Clowns, children and Cambodia

I think he’d napped for longer than intended, this tall sinewy man who’d greeted us with a warm smile. I’d spent the last hour cowering from the blazing sun under my sarong, watching the water seep through the weathered timber boards. I couldn’t sleep like the locals because I was transfixed by the water slowly rising in the hull.

Our captain fumbled quickly for the plastic bottle, sawn in half and fashioned into a scoop. He crouched low, straddling the river that now ran through the bottom of the dhow. Slowly he scooped at the water and tossed it back to where it came from.

How did I end up here, in the Quirimbas Archipelago, on an old sailing dhow constructed of abandoned building materials and a bed sheet for a sail?

I blame three words; untravelled; adventure; and remote. The selling points, of an otherwise vague description of Northern Mozambique, in a dog-eared guide book.

The sun was high in the sky but when I started this journey the sky was as black as our captain’s leathery skin. When I’d hoisted my backpack onto the back of the chapa, I hadn’t been prepared for what was to come.

We were like battery hens in the back of the truck, women clucking over small children, placing them under their wings for the long drive. When I thought it impossible to fit anymore cargo, the truck would stop again. More locals would clamber on board and another hessian bag would be haphazardly loaded on top.

For six agonising hours we crawled in and out of potholes the size of our vehicle. All the time my legs and feet were wedged under heavy bags of rice or scrawny bums. Like a contortionist struggling out of a tight space, I would occasionally try and manoeuvre the top half of my body, only to be rewarded with shooting pins and needles up my legs. Needless to say it was a relief when I spotted the sailing dhows that would take us across to the island.

The water in the bottom of the hull now resembled more a creek than a river. Our captain moved to the sail, manoeuvering the boom, made from a skinny tree trunk. The dhow obediently shifted course.

The locals began to stir, rubbing their eyes before glancing out towards the horizon. I turned in the direction and immediately wanted to laugh out loud for the first time since starting the trip. I’d been so transfixed on the seaworthiness of our boat, I hadn’t spotted the green splodge ringed with golden sand, now growing bigger before my eyes.

The island paradise I had endured for.