NORTHERN MOZAMBIQUE - PART 1

Touching down at Pemba, there were only two other aircraft on the tarmac, a United Nations light aircraft, and a private jet. We were far from welcomed on arrival, instead questioned by customs officials as to why on earth we thought we were allowed in with a British passport – it only took the changing hands of some cash for that opinion to be reversed. Pemba airport had no ATM, no shop to buy a cigarette lighter (they take them off you at every opportunity in that part of the world), just armed military and a lot of people seemingly camped out on the floor.

Domingos, proprietor of a small luxury bolt hole of a hotel that I had booked online, met us on arrival and whisked away in his Toyota. He was larger than life, and so was his truck – thankfully. We turned off the tarmac and navigated a ridiculously bumpy road on the edge of a village, until we reached Chuiba Bay Lodge. We drove through giant security gates, manned by an armed guard, then through beautiful gardens, until we were greeted warmly by Domingos’s other – and dare I say better – half, Maria. The lodge was nothing short of paradise. It had an expensive feel, an extensive bar, smartly dressed staff who didn’t miss a thing, delicious food and spacious suites with expensive bed linen. Just as I had been in awe of the breathtaking view of the bay flying in, Maria revealed it was that same view that has made her want to buy the land.

Domingos and Maria made us feel so welcome. Everything was so tasteful – the design, the furnishings, the art, the enchanting artefacts from every corner of the earth. The wine was flowing from the moment we arrived, along with fascinating tales of corruption and undiscovered supreme rubies rife under the land. Their guests seemed to be intelligence officers, or similarly very important people. It was fascinating and unbelievably beautiful. I was in my element. Our suites overlooked a pool, and beyond it, down through a tangle of tropical planting, lay a soft white sand beach. It was littered with large exotic shells and stretched as far as the eye could see. Completely unspoilt. Maria told me Chuiba Bay was the third largest bay in the world, and I had no reason to doubt her. The water was warm, and an alluring aquamarine.

Early on I told Domingos we had ten nights spare, after our five nights with them, and my intentions were to travel to the Quirimbas Islands. He said - Absolutely not, not possible. In all honesty I was prepared for his response, but that was why I had booked Chuiba Bay Lodge. If all else failed, we could simply stay there, but I was hoping they had inside information or contacts to facilitate my plans. I didn’t take no for an answer that easily, however we were in no rush – we sunbathed, swam, strolled along the bay, and at night drank Portuguese white wine and ate fish carpaccio, with our new friends. Maria’s standards are high, and you taste it in everything that leaves her kitchen. Every time Domingos asked about my plans, I feigned nonchalance. Yet Maria saw straight through me and quietly started calling people who might help.

Slowly, Domingos came round – largely thanks to Maria, pleading our case – they are explorers, they go everywhere, they can look after themselves! When her contacts dried up, Domingos spoke with the head of police, who said he could guarantee our safety if we travelled on the Saturday.  From there, my tentative plans gathered pace. What was potentially travelling to one island, soon became travelling to another – insurgents had burnt the lodge on the intended one down recently, so that was out. I should have seen the signs at that point and perhaps questioned it more, but I was desperate to go, and that influenced my acceptability.

In the end a plan came together. ​A man called Dade – pronounced Daddy – would pick us up early, drive us to the edge of the mainland and take us across to Ibo by boat. We’d stay six nights at Miti Miwiri with a man called Jorg, who I had warmed to on the phone. Domingos thought this was way too long. He even tried to bet me we wouldn’t last longer than two. Afterwards we’d come back to Maria and Domingos for a couple of nights before going on to Ilha de Moçambique. I’d got caught up in the moment and quietly forgotten the one thing my patchy research had been clear about: don’t go to Ibo Island.

We left most of our belongings at Chuiba Bay Lodge and packed light. Dade turned up on the morning of our departure in a minibus type van, pretty pale beige, the handles and gear stick wrapped in gaffer tape. It had no aircon, unsurprisingly, but it was spacious and actually quite comfy. We had chatted on WhatsApp, an element of safety had been assumed, and he had promised the journey wouldn’t be too bad. Driving out past Chuiba Village it was clear the minivan had nothing on Domingos’s Toyota. The road felt like a ride at the fair. Dade told us he was born on Ibo and was using our return transfer to go home, stay the six nights, and fish with his friends. It felt nice to be facilitating his trip home, and to be in such safe hands.

As soon as we turned off the highway the road became a dirt track. It was hard to fathom how any road could be so uneven. Perhaps a perfect example of how the government don’t like to make things easy for people in the province of Pemba. I had formed an anti-government and anti-military opinion in my mind from what I had seen and heard so far. The scenery was epic though, although impossible to photograph, the vehicle was never level nor still. Baobabs rose out of the land, everywhere. Villages so small they were gone before I noticed them, ran the whole way, formed of just a few mud huts roofed with makuti.

I waved at all the people, who mostly looked happy yet shocked to see us – white and blonde, we stood out a mile. Women walked the road wrapped in colourful cloth, bundles of sticks or buckets of food balanced on their heads. Lone men walked with hoe picks slung over their shoulder and a machete in hand. A few waved with their machete – kind, yet unnerving. Now and then the lush palm trees of oasis glistened in the distance a couple of times. It was the first journey of its kind for me, and I loved it.

What could have been a fairly easy journey was spoilt by the police, and the military. We had three police checks, all a bit on edge, all asking for different things – one even took the last of our bottled water. But it was the fourth stop that made me realise we were well out of our depth. A post manned military, in a small town made up of Portuguese villa-style buildings, that had clearly been set on fire. No roofs. Walls streaked black with smoke. No glass in any of the windows. A couple of burnt-out vehicles framed the checkpoint. Dade caught my eye, and I understood it as a warning. I slid my camera under the seat, pushed my iPhone down the side it, hid my cigarettes, and wound down the window to show them my passport. They weren’t friendly. They went out of their way to be threatening, insinuating there was a problem with us being there. Big guns hung from their shoulders. The situation felt unpredictable. The fifth checkpoint, also military, felt even more volatile. It was becoming apparent that the whole area was off limits really, as far as the military were concerned. A sail through spectacular mangroves momentarily restored my faith, until we were met by more military on arrival at the island. Half-hidden behind some trees, they looked the part: camo head to toe, worn leather boots and sawn-off shotguns swinging at their hip. Nothing pleased these men. Everything was a problem. We were questioned, stared at, searched, then given a thin smile and told to – go. We’d never have made it without everyone’s help.   

And then Jorg's place, Miti Miwiri, at the end of the street like a retreat. A beautiful old two-story stone house. Restored yet rustic. We also arrived at golden hour; everything was bathed in its best light. Jorg was great – drinks in our hands and introductions made within minutes. He asked if crab curry would do for dinner, to which we replied – yes, yes, yes! I love crab curry, and the Quirimbas are known for their crabs. Our rooms were large and tastefully done; the steps leading up to mine were dark worn wood, lined with large shells and pieces of coral. My terrace ran the whole back of the property, with dark brown leather loungers and wooden tables and chairs. The crab curry was as good as promised, I had an amazing night’s sleep, and life on Ibo proved to be more unusual than we could have anticipated, over the coming days.