NORTHERN MOZAMBIQUE - PART 4

Felix insisted on accompanying us to Villa Moringa, it was after all, the inaugural transfer of his transportation business. The driver, a slim man in a prayer hat, crossed the long bridge back to the mainland with ease – as we peered out the back window, watching Ilha de Moçambique disappear into the distance. Felix said very little. The driver said less. I presumed they were both anxious about the journey going off without a hitch. In all honesty I was too. Luckily it did.

As we turned off the main road we passed by the village of Lumbo. Murals of brightly coloured sea life were painted on the walls of the community buildings. Local people and small goats clustered together under the shade of trees, watching intently as we drove by. To our right ran a cliff edge, and below, the aquamarine Indian Ocean. We were on a peninsula, and drove on until we reached its furthest point, and Villa Moringa. Suzanne, who I had spoken with a few times before our stay, came running out to greet us. It was an incredible setting, surrounded by lush green mangroves, with a strip of beach that curved into the distance on one side. Suzanne and I hit it off instantly, and she showed us to our beautiful suites that had a magnificent view onto the beach below. I wished Felix good luck for the future and said a final goodbye.

Unusually, the main lodge of Villa Moringa was a five-minute walk away, across the small peninsula, and we were to meet there for lunch as soon as we had freshened up. The lodge was initially the private home of a Dutch couple, who now only stayed a part of the year. It was Portuguese colonial in style, yet with a makuti roof fringing an epic veranda, framed on three sides by water and mangroves. We sat down at a rustic wooden table, the simple wooden chairs cushioned in capulana – the colourful printed Mozambican wrap-cloth – with small painted hanging birds clipped to the corners of the matching tablecloth, to weigh it against the breeze. Instantly, I loved the place.

Lunch came not long after, and were we glad we hadn’t had breakfast. It was nothing short of spectacular. A large plate of extra-large butterflied prawns were the sweetest I have ever tasted; an even larger plate of sliced grilled squid was possibly the most tender. We ate slowly, drinking a bottle of chilled white wine, admiring the sensational view. Suzanne then appeared, with a man in tow. A South African with an ice-cold bottle of beer in his hand. Tony often stayed there, he was working on a project focusing on increasing the appeal of the oysters that grew in the mangroves. They had a quality like no other apparently, and if their growth was both nurtured and amplified, could become a vital source of nutrition, and income, for the local people. Unfortunately, given cross-border trade disruptions in Mozambique, it was unlikely they would reach foreign markets any time soon. Oysters were Tony’s business. Always had been, the world over. He was a great guy, had led a fascinating life, and we chatted away until the sun set beautifully over the mangroves.

We didn’t have long at our newfound paradise, only one full day, so I rose early to get a swim in before skipping over to the main lodge for breakfast. Suzanne had offered to take me into Lumbo, miraculously our stay had fallen upon market day, and I was in the market for some capulana. We hopped in her car as, although not far, there was barely any shade there or back. The market was a hive of activity. Stalls selling food merged into stalls selling clothes, and then capulana. I chose six, for only a few pounds each and left elated. Suzanne suggested we drive to the house she was building at the moment, between the village and Villa Moringa – perhaps you might like to see it? I jumped at the chance, not knowing what to expect.

As we parked by her gate the word MADAGASCAR, carved from wood, framed the top of the door to her land. That was what she was calling it. Her little slice East Africa, that reminded her of Madagascar, where she planned to live happily ever after. Inside there was quite a bit of land. Enough to house two large Baobab trees, a substantial kitchen garden, a small existing shack of a home, and a half-built stone villa of quite large proportions. It all faced out toward the mangroves. She explained the actual house wouldn’t be ready for a few more years, she was constructing it when she had the time and money to do so. It would essentially be her life’s work, so she was in no rush. She just wanted it perfect. It was like the good life. Chickens roamed free, dogs slept peacefully in spots of shade, and there were cats and kittens everywhere. Some of the kittens were only a few days old and sat easily in the palm of her hand. It was inspirational, her life and ambitions. And kind of her to have invited us in.

Back at the villa I roamed the beach and swam as soon as the tide came in enough to do so. We drank the last of our gin on my suite terrace looking out over the ocean, before decamping to the veranda of the main lodge for another spectacular sunset, and dinner. We had plates of white fish carpaccio so thin it melted in your mouth and drank all of the white wine they had on the premises – with the company of our new friend Tony. What a place! And to think we would have missed it entirely, had Nadia not messed with my plans and shortened our stay on Ilha. Nowadays, I always take an inconvenience as a sign that something unmissable is about to intervene.

Joao was transferring us to Nampula, we had it pre-arranged. It was his neck of the woods, and given the speed he drove at, we were confident he would get us there on time. He turned up an hour early, as I was clambering back up the slope from the ocean. Salty, soaking wet, and nowhere near ready to leave. I rushed to get ready. Despite all of the hassle we had encountered in Mozambique, I was sad to be leaving. I had left my friend Cyra a voice note the night before saying – one day we need to get a Mahindra and drive the whole coast of Mozambique, we have to, you will love it. She hadn’t replied yet, but she would, and she would so be up for it. I had fallen under the spell of the place, and its myriad of people. Tony swung by to say goodbye, which was kind. He was with his assistant, a local chap who was thin and tall like a beanpole, not at all what I had imagined. We wished them well with the growth and promotion of their oysters. We also wished Suzanne well with finishing her beautiful home and set off on the final leg of our journey around Northern Mozambique.

As we hit the main road out of town the mangroves turned to what looked like pristine white sand, it was actually salt flats, and a moment later the road was packed high with bags of salt for sale, groups of men were shouting – salina, salina! Joao stopped to buy some. Whilst he was negotiating, in the rear-view mirror I watched a little boy digging a big hole in the earth. It put me in mind of something Maria had said on our very first day – this land, Mozambique, it is very rich. Full of rubies, full of diamonds, full of gold. The sand on Ilha used to be covered with tiny pieces of gold, the children would make necklaces from it. I loved Maria’s stories. I regretted not having dug and searched the earth myself. Joao drove on like a racing driver, beeping people and animals off the tarmac as we went. He then slowed at another roadside village, and before the car had even stopped a dozen young boys were sprinting alongside us, thrusting buckets of roasted cashew nuts through the windows. We all bought some, for pennies, and they were delicious.

Nampula airport eventually appeared, it was small, as expected. I was already dreading what we would be subjected to at our final point of authority in Mozambique. We headed to the counter that had a handwritten sign saying NAIROBI propped by it and tipped our unwanted porter for having carried our luggage the unnecessary few metres. As two men tried to convince me they were from immigration – trying to fill out our departure forms on our behalf – I was simultaneously trying to explain to the man at the desk that I had paid for the highest hold weight, despite him insisting there was a problem. In the end we scribbled on the forms, showed him a flight receipt with luggage entitlement that he couldn’t ignore, and scampered away to use the toilet. Straight away the door that unsurprisingly had no lock was being pushed open, as I was desperately trying to push it back shut. It was the ‘immigration officer’ – demanding to be paid. A lady doing her hair by the sink saved me and screamed at him loudly until he left.

We were just about to go through security when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and a butch woman insisted I go with her, out the back. What now? I thought, before seeing my scanned luggage on a screen atop an officer’s desk. The slim older man pointed at the screen, then slowly turned to me and asked – the beach? My shells. Damn. I had already foreseen this situation and had a play ready: I would say I bought them in a shop, say I loved them, and then fake cry if they tried to take them off me. I only got to declaring my love before he wafted his hand for me to shut up and said – money! And I only had to pay him the equivalent of a mere four English pounds to keep my precious shells. We boarded a flight with an airline I had never heard of, definitely not the one we were booked to fly with. Before making an impromptu stop and spending an hour on the tarmac in Malawi – a country we had not planned to visit. Mozambique may be hard work in the north, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.