SHOULD YOU GO TO NORTHERN MOZAMBIQUE? PART ONE...

It is unlikely that any government advice would suggest travel around northern Mozambique at the moment, comments such as – consistent insurgent violence, and a deepening humanitarian crisis – prevail over much else. Touching down at Pemba airport I could see only two other aeroplanes 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 small shop to buy a cigarette lighter, just armed military and a lot of people seemingly camped out on the floor.

Luckily 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 to Chuiba Bay Lodge. Either side of the main road looked much like the rest of East Africa, perhaps less developed. We turned off and navigated a really bumpy road through the outskirts of a village before reaching our destination. Past giant security gates and an armed guard we were greeted warmly by Domingos’s other, and dare I say better, half Maria. Luckily Chuiba Bay Lodge was nothing short of paradise. Paradise with delicious food, an extensive bar, attentive smartly dressed staff, and expensive bed linen. It really was set in a spectacular location. 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. Intelligence officers or similarly very important people seemed to be their mainstay guests. It was fascinating and unbelievably beautiful – I was in my element. Our spacious suites overlooked a sensational swimming pool. There was something unique and natural about the water. The beach was down through the tropical plant filled dune-like garden, and it was something else. Soft white sand littered with large exotic shells stretched as far as the eye could see, completely unspoilt. Chuiba Bay is the third largest bay in the world. The water was warm, and an alluring aquamarine.

Early on I disclosed to Domingos my intentions to travel to the Quirimbas Islands, in our deliberate spare time. I had left ten nights with nothing yet planned. He told me – absolutely not, it is not possible. In all honesty I was prepared to be told we could go nowhere, that was why I had booked Chuiba Bay Lodge. If all else failed, we could have just stayed there. However, I didn’t take no for an answer that easily. We were in no rush, we had five nights in the heaven that we had just fallen upon, so I kicked back and relaxed. We sunbathed, swam, or strolled along the bay. At night we chatted with our new friends, drinking Portuguese white wine and eating fish carpaccio. Maria’s standards are very high, and it is evident in the food that comes out of her kitchen. When Domingos repeatedly asked about my plans, I feigned nonchalance. Yet Maria knew I was determined to get to the islands, and actively contacted people who could potentially assist.

Gradually, Domingos changed his views. Perhaps down to my ally Maria, frequently pleading our case – they are explorers, they go to lots of places, they know how to look after themselves! When we hit a dead end with Marias contacts, Domingos spoke with the head of police, who said he could guarantee our safety if we travelled on Saturday.  My tentative travel plans spiralled from there. 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 not an option. 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 we got plans in motion. Transport was arranged, and an element of security assumed. ​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 would then stay at Miti Miwiri on Ibo Island for six nights with an enthusiastic man called Jorg, who I had warmed to when speaking with him on the phone. Domingos thought this was way too long. He always has an opinion. He even tried to make a bet with me that we would only last two nights. After Ibo, our plans were to return and stay a further two nights with Maria and Domingos, prior to travelling onto Ilha de Mozambique. I got caught up in the moment and forgot all about the research I had done. Admittedly the research had been lacking, hence having left a gap in the itinerary, yet it had crystallised one regional generalisation – don’t go to Ibo Island. Like I said, plans spiralled.

We left most of our belongings at Chuiba Bay Lodge and just packed what we thought we would need. The delightful Dade picked us up on the morning of our departure. I had spoken with Dade via WhatsApp. He had reassured me he was reliable and the journey wouldn’t be too bad. He turned up in a minibus type van. It was a pretty pale beige, with the handles and gear stick taped with gaffer tape. It had no aircon, unsurprisingly, but it was spacious and quite comfy. I could tell driving through Chuiba Village that the minivan had nothing on Domingos’s Toyota, the road felt like a ride at the fair, completely different. Dade told us he was born on Ibo Island and was taking advantage of our return transfer to go home, stay, and go fishing with his friends. It felt nice to be facilitating his trip home and travelling in such safe hands.

As soon as we turned off the highway the roads were more like dirt tracks. It was actually hard to get your head around how on earth any road could be so uneven. It was like small hills all the way. An example of how the government don’t like to make things easier for people there; Maria had divulged all sorts of information that had formed an anti-government/military opinion in my mind. The scenery was epic though, although almost impossible to photograph as the vehicle was never still or even. I had never been anywhere like that before. Baobab trees rose from the landscape, villages so small they were gone before I realised were formed of just a few mud huts roofed with makuti.

I waved at all the people, mostly young kids, the whole way. Most looked so happy to see us, being white and blonde we stood out massively. Women walked the road wrapped in colourful cloth, carrying bundles of sticks or buckets full of food on their head. Men could be seen with hoe picks farming the mud of the land or walking down the road with a sack slung over their shoulder and a machete. A few times men waved with machete in hand, it was kind, yet unnerving. The lush palm trees of oasis even glittered in the distance a couple of times. This place was magical. It was all a bit overwhelming.

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 our bottled water. But it was the fourth stop that freaked me out, a military manned the post. It was set in a small town made up of Portuguese villa style buildings, but they were all burnt out. Nothing had a roof, all of the walls were streaked black from smoke, and there was no glass in any of the windows. A couple of burnt-out vehicles seemed to frame the checkpoint. Dade glanced at me and caught my eye, he looked scared, it was like he was trying to warn me. Straight away I hid my camera under the seat, tucked my iPhone down the side of my seat, and hid my cigarettes. I wound down the window to show them my passport.

They weren’t overly amicable. They went out of their way to be threatening, insinuating there was a problem, although in hindsight most authority is in Africa is a bit like that. They had large guns swinging from straps on their shoulders. The whole situation felt unpredictable. The firth military checkpoint felt even more volatile, and I started to question what I got us in to. It was becoming apparent that the whole area was off limits really.  A sail through spectacular mangroves momentarily restored my faith, until we were met by the military on arrival. They were hidden behind some trees and looked the part – camo head to toe, worn leather boots and sworn off shotguns swinging precariously at their hip. Nothing made these men happy. Everything seemed to be an issue. We were questioned, stared at, searched then given a fake smile and told to – go. In all honesty we would have never made it there safely without everyone’s help.   

Jorg's place, Miti Miwiri, was like a retreat at the end of the street. It was a beautiful old two-story stone house with large balconies, restored yet rustic. We were just approaching golden hour, and everything was being bathed in its best light. Jorg was a great guy, we had drinks and were introduced to lots of people straight away. He asked if we would be happy with crab curry for dinner, to which we replied – yes, yes, yes! I love a crab curry, and the Quirimbas Islands are known for their crabs. Our rooms were both spacious and tastefully done. The steps leading up to my room were dark worn wood, with large coral and shell specimens displayed up the side. It was beautiful. My terrace spanned the whole back of the property and had dark brown leather sunlounges as well as wooden tables and chairs. The crab curry was amazing, I had an amazing night’s sleep, and life on IBO proved to be refreshingly unusual over the coming days.

To be continued…