Dhow Safari in Mozambique
Part 4: Time is of little consequence
By Evan Haussmann
Jen and I spent a couple of days on Mogundula Island relaxing in the "islandscape" our imaginations had created long before, while sitting at the desk staring at this screen. The migrant fishermen were friendly, helpful and interested enough to spend ages communicating the most rudimentary details of their routine. Time is of little consequence to these guys, but not to us, we reluctantly pushed on toward Ilha do Ibo.
Winds were fine and we made relatively good time. En route we passed a neat little island, Rolas, with inviting sand spits and bent palms over golden sands. We edged the dhow toward its cove which brought out a dark figure spying us with binoculars, the crew muttered "...something... something ... privado" the figures' flapping right arm was in no way to be construed as beckoning us so we moved off toward a much bigger land mass poking its expectant belly above the wavelets.
Voodoo Island? What voodoo island?
From far away I could see powerboats and Hobie Cats bobbing amongst the freshly painted dhows. Passing by, the beaches revealed the ubiquitous sun lounger, umbrella arrangements and strings of wooden chalets spread all along the northwestern beach. This was the massive holiday resort on Motemu Island. Passing the islands' southern tip we saw the fringe of a large makuti village and off its southeastern beach was another tiny island; Manuel da Silva. The crew ignored this island and headed toward the next and biggest stretch of beach. Ibo.
I discovered later, on Ibo, that Manuel da Silva is a "voodoo island." This may have been why the crew pressed solemnly onward. The locals come here to cast spells on thieves or heal disease. The presence of a small mosque was confusing until we realised the locals have incorporated their traditional beliefs into the organised religions the early explorers brought.
Welcome to Ibo Island, we’re leaving.
Ibo is the capital of the Querimba archipelago. Historically, the island was colonized by Portuguese and Arab traders who utilized it as a trading post. The abundance of fresh water and fertile soil make it habitable. Today it supports about 3500 permanent residents and is, with ever increasing momentum, becoming a tourist attraction. It has the feel of a place forgotten by time, the old style architecture crumbling regally. In places people have built their huts inside the roofless ruins. The thick walls of buildings have become the anchors for large, well-established trees in places. Silversmiths making intricate jewellery from old coins today inhabit a massive waterfront fort built in the 1800’s. The fishermen used to find coins for smelting on the dry ocean bed at low tide. We found bits of china, pottery and beads in the sand all around the island. The tidal range is unusually great, and at the lowest tides goes out a kilometre or two leaving massive sections of ‘beach’ to scour for treasures.
It was a real treat to arrive and be welcomed by the guys at Ibo Island lodge. Being able to speak my own language to strangers was a novelty. To top that, after drinking warm, algae-ridden water for days, downing a sweet, cool Fanta became an orgasmic super-treat, and then to chase it with a cold beer; all-out hedonism. Barry welcomed us to the island in this way and put us up in the main house of what is becoming a large boutique hotel. Beds and showers, hot meals with real meat! It's incredible how these things we take for granted in our daily lives can become absolute luxuries in another context. Perhaps more interestingly, how quickly we become used to them again.
The Ibo island lodge was a nice break in our routine of living rough on the rudimentary craft. But very soon we were ready to leave.
Our crew had abandoned us on the very day we'd landed here, squeezing me for every penny and t-shirt and water drum and rice and and and... They were not prepared to wait a couple of days and then proceed toward Pemba, for whatever lost-in-translation reason. It boggled my mind. In short, we experienced a low-key mutiny.
Initially, Ibo was pleasant and our hosts great. But once you've walked the dusty streets and visited the graveyards with Chinese inscribed tombstones, marvelled at the forts, the churches and mosques you're left with absolutely nothing to do. Now, I'm sure by the time these lodges are up and running satellite TV and fishing/diving charters will provide plenty distraction to visitors. But not right now for us. It took six increasingly long days to get away. Each time we thought we had a dhow to take us onward the deal fell through because the boat was leaking. Or the captain was sick.
We made deal, but not with these guys!
Departure was at dawn; with two totally different crew members to the ones I'd struck a deal with the day before. I wasn't too perturbed by this, we were just so happy to be moving. As the sun rose over the island the windless glass we were poling the dhow through, was shattered by massive raindrops. I could imagine the guys on Ibo laughing at our situation.
The new dhow was a third of the size of Victoria 2006 meaning we had to stack our kit, which meant finding anything, required major effort. The upside was that all our gear could be covered in a flash with one piece of canvas. On a downside, this dhow was a sieve. We poled and baled the five or six kilometre stretch through beautiful mangroves to Querimba Island in heavy rain. Along the way we passed people in canoes, one rotund passenger was sitting back regally under an umbrella while a wet skinny kid paddled them frantically. We passed a muddy spit, the stilted mangrove trees sheltering a family standing about silently over a mound of suitcases and bags waiting for a lift. The surreal scenes of the morning could have been from some weird apocalypse film.
Beating the tide, we poled up to the bustling on Querimba Island and went in search of the owner, Herr Gersner. A man of German extraction who is purported to have walked here from central Africa decades ago. He and his wife settled here and through the years turned the island into a sustainable coconut and beef farm. Unfortunately we weren't able to meet the man, and his story will remain one of local Querimba lore to us.
Sailing half a bed in a monsoon
The following night the storms pummelled our leaky craft and the lack of wind caused us to run aground between islands in the middle of the night. Lightning struck the water all around the boat. Our mast was to all intents and purposes the only conductor for miles, but taking a cue from the unfazed crew, I didn't fret about being struck. They weren't panicking, why should I? I'd still like to know how safe we actually were, I think? While I was whooping it up in the driving rain, Jen crept in under cover and slept fitfully dodging rivulets running through holes in the plastic sheeting. Because this dhow was way smaller our beloved bed was balancing precariously and divided by the mast and sail. I'm amazed she slept at all sailing along on half a bed in a monsoon.
In the morning the tide allowed us to approach Mefumvo, a big island populated by the ubiquitous fishermen. We bought bread, ate and moved on. We were now on the home stretch. The wind was contra again and by midday, the crew mewling, frustrated, turned back and covered the distance that we'd laboured over all morning in about 20 minutes.
The rest of the day was spent on Quisiva watching the fishermen watch us while first pummelling their octopus catches into the beach sand with heavy sticks. Then tying the beaten mass to stakes to roll about in the shore break before rinsing and removing the now tenderised delicacy. Kids whacked each other with handfuls of sand and screeched revenge. When someone got a fist full of sand slung under her little eyelid the screaming surprisingly didn't bring an irate Mama from her hut, but the kids were left to resolve the issue themselves. Quietly taking in the village scene it occurred to me, these people must have lived this way forever. If I mentally removed the few bits of modern evidence the scene was timeless. The "mental removal" was easy, t-shirts (with 50 Cent emblazoned across the front) nylon ropes, plastic baskets and the occasional pair of dark shades. Everything else was made from wood, stone, bark or palm fronds. The sudden belting of a ghetto blaster fast-forwarded my thought train back to the present.
People appeared in their finest garb and the dancing began. I realised today was a Friday. The young guys grooved in the sand each individual twisting his torso in his own interpretation of attractive to the gathering girls swaying on the fringes of the dance floor. People in clubs and bars across the planet work double shifts for months to afford to do their own suave manoeuvres in a backdrop like this.
We dodged rain and lighting again that night and set off pre-dawn in a very light wind which gave way to dead calm and steamy heat again that day. This, our last day was possibly the toughest. I knew we were close to Pemba and the GPS confirmed it. But in reality we were going nowhere really, really slowly. We all took turns poling when it was shallow enough or rowing when it wasn't. I constructed an oar out of a diving flipper and short pole, blistering my hands just so the GPS would say 1.5km/hour rather than one. The boat edged past Quipaco Island, the headland of Pemba town growing like a treacled time-lapse bonsai on our horizon. As we rounded the infamous, ship wrecking Ponta Diablo (Devils' Point) I felt a bit more relaxed. This was the only part of this trip where we would be out in open sea and though slow, it wasn't the unsafe, treacherous crossing some had warned me about.
We were beyond ecstatic when a gentle breeze came up and nudged the leaky little dhow into the Pemba town bay. We covered the last few kilometres easily. We unpacked amidst a gathering throng of onlookers and in the frenzy of the towns' Sunday football match found a truck to transport our gear back to Pete's. We settled into a restaurant dinner of pizza and ice cold beer accompanied by the first fresh vegetable salads of the entire trip. Again we relearned appreciation of things we take for granted at home. We'd successfully closed the ragged circle of a challenging round trip, started about three weeks before.
Laying between clean sheets after a hot shower and a healthy meal, I felt warm gratitude overshadow the sting of sunburn and blisters for the support we'd received at all stages of this trip. In this time we'd experienced a largely untouched area and it's resourceful, resilient people during a time of irreversible and accelerating change. I view this as a privilege and am honoured to have had the support of Robert and the team at Blacks who, remaining true to the spirit of their brand, were adventurous themselves in allowing me to take on this epic journey. Many thanks for their faith and vision, not to mention the mountain of gear.
We all know the greater the challenge the greater the reward. And many thanks to you the reader; I look forward to taking you all along with me on our next trip. And as always it will be the hard way.
Gear List
Passports & money
Tent
Water purifier & drums
MSR Cooker, pots, cutlery & crockery
Fuel (for Cooker) paraffin
GPS compass & chart
Cotton clothing (long and short sleeved shirts and pants)
Reef shoes
Sunhat & glasses
Backpacks & waterproof bag(s)
Tarpaulin with eyelets & rope
Knife
Fire starter (waterproof)
Portuguese phrasebook
Goggles & snorkel
Sarongs go a long way to protect you from the sun, prying eyes and serve beautifully as a sheet to sleep under.
My tips for the Mozambique dhow traveller
Language: Take along your best Portuguese or a phrase book; very few people (none, really) speak English in the remote areas. You may be able to use your Swahili if you have it.
Malaria: While Mozambique is a very high risk area, the lack of still bodies of fresh water on the islands coupled with gentle breezes ward these little buggers off. I avoid taking the antibiotic prophylactics; instead I took along a course of Coartem to treat the disease should I contract it. Don't forget to take along a blood test kit for self-diagnosis. I'd strongly advise against using Larium, the side effects could be serious.
NB. Please note: Since this is my personal opinion, please take this advice as a reference but do visit your doctor for an expert opinion.
Water: Fresh potable water is scarce especially on the islands. We carried five 20-liter drums filled at a well recommended by Genevieve. We still boiled it as well as taking along bottled water for drinking. I also took a water purifier in case. I also recommend carrying a few sachets of a powdered isotonic drink mix for the extra glucose and to sweeten the taste of the well water.
Clothing: The area never gets very cold, even at night. Long-sleeved t-shirts, socks and zip-leg pants are imperative to ward off mosquitoes as well as to protect against sunburn. Blacks supplied me with a great pair of "canvas" rip-stop pants with zip-off legs. I lived in these, they dry very quickly after a swim, and when night fell I'd simply zip the legs on as a precaution against the mozzies. A broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses are invaluable, as is a lightweight "pack-jack" compact, stuff able rain-jacket with hood for those short, sharp bursts of tropical showers. Reef-shoes (Velcro-strap sandals) protect your feet from rocks and thorns and come into their own when crossing coral reefs or while beaching through the shallows where urchins and other spiky sea-creatures lie in wait.
While this is by no means a comprehensive list of gear supplied by Blacks, the clothing items I've listed were the most useful and important.
Food: We took along our own supplies of dried foods, Soya, pasta, etc. and an assortment of canned meats and fruit and spices. These supplies were a luxury well worth the effort of transporting them. The alternative would have been plain rice, bread, fresh fish (when available) and coconuts. There are virtually no fresh fruit or vegetables available, especially at this time of year (February).
GPS Co-ords
Should you want the co-ordinates as recorded on the trip please email me via my website: www.autopia.co.za
Ends
All text and photographs © Evan Haussmann / www.autopia.co.za
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