Dhow Safari in Mozambique
Part 2: "I think those men have weapons"
By Evan Haussmann
The sun and my spirits were high when we left the Makondes of N'tambo, direction: Mueda. Here we'd be able to fix our flat tyres. One of Mozambique's northernmost towns, Mueda is typically ramshackle. The main street a mix of old concrete buildings and makeshift stalls lining potholes framed in tar. Squeeze yourself between two baraccas (shops) and the alley reveals a sprawling informal market. The thick syrupy air of dried fish advertises the wares far and very wide. This market holds most every supply a villager could desire.
While the two sad tyres were being counseled we roamed the streets and market, buying bread from buckets in the roadside dust and scoured the stalls for last minute supplies and curios. As we aren't villagers, there wasn't much to be had in terms of retail therapy. Another round of gritty bread, two firm tyres and a trail of dust saw us into the coastal town of Mocimboa do Praia, a couple of hundred kilometers away.
The dust had hardly settled around the Landy and Daouda hit the ground running, searching the harbour for a dhow and captain for the next installment of our adventure.
Problem was, the word on the gravel was boats sailed north, trading, between here and Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Dhows filled with plastic goods, mattresses and people cruised in and out of the bay. Slowly a Plan B began to formulate in my hot and tired brain when the indefatigable Daouda and a shorter stockier figure appeared through the heat haze. This guy is the man.
The stocky shape turned into our dhow captain of tomorrow
A Makua tribesman, the captain wore black shades and a huge white smile. "Boa a tarde, Assan," captain of a bright red, white and blue, 11 meter dhow, Victoria 2006.
Spreading my chart of the archipelago across the bonnet of the Landy, in my best Portuguese (my finger) I traced our intended route through the islands all the way down and back to Pemba harbour, the imaginary line completing a round trip. "Nao problema" Assan says, all teeth. Nick and Daouda translated a discussion on the finer points of the mission, i.e. money with the man. After laying eyes on the vivid craft rocking docile in the bay we shook hands, agreeing on a 7am departure the next morning. "Somehow this has all been too easy."
I couldn't believe, in Africa, renowned for the slow processes in everything, from bus departures to government workings that we'd achieved so much in the few days we'd been here. Again I must credit this grand and sublime surprise to the people we turned to for advice and guidance. These guys all replied with great generosity and swift action.
A crash course in tidal variation
Slow to rise the next morning, the effects of my four (too many) beers causing us to be late for our meeting with Captain Assan and his crew of four. The ocean tide, ignorant of our arrangement, had left our docile beauty canted over in the sand, wavelets lapping ever further from her eager bow.
The mainland of Mozambique sits behind a shelf that in places extends for kilometers into the ocean before dropping off into the deep sea. This submerged cliff breaks the waves far out to sea and is responsible for the idyllic pools and calm waters we've come to expect from our island paradises. On the negative side (for us) this shelf causes huge tidal fluctuations, leaving a seemingly perfect passage bone dry for kilometers until the next high tide. 10 or so hours later we'd be able to depart.
Standing on the now solid ground inspecting the stark wooden ribs and rough slats, cotton caulking and ropes forming this craft of ancient history, I imagined our daily life in the rugged hull and on the tiny fore and aft decks... and it hurt.
There was only one remedy; shopping.
We scoured the markets, and followed outstretched arms across town until even the Landy could go no further. At the edge of this mangrove swamp we waited for a bed to appear.
Mozambique and most of East Africa sleeps on crude beds, frames hand-fashioned from mangrove poles, spanned in a lattice by hand-woven rope of tree fibers. I've always wanted one of these, and in the following days I would on more than one occasion say, "this is the best thing I've ever bought." Our bed our only real comfort. Luxury. Respite. Cradle. ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzz......
A rude awakening at the market
With bed procured and still much time to spend we roamed, yes you guessed it, the markets again, this time for 'breakfast'. While I was pondering the not so vast selection of samoosas some slight-handed soul spirited my main camera with prize lens attached out of the Land Rovers' cab, from right next to me. I must have blinked too long, because really, it was a case of now 'you see it... etc.' Nick was, let us be polite, quite disappointed, enough for all of us put together. I've (un) fortunately suffered camera loss before and so don't waste energy venting. The thing is gone. It is very inconvenient but there's little one can do besides offering a substantial cash-no-questions-asked reward around the market. Nada. And so "bon dia Senor Policeman..."
A long and boring way to spend time waiting for the tide to float your boat
Flies buzzed, the only buzz in the tiny room, possibly ever. Mesmerized by boredom and heat I noticed in Mozambique, posters were never placed straight on the walls. They always angled over at around 25 degrees from straight and each other and never at anyone's eye-level... breaking my endless train of thoughtlessness the policeman acknowledged our very long presence in his tiny office, causing Daouda to pull the cap off his head and briefly explain our business. The officers' head went down. The effort of writing an incongruously long story in his similarly long incident report book swayed his steel table rhythmically. One or two more irrelevant questions, "what's your mothers name?" and we were on our way.
A very late hot lunch
We transferred all our gear from the Land Rover to the dhow, bade our land crew farewell and spent the rest of the afternoon tracking shade and ignoring a small ever-changing omni-present group of spectators. With the tide now visible and approaching, I began preparing lunch. I pulled out the MSR multi-fuel cooker, declaring it the Mazungu Fugau (the white mans version of the African pot-sized charcoal stove) to the audience. Nonchalantly, I set the cooker and the boat alight. Choking on fumes and burning canvas, frantically grabbing air instead of the nearby water bottle, a crewmember appeared through my tears and the smoke to extinguish the rapidly spreading fire with beach sand.
Sheepish, I moved the still steaming cooker onto the sand thoughtfully laid in the bottom of the hull for this exact occurrence and tried again. Success. The hiss of burning vapour now accompanied by Jen's voice determinedly reading numbered points of instruction from the manual like a street preacher in a red-light district. The water was boiling by the time my sense of humour failed. "Stop. Now." A very late lunch in silence ensued.
Departure, finally
Our new crew arrived with the tide shortly before sundown. Tossing a 50kg bag of rice and a few drums of water into the now buoyant boat, the seven of us sailed out of the harbour sun setting behind us. "I'm nauseous" Jen said lying down on the mangrove pole bed. It would take her three uncomfortable days to acclimatize to seasickness.
We woke before sunrise to the crew pulling up the anchor and the lights of Mocimboa do Praia still visible above the stern. A quick check of the GPS revealed we'd sailed a whole 5,3 kilometers in the night. Sailing onward until about midday in brisk winds got us to the first island of Metundo, about 40 kilometers from Mocimboa. This slow pace and the fact the islands to the north were privately owned, off limits to random visitors, led me to decide not to sail all the way to the top of the archipelago. It'd be difficult going sailing against the wind (contra winte) and would take about four days to get to Tecomagi Island. Quifuqui and Metundo islands were to be the apex, from here we'd head south with the Kaskasi wind.
This difficult decision made, we dropped anchor off Metundo and swam ashore. The tide was low so the boat could only go so far. Once ashore we picked our way carefully over the exposed dead coral rock. Pitted and razor sharp, the endless beach has a stark lunar appearance. The surreal seascapes of flashing white and electric blue against the black coral arrested my eye; the old twin lens reflex camera was working hard.
"I think those men have weapons."
Three men stood watching us from beneath palm trees on the beach. Jen was right I could clearly see a machete. Good start, I thought. We approached the men looking purposeful while I felt as though we should be sprinting in the opposite direction. I noticed one was clutching arrows and a bowstring cut across his chest. Their faces sun-burnt blue, were deadpan, unfathomable and mentally my laces were tied. Still, feeling like the first European to land, I lifted my hand "Boa tarde?"
Pedro and his two mates were working on the island, weaving roofing out of palm leaves, Makuti, they call it. He told me the island belongs to an Italian who lives in Pemba, it was "Privado" but seeing as though we'd come all this way we were welcome to have a swim in the tide pools, "Andaca" I'll show you... but we were to leave before sunset. The bow and arrows, by the way, are for hunting monkeys. Good eating around these parts, a change from fish.
There are no sharks here. Are there?
Languidly savouring the tanzanite blue waters, we stretched and enjoyed the isolation and privacy here. The casuarina trees softened the harsh afternoon light on the white sand, providing welcome shelter. We lost track of time, or as we were fast learning, we lost track of tide. This little indulgence saw Jen and I swimming about two kilometers back to the boat in now deep water. Even though I know sharks don't patrol these tidal shallows, I still had the theme song from Jaws play itself to me as I swam while night fell.
Waking to the deep bass sounds of wood on wood, canvas cracking in the wind, and melodic Makua voices we found ourselves heading south to a speck on my chart; Ilha Suna.
Now on this chart halfway between where we were and where we were going is an island called Ilha Niuni. Only thing, it's not actually there. Assan laughed at this map showing a sand spit to be an island. The spit only appears at the lowest of tides. White men know nothing.
We stopped on Suna for a couple of hours, taking the time to walk around it. It's scrubby bush and sharp coral beach didn't offer much. The southern beach is temporary home to fishermen who bring water across from Mocimboa to survive here.
Mechanga, seven and a half kilometers away was similar, though slightly bigger. It has the ruins of a concrete building on the southern side, and the tractor carcass on blocks pointed to the ruined dreams of an ambitious farmer. Nothing more to report, at sunrise it was a speck behind us
-ends.
All text and photographs © Evan Haussmann / www.autopia.co.za
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