SHOULD YOU GO TO NORTHERN MOZAMBIQUE? PART TWO

I feel so privileged to have stayed on Ibo Island, with Jorg, at his little slice of a rather unusual paradise. German-born Jorg landed on Ibo whilst cycling around Africa, twenty years ago. He fell in love with a local woman, then bought and restored Miti Miwiri, and is now part of the fabric of the island. Staying with Jorg felt safe, and his happy go lucky attitude was infectious. However, slight signs of wear from the political gridlock of the region, and its effects on his once thriving business, did seep through. Trying to keep the lodge above water when there were rarely any guests must have been a heartbreaking task. Under Jorg’s wing, we slipped into the way of life on Ibo easily. We spent our six nights falling under the spell of a place the world seemed to have forgotten, tailoring what was available to our needs, realising we could get by with a lot less than we were used to. Life on Ibo was a masterclass of necessity and appreciation.

Coffee was not available before eight am. Jorg’s new state of the art machine, a gift from the head of police, touting the sale of beans from his latest business venture – Ibo coffee – was turned on when Paolo. We would then savour cup after cup in the hot morning sun of the garden – lush with frangipane, prickly pear and bougainvillea. Macaque monkeys ran riot through the branches of the giant mango tree, stealing any unattended food if given the chance. Breakfast was fresh fruit and eggs prepared by lovely Ginha in the kitchen who wore beautiful pareos, and it would appear when ready. Afterwards we would explore Ibo, or just relax, reconvening on my spacious terrace around gin and tonic o’clock. If I sunbathed alone, I had to have my wits about me. A troop of monkeys took my solitude as weakness. I would open my eyes and be surrounded. When I inevitably gave in and retreated inside, they would bang on the glass door, glaring at me.  

Jorg didn’t serve lunch, and when I first enquired about snacks in the day, 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 guy selling bread sticks from a bucket on the corner, then a patch of stalls under a palapa at the heart of the village, evidently the local market. There was by no means an abundance of produce, just a few handfuls of locally grown tomatoes here and there, and piles of husky coconuts on the ground. Although one lady made and sold fish samosas, and she had a bucket full, we took four and they were so good we devoured them. From then on, those delicious samosas became our daily snack. In the evenings we had whatever was on offer from the Miti Miwiri kitchen and always enjoyed it, usually a dish made with fish.

Parts of the island were off limits due to the military, we had been warned to steer clear of their fort to the north, and their creepy compound to the east. The colonial Portuguese buildings on the northern point of the island were mostly in ruin, either burnt out – walls streaked with black smoke – and/or devastated by the cyclone of 2019 and left barely standing. A few had been restored, such as privately owned lodges, and the police and government buildings which appeared operational. To the south sprawled the makuti village, developing into wild semi-agricultural land as it dispersed toward the ocean. Jorg’s lodge pretty much marked the topographical division of the two worlds. There was a sweet spot to the northeast, where Ibo Island Lodge, once a popular 5* hangout for travellers to the Quirimbas Archipelago, now lay vacant. The lodge faced the islands most sensational swimming spot and late afternoon as the tide swallowed the roots of the mangroves, the waters newfound depth was clear and refreshing. It was also where the sun set. We would stroll back through the village as the sky darkened, smoke seeping into the air from each hut. Once twilight had faded, the final call to prayer resonating through the night sky signalled the end of the islander’s day.

One day local chap Raul, the designated island guide, escorted us around. Ibo was a place you wanted to understand, and Raul’s wealth of knowledge helped us to do that. He took us inside many of the ruins, into the commanding yet abandoned Fortiem Sao Jose, and up the turret of the Iglesa Sao Joao Batista for a bird’s eye view of the island. As our informative and enjoyable tour came to an end, and our friendship with Raul was cemented, the heavens opened. We rushed back to Miti Miwiri to shelter. Apparently, it was called mango rain, the mangos were about to ripen, and they needed one last downpour to do so. The rain finally stopped the following afternoon, and simultaneously Peace Day was announced in Mozambique, the end of the civil war. I felt emotional and hoped it would make the lives of all of the wonderful people we had met easier in the future. Everyone came for drinks at Jorg's bar that night, and Raul gave me a Mozambique flag to take home in memory.

One morning I met Dade and Raul at five am to go fishing. I was eagerly anticipating a mirrorlike finish to the ocean that there often is at that early hour. Unluckily the military were waiting at the landing site, preventing us from getting in the boat. We did not have the correct permit and therefore it was not possible for us to leave the island. After toying with us for a while, the decision was reversed, and we finally set sail. It was as heavenly as I had hoped, and the surrounding mangroves shone a deep jade green in contrast to the pearl-like slick of the water. After catching a large fish that we would all dine on that night, we headed for a sandbank. 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 by the island’s inhabitants. We had drinks at another German guy’s lodge, Cinco Portas, that was beautiful and looked out over the water. The owner was also called Jorg, he was good fun and had just popped back to check on his property. One night we had dinner at Chico’s, a short stroll from Miti Miwiri. It was essentially a chef called Dinha’s house, and we dined on grilled fish on her terrace, accompanied by a handsome dog who we fed tit bits too. When our stay came to an end it was a sad, and an early morning dart to make the tide and complete the road journey back to Chuiba, all before dark. At the landing site, there were people everywhere. A group of men were taking the wheels off a rusty truck with their bare hands. One man was climbing into an already packed wooden dhow with a live duck in each hand, wings flapping. It was no surprise when we were delayed by the military, we had incorrect documentation to leave the island. A pointless display of authority. They eventually gave in and let us go.

Approaching the mainland through the same tunnel of mangroves we had sailed through seven days ago, the imposing ancient Baobab that marked the landing sight looked even more ceremonial from the water. We waited underneath it whilst Dade went to get the van. It was taking longer than expected. A group off fishermen were calmly inspecting their haul of freshly caught giant squid when a truck roared around the corner, music blasting from a speaker. One of the many men stood in the truck’s rear jumped down, a gun strapped to his back, and started arguing with the fishermen. The local people sat on the curved stone bench under the Baobab diverted their eyes to their piles of belongings at their feet. The already apparent air of uncertainty felt heightened. Dade came driving around the Baobab just in the nick of time.

Dade’s navigation of the shit-show of a road seemed to have improved on our return, and the familiarity of the journey made it seem faster. As we passed through the villages neighbouring the ocean people sat on matts selling small piles of dried silver fish, like those the fishermen caught out on the sandbank. We picked up an older gentleman who needed a lift and crammed him in the back for a bit. Midway the scenery turned a lush green and more jungle-like, the earth no longer pale sand, instead a more fertile deep ochre dirt. Tamarind and acacia trees lined the road, and the villagers’ stalls were topped with fresh fruit and vegetables. Dade stopped to buy bunches of small bananas. He wanted to pay with M-Pesa, Africa’s homegrown payment system where any amount can be paid through a mobile phone using – the hard to get your head around – USSD technology. No internet, no smart phone, required. It was taking forever as it always does, someone’s smart code wouldn’t link with the other. No one ever had any cash. I gave him the 40 meticais in loose change, less than a dollar, and we rode on eating delicious, sweet ripe bananas.

We had the same police and military checks as before in reverse. At the third checkpoint four men approached from either side, not all dressed as police. One had a khaki suit with Parque Nacional De Quirimbas stitched on it and seemed pleased to hear we had just enjoyed six nights on Ibo. Another wore plain clothes and held a large open blade that gleamed in the bright light of the sun. Those in official uniform asked for a cigarette then let us go. At the fourth checkpoint the police swarmed the vehicle, and insisted Dade open up the van. Seeing freezer boxes full of fish it was as if they had struck gold. They helped themselves to a frozen fish each and wandered proudly off into the distance to cook them for lunch – fish tail in one hand, gun in the other. Rather than trying to take photographs on the way back I had made peace with enjoying the scenery and shooting the odd iPhone video, it was much more relaxing.

Arriving back at Chuiba Bay Lodge we were greeted with open arms, all of our things were in our suites, the same ones as before – why don’t you freshen up and then come for a drink. It was a home from home, and a stark contrast to the journey we had just taken in the interim. I feel being greeted by Maria at her fabulous property is something everyone should experience once in their lives. We fell happily back into our Chuiba regime. Breakfast at some point, swimming when the tide was in, or photographing the local people fishing the seabed when the tide was out. Peter, the gentle giant beach security guard come gardener, came with me. The lagoon like landscape was so turquoise the photos almost look fake. Young boys wearing colourful clothes played in the rock pools, whilst their mothers fished in the distance. We dined on fish carpaccio at night, drinking wine and socialising with Maria and Domingos, under the starry night sky. Leaving was hard, I had become close with them both and could have easily stayed a lot longer. We had distance to cover though and plans in place, we had to travel on.

Our driver Joao arrived early on the morning of our departure, organised by Domingos. He had thankfully adhered to my request for a better standard of car, it was comfy and newer than the last, not a strip of gaffer tape in sight. Maria appeared, large paper shopper in hand, she had made us food and drinks for the road. We thanked her and Domingos and said our goodbyes. We set off south, heading for Ilha de Mozambique, somehow ignorant to the duration of the journey. Crossing from Provincia de Pemba to Provincia de Nampula was a bit of a faff. The police manning the border checked our passports, questioned our intentions, then raised their eyebrows suspiciously when we gleefully chanted – we are in Mozambique on holiday! Joao was taken away for questioning, so we just sat and waited whilst a man paraded around the vehicle with small charcoal grilled chickens. They kind of looked vulgar, spatchcocked with a skewer through eat set of limbs. When Joao returned, he implied they had given him the once over, at least I think that was what he meant, he only spoke Portuguese so we were never 100 percent sure what was going on.

The journey was long, almost seven hours, but every moment was fascinating, and the roads were the best we had encountered in Mozambique so far. We grazed on delicious samosas and chicken salad sandwiches made with slightly sweet soft African bread, our picnic from Maria. She had also put fresh pineapple juice in the cool box that I had kindly requested come with the car, we had bought groceries from Pemba as advised and wanted them kept cool. As we drove past local people living out their daily lives in Nampula, they looked more relaxed. Life looked to have taken less of a toll than farther north. The people swam and played joyfully in crystal clear flowing rivers, many on our last journey had been bone dry. They washed clothes and laid them out in the sun on large boulders, fished, and walked along the roadside in groups wearing crisp white shirts, singing prayers. As we neared Ilha the sun started to set, with the window down it shone so bright it was almost too much for the naked eye, though through the black-out windows of the back of the car it shone a deep dark fluorescent red. A train ran its tracks alongside us, wagons piled high with coal, it seemed to go on forever, much like the journey.

We reached the 3.5km single lane bridge across to the island in the pitch black, and poor Joao kept having to reverse as oncoming traffic appeared out of nowhere. I looked out of his back window, and you could see nothing at all, just darkness. He had been driving for so long, and like a bat out of hell on the smooth tarmacked roads that had allowed, he must have been exhausted. 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. When we finally reached our next location, the property staff were outside waiting. It was beyond me how we could have got to Ilha any quicker, but our arrival was later than everyone had expected, and our new maid Shomita played on the fact we had kept her. Shomita was a real character, as we would find out over the coming days. A vast plant filled entrance led through to a beautifully designed open plan home, Villa Osmanli. Converted from part of the old waterfront customs house, the villa was stunning, and a prime example of Airbnb enabling you to live like a local in spacious unique homes, rather than a hotel room. I could hear the Indian Ocean as it lapped rhythmically against the shore. I was excited to wake up in the morning, go for a swim, and get a feel for Ilha de Mozambique.  

To be continued…