking on the smell. The African women near us moved away and looked at him with distaste.
"Yes ... um ... chicken water " said the guy smiling and pointing at the shelf above our head. Jon was furious, but in an instant enormous laugh escaped him, despite his attempt to stifle it. Looking out to the sun sprinkled palm trees and grass huts, Jon shook his head "I cant believe i just got peed on by a chicken."

After a few days we reluctantly tore ourseleves away from Tofo. The other backpackers we had met there were such fun, a really good crew. The place was beautiful. We could have stayed for weeks if we weren't so intregued by the northern areas of the country. Our next stop was Vilankolous, famous for the snokelling, fishing and nearby Bazaruto Archipelago.

There we meet two American girls who were interested in doing a trip out to one of the islands, and they were happy to investigate the companies for us and use our numbers as barganing power. Later that night when we caught up with them they had sorted out a trip complete with lunch and snorkelling.

When we meet at the dohw the next morning the guy running the trip asked us not to mention the price we paid to the other group joining us. My first though was that it could as easily be the case that we had been given the imflated deal, but when the other group walked it, you could tell by the look of them that wasn't what happened.

Straight out of the nescafe ads, this Canadian family was the happiness and sweetest bunch out. With the goofy father, the romantic mother who kept holding her two twenty year old daughters hands, and even the eldest's boyfriend along for the ride, they were really something cringe worthy. But i didn't let them make me too sick, it seemed as if they had proberbly covered most of the cost of our trip!

The dhow across to the islands had the added luxury of crystal clear waters and hot sun. The island itself was amazing. Something straight off a postcard, which seemed quite usual for Mozambique so far. We got to the Island and headed off to snorkel, while the crew prepared our lunch on the braai they had built into the little sail ship.

I was really taken aback by how much i enjoyed the snorkeling. When i first put my head under the water, i immediately spotted a fish and panicked. Im not sure what i had expected, Vilankoulous being a world class diving spot and all, but i was really only thinking some nice coral and some seaweed. I calmed down, fish are my friends, and unlikely given there size to eat me, and got right into it.

The masses and variety of fish was amazing. Like swimming through a giant version of the fish tanks in pet shops. Those bright yellow and black stripped fish, the size of your hand (i cant get technical with names). Some of the prettiest fish were made up of electric blues, violent purple and highlight yellow. Huge fish. Big grey ones floated at the bottom of the water. Schools of inquisitive fish swam past, staring you in the eyes, and then tickling you as they slide past your body.

The current and flippers made the swim so relaxing and easy, it just felt like you could float along and enjoy the show. The soundtrack was a little "Monsters from the deep" but if you panicked it only got worse, your breathing though the snorkel your only sound.

Lunch was served, yet another of to many fanastic seafood meals so far, we pigged out so much we all fell asleep in the sand.

Joel hadn't come to the island with us, but had good news when we got back. He had been given a job as a bartender at our hostel, and would be staying for a few months. Jon and i were distraught to lose our wonderful chef, and our calming voice when African transport had been to rough for our explosive personalities to bear, but we said our goodbyes and packed for our long journey north.