NORTHERN MOZAMBIQUE - PART 2

I feel so lucky to have stayed with Jorg, on Ibo Island, at his eccentric little slice of a rather unusual paradise. German-born, he’d landed on Ibo twenty years ago while cycling around Africa, fallen for a local woman, and bought and restored Miti Miwiri. He’s part of the fabric of the island now – barefoot, happy-go-lucky, and good with absolutely everyone. Staying with him felt safe and easy. He’s open about what’s gone wrong: the military and the political gridlock have all but strangled the tourism that once kept his lodge thriving, and the rare guests seemed to all work in humanitarian aid. Trying to keep the lodge afloat on so few must have been quietly heartbreaking. Under Jorg’s wing we slipped into island life with no effort, falling under the spell of a place the world seemed to have forgotten, and realising we could get by on far less than we were used to. Life on Ibo was a masterclass of necessity and appreciation.

Coffee wasn’t available before eight am. Jorg’s state-of-the-art machine – a gift from the head of police, pushing beans from his latest venture, Ibo coffee (and yes, of course, Domingos had the beans too) – only came on once Paolo arrived, to switch it on. We’d then savour cup after cup in the hot morning garden, lush with frangipane, prickly pear and bougainvillea. Macaque monkeys ran riot through a giant mango tree, stealing any food left unguarded. Breakfast was fresh fruit and eggs, made by lovely Ginha in her beautiful pareos, and it would appear whenever it was ready. If often lose half of mine when I got distracted taking photos. Afterwards we’d explore, or just relax, reconvening on my spacious terrace around gin and tonic o’clock. Sunbathing alone on the terrace, I learned to keep my wits about me – the monkeys read my solitude as weakness. I’d open my eyes to be ringed by them, and when I gave in and retreated inside, they’d bang on the glass door, glaring at me.  

Jorg didn’t do lunch, and when I asked about snacks, he drew a blank. I couldn’t believe there was nowhere to get any food, so we went for a wander. We found a young lad selling bread sticks from a bucket on a corner, and a cluster of stalls under a palapa at the heart of the village – the market. There wasn’t much: a few handfuls of local tomatoes, piles of husky coconuts on the ground. But one woman made fish samosas by the bucketload. We took four, devoured them, and from then on, we ate those delicious samosas each day. In the evenings we had whatever was on offer from the Miti Miwiri kitchen, usually a dish made with fish, and we always enjoyed it.

Parts of the island were off limits – the military fort to the north, and their creepy compound to the east, both to be avoided. The colonial Portuguese buildings on the northern point stood mostly in ruin: some burnt out, walls streaked black; others left barely stranding by the cyclone of 2019. A few had been restored – privately owned lodges, and the police and government buildings which appeared operational. To the south the makuti village sprawled out into wild semi-agricultural land as it ran down to the ocean. Jorg’s lodge sat pretty much on the line between the two worlds. To the northeast there was a sweet spot: Ibo Island Lodge, once a popular five-star base for the Quirimbas and now standing empty, faced the best swimming spot on the island. Late in the afternoon, as the tide swallowed the mangrove roots, the water turned deep and clear and cool. It was where the sun set, too. We would stroll back through the village as the sky darkened, smoke seeping into the air from each hut, and once twilight had faded the final call to prayer carried across the night and closed the islander’s day.

One day local chap Raul, the designated island guide, showed us around. Ibo was a place you wanted to understand, and Raul’s knowledge let us. He took us inside the ruins, into the commanding, abandoned Fortiem Sao Jose, and up the turret of the Iglesa Sao Joao Batista for a bird’s eye view. I got lots of photographs, the locals wanted their portraits, as if they wanted to world to see them.  As our tour ended and our friendship with Raul was sealed, the heavens opened – mango rain apparently, the last downpour the fruit needed to ripen. The rain stopped the following afternoon, and simultaneously Peace Day was declared across Mozambique: the formal end to the civil war. I felt emotional and hoped it would make life easier for all the people we’d met. Everyone came to Jorg’s bar that night, and Raul gave me a Mozambican flag to take home in memory.

One morning I met Dade and Raul at five to go fishing. I was eagerly anticipating that mirror-flat ocean you get at first light. The military were waiting at the landing site: wrong permit, not possible to leave the island. They toyed with us for a while, made a few phone calls – I bet no one was on the other end – then reversed the decision, and we finally set sail. It was everything I’d hoped – the mangroves a deep jade green against the pearly slick of the water. We caught a big fish for everyone to share that night and made for a sandbank nearby. To my delight a group of young athletic fishermen were there, dragging a turquoise net full of tiny silver fish out of the water. The pristine white sand, the beautiful shells scattered atop by nature, the faded yet colourful clothes of the men hard at work – it was stunning, and with their blessing made for some beautiful photography.

The days floated by, and with each one we felt more and more accepted. Children had stopped crying when they saw me, and people were actively asking to have their portrait taken. We had drinks at another German’s lodge, Cinco Portas – beautiful, right by the water’s edge; the owner, also a Jorg, was great fun and had popped back to check on his place. Dade and I went swimming, and everyone had a good time. One night we ate at Chico’s, a short stroll away, which is really the home of a cook called Dinha: grilled fish on her terrace, with a handsome dog we kept slipping titbits. When our stay came to an end, it was a sad, early dart to catch the tide and make the road back to Pemba before dark. The landing site was chaos – men levering the wheels off a rusty truck with their bare hands, one fellow climbing into an already packed wooden dhow with a live duck flapping in each hand. No surprise that the military delayed us again over the wrong paperwork. A pointless little show of authority. They eventually gave in and let us go.

We approached through the same tunnel of mangroves we had sailed through seven days ago, the imposing ancient Baobab that marked the mainland landing sight looking even more ceremonial from the water. We waited under it whilst Dade went for the van. He was taking a while. A group off fishermen were calmly looking over a haul of giant squid when a truck roared around the corner, music blaring. A man jumped from the back, a gun strapped to his back, and started arguing with them. The people on the curved bench under the Baobab dropped their eyes to the bundles at their feet. The uncertainty in the air sharpened. Dade swung around the Baobab just in the nick of time.

Dade’s handling of the shit-show of a road seemed better on the way back, and the familiarity made it feel quicker. Through the coastal villages people sat on matts selling little piles of dried silver fish, like those caught out on the sandbank. We squeezed an older gentleman into the back for a stretch as he needed a lift. Midway the land turned lush green and jungly, the pale sand giving way to deep ochre earth, tamarind and acacia trees lined the road, the stalls now heaped with fruit and veg. Dade stopped to buy bunches of small bananas, and tried to pay by M-Pesa, Africa’s homegrown payment system which runs over USSD technology, no smart phone or internet needed. It took forever, as it often does, someone’s smart code wouldn’t link with the other. Nobody ever has cash. I handed over the 40 meticais in loose change – less than a dollar – and we rode on, eating sweet ripe bananas.

The same police and military checks came in reverse. At the third, four men closed in from both sides, not all of them in uniform – one in khaki with Parque Nacional De Quirimbas stitched on it, who seemed genuinely pleased we’d had just six enjoyable nights on Ibo; another in plain clothes holding a blade that shone in the bright light of the sun. Those in uniform asked for cigarettes then waved us on. At the fourth checkpoint police swarmed the van, and made Dade open up. Seeing freezer boxes full of fish, it was as if they had struck gold – they helped themselves to one each and strolled off to cook lunch, fish tail in one hand, gun in the other.

Back at Chuiba Bay Lodge we were welcomed with open arms, our things were back in our original suites – why don’t you freshen up and then come for a drink? It felt like coming home. We fell back into the Chuiba rhythm: breakfast at some point, swimming when the tide was in, photographing the local people working the seabed when it was out. This hadn’t been a thing last time, it had always been pretty high, the tides changed in our absence. Peter – the gentle-giant gardener and beach guard – came with me. The shallows were so turquoise the photos almost look faked – young boys in colourful clothes playing in the rock pools while their mothers fished further out. Ate night we ate fish carpaccio under a sky full of stars with Maria and Domingos. Leaving was hard. I’d grown close with them both and could have happily stayed far longer – but we had ground to cover, and plans waiting.

Our driver Joao arrived early, arranged by Domingos – comfortable car, newer, not a strip of gaffer tape in sight. Maria appeared with a big paper bag of food and drink she had prepared for the road. We said our goodbyes and set off south for Ilha de Moçambique, somehow oblivious to how long the drive would be. Crossing from Pemba province into Nampula was a faff. The border police checked our passports, questioned our intentions, then raised a suspicious eyebrow when we gleefully chanted – we are on holiday! They led Joao off for questioning. We waited whilst a man paraded around the vehicle with small charcoal grilled chickens spatchcocked on skewers. They looked kind of vulgar. Joao eventually returned, implied they had given him the once over, got back in the driver’s seat, and put his foot down.

In the end the drive was almost seven hours, but the roads were mostly smooth tarmac, and we had maria’s picnic to graze on. The further south we drove the more relaxed people looked. Life looked to have taken less of a toll. They swam in clear flowing rivers – most had been bone-dry between Pemba and Ibo – fished, walked along the roadside in groups wearing crisp white shirts, singing prayers. As we neared Ilha the setting sun shone through the open car window almost too bright to look at, and through the car’s blacked out back window a deep fluorescent red. A coal train ran tracks alongside us, wagons heaped high, going on and on – much like the journey.

We reached the 3.5km single lane bridge across to the island in pitch dark, and poor Joao kept having to reverse as oncoming traffic appeared out of nowhere. I looked out the back: nothing, just darkness. He’d been driving for so long, he must have been shattered. In the end a guy jumped off an oncoming truck to guide him back, Joao couldn’t reverse without constantly hitting the curb right by the water’s edge. The staff were outside waiting when we finally pulled in, much later than expected; our new maid Shomita made a great show of how long we’d kept her. She’d turn out to be quite a character. A vast plant filled entrance led through to Villa Osmanli, a beautiful open plan home carved out of the old waterfront customs house. I could hear the Indian Ocean lapping at the shore. I couldn’t wait to wake up, swim, and get the measure of Ilha de Moçambique.