The yellowed interior of the dishevelled airport arrivals terminal did nothing to improve our growing concerns. Only an hour ago we had been brimming with excited anticipation as the doors of a small jet opened on Maputo, the capital of exotic Mozambique. The airport was a stark contrast to the newly refurbished and glittering Johannesburg, our transit point from Perth, Western Australia.
I was a middle-aged woman travelling with a couple of work buddies, both 15 years my junior. We had been warned off independent travel in Africa, especially three women on our own, but our naively misguided faith in the kindness of humanity had overridden our fears. Here we were wondering if the customs officer would ever return with our passports. It was mildly comforting that he’d collected passports from all of the passengers on our flight, not just ours, but my unfamiliarity with both the Mozambiquan customs processes and the Portuguese language left me feeling edgy, to say the least.
As time wore on, passenger names were called and the room gradually emptied, until there were only us and a handful of Mozambiquan airport officials left in the pre-fab building. The stifling intimacy of the situation weighed on my mind as I imagined tales of kidnapping and corruption. Hugging my money belt to my sweaty body, I paced the room impatiently, making inane mum jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Finally, our names were called and we entered a small, stained office with peeling linoleum and frosted glass windows, prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. To our now relative delight, we were only required to hand over the official amount for a visa and our passports were unceremoniously handed back to us with not much more than a grunt and a sideways glance.
Our spirits only slightly dampened, we fought our way through self-appointed porters vying for the opportunity to carry our luggage (at a price of course) as we entered Maputo with eyes a little wider open.
We navigated our way to ‘a la hostel extraordinaire’, which is Portuguese (not really) for ‘slightly crappy but affordable hostel’. It’s how we roll. It was at this point that I realised thongs are not the best footwear for protracted walking on faulty sidewalks with a 65 litre backpack slung over your shoulders.
We spent the next four days exploring Maputo, a surprisingly interesting city. The cracked sidewalks and crumbling buildings speak of a more glorious period in its history, when the Portuguese ruled over the prosperous port city. The city is now recovering from its struggle for independence, with little left of the Portuguese wealth that built it. Some crumbling architecture remains but the once paved broad avenues are in a sad state of disrepair, rubbish litters most roadsides and traversing the paths of Maputo requires some steady footwork (and sturdy footwear).
Having said that, the people emerge friendly and positive. Their service to you is usually with a broad flashing show of perfect teeth. They pour your Savannah cider individually at your table and then replace the cap on the half poured bottle. They cook you fresh fish from the Indian Ocean or delicious grilled chicken and chips, everything with a spicy peri peri accompaniment. Yum.
Street sellers jostle to win your custom, a selection of colourful African themed batik flapping in the sea breeze. Some chip away at wooden carvings of tall extra-terrestrial like figures with bloated bellies and over-sized heads. Others follow you down the street offering to mend your recently broken thong, which is only good for the bin, desperate to offer some chargeable service and not taking no for an answer.
IN art galleries, masses of entangled figures, faces of surprise, shock, anger and determination, reflect the struggle these people have endured to gain their independence. Alongside these, vibrant abstracts throw colour at you in a carnival of visual sensations that balance out suffering with hope, to complete the Maputo story.
The night called out to our primal urges and drew us to Gil Vicente where an afro-Latin band accompanied vivacious dancers in rainbow ruffle skirts. The drinks flowed as the energy spread, the fluid rhythms washing over us and penetrating our souls…
The sunrise brought with it a few headaches. After copious amounts of water and tentative servings of toast and tea, we hit the road in our hire car, the cheapest and the smallest we could find. 480 km on the EN1 would get us to Tofo, a renowned diving spot popular with South African tourists. We were told the trip would take about 7 to 8 hours, and about 100km up the road we understood why, as we hit 90 kilometres of road that was more pot-holes than tar. Three white women in a Barina, bouncing left and right, most likely misaligning some sort of joints or cogs or shafts – we were giving the locals something to talk about.
Collections of grass huts, unfenced and scattered through the bush, housed communities of people and goats. Many sat or walked by the roadside, their daily mission unknown to us. Others hung plastic bags of peanuts from the branches of roadside trees or manned makeshift stalls selling bottled peri peri sauce. Honour boxes full of bread rolls stood next to tin shacks housing an assortment of wares from soft drinks to mobile phone credit. Any inch of road a potential business opportunity.
We arrived at the Albatroz Lodge around 6:30pm. A slightly decaying ‘resort’ with a slightly greening, leaf littered pool, the self catered cabins were clean and comfortable after the long drive. After a meal of Barracuda and a Dosh Em (Mozambiquan beer), we retired our shaken bones for the night.
During an early morning beach walk, warmed by the same sun that woke my homeland six hours before, I started to feel like I was finally on holiday. Splashing in my Indian Ocean, riding her waves westward rather than eastward, I felt a little bit of Mozambique seeping into me, forever leaving its mark.
At lunch we discovered it was “Dia Mundial Tourismo” (World Tourism Day), and Tofo was putting on a show, it seemed just for us. DJ sounds erupted from a flat bed truck as we joined with the local festivities. Dancing, boxing, marching, music, colour, we were drenched in the fervour of the day, celebrating being tourists. Perfect.
Beach days in Tofo, spent hopping from beach bar to beach restaurant, were only interrupted by beach activities. On Day 2 we embarked on an Ocean Safari, with Diversity Dive. After a quick briefing from our guide Rodriguez, we launched a massive Zodiac into a lumpy sea and headed for Tofinho Bay. After about 10 minutes we spotted our first whale shark. Rodriguez barked at us, “quickly, get in the water, stick your heads in, swim, swim.” No time to argue and after some fumbling with my snorkel, I swam with this monster of the ocean. About 4 metres long, it was an adolescent, its spotted hide flickering through the sunlit snorkel bubbles, its massive tale hinting at the damage it could cause, adding to the thrill. I found myself in front of it, face to face with its smiling jawline – I like to think we exchanged a moment.
After a few dives, the Zodiac headed for the horizon at full speed, and then all of a sudden the engines were cut. An eerie silence ensued, as we bobbed in the ocean swells. And then the first blowhole spurts, only 100 metres away from us. I was overwhelmed, emotion building inside me as a massive black shape emerged from the water, eddies of ocean parted by its magnificence. The humpback whale spun and slammed its back into the sea just as another smaller one breached even closer to us. They headed straight for us, close enough to touch as they dove under the boat to emerge on the other side. Words escaped me as tears mixed with the salt of the sea on my face.
It was our last night in Tofo and we discovered reggae night at Dino’s bar. After a few Mojito’s, we were tripping the light fantastic to the sounds of Bob Marley and associated reggae masters. There was no shortage of friendly Mozambiquan dance partners and I soon found myself jiving with a dread-locked Rastafarian.
All too soon the bar was closing, but not before we had packed the car with beer and headed back to our lodgings, with half the pub in tow.
As the night wound down, all but one of our guests went home. Mr Rasta remained for more than a while, the four of us chatting, and then yawning, but not wanting to be rude to our guest, we carried on.
“So what do you do for a living Mr Rasta” I asked.
“Oh you know, lots of things. I guess you could call me a salesman.”
“OK, what do you sell?”
“Oh you know, lots of things. What do you want to buy?”
“I don’t want to buy anything.”
“Are you sure you don’t see anything you like to buy?” he said, smiling.
The three of us looked at each other with looks so blank you could paint on them, and then it dawned on us that what Mr Rasta was selling was snugly nestled inside his pants. Stifling astonished giggles, we promptly shuffled him out the door and laughed our way to bed.
I left Tofo with a few things – a massive hangover, a knitted Rasta cap and a better understanding of the measures some Africans will take to make a buck. The drive back down the EN1 to Maputo was a struggle to say the least, and the potholes didn’t help. But I welcomed the time to reflect on our Mozambiquan adventure. I learnt that travel, like life, is a jumble of experiences, rich in its variety and enhanced by extremes. Many might choose a 5 Star experience full of polished surfaces and contrived itineraries. It’s safe and sanitary. But for me, I like to immerse my soul in the unknown. To me, fate is the travellers friend, chance encounters the ingredients of a rich and unique life adventure that forever leaves a mark on the soul.
