Caldeira And Ferreira Went To Beira

“Caldeira and Ferreira went to Beira” was what we’d chant as small children. We were probably being brattish, but to our credit, the Ferreiras joined in proudly.

“What did you do for the holidays?” was on everyone's lips when we returned to school. Teachers, friends and rival gangs (they were a thing) would ask. “Oh, we went to Beira.” was one of the stock answers. Beira. How I wished we could go to Beira.

My friends went there by ship or train, or drove up from Maputo. My shoulders would slump in disappointment. We only went as far as Maputo, and once to San Martino. Jealousy oozed from every pore as a tear slid down my berry-brown cheeks. Envy overshadowed my glorious holidays.

At night, I’d lie in bed and conjure up all sorts of pictures of Beira, my mind’s ultimate destination. If Maputo was fantastic, Beira was unimaginable. At last, after fifty-four years, I was going to Beira. It might be past its heyday, everyone warned. I didn’t give a hoot.

---oOo---

Back on the EN1, we left Gorongosa National Park. Butch, with his inflamed leg, couldn’t risk me driving; he said it would take us weeks to reach the tar road. I was just too cautious. I couldn’t argue, but he promised I’d drive once we were back on the tar road.

The road seemed even worse this time. There were more broken-down vehicles. The potholes were deeper, and the dongas even deeper. Someone said, “The dongas are so deep that cell phones lose connectivity!”

At the filling station, where we stretched our legs and filled up with fuel, Butch announced, before marching off into the bushes to relieve himself, “I’m sorry, Maricha, but that is the last time I take that route.”

"Too bad we’ll miss Caia!" he yelled over his shoulder. For once, we agreed. Everyone said a visit to Caia would be the highlight of our journey in Mozambique, but it was off the cards for us.

 ---oOo---

At Inchope, I took the wheel of the Honey Badger. Butch put his feet up on my ring cushion, set up the navigation equipment, and contacted people in Beira for information.

I did everything possible to make the journey as pleasant as possible. I was extra vigilant. I kept my eye on the speedometer, road signs, speed limits, potholes, sudden curves, speed bumps, speed traps, and traffic officers, but even with all that, my co-pilot couldn’t resist a quip now and then. Urgh. We were pulled over once, but the friendly cop had got the memo to be polite to foreign vehicles and didn’t even ask for my licence. Disappointed, I stalled the truck. Not even that got his attention.

---oOo---

Our ETA would be at the height of mid-afternoon traffic. While I cautiously navigated cars, buses, heavy vehicles, goats, cattle, bikes, tuk-tuks, Indian motorbikes, and a gazillion pedestrians walking, pushing carts or shopping at the roadside stalls, Butch got hold of Nico and Madeleine.

Madeleine sent us a pin drop with directions to the private hospital; Nico would meet us there. We were to stay in their yard at work, a large, secure site.

Nico’s assistant and right-hand man, Hezron, was assigned to guide us and interpret for the duration of our stay in Beira. A tuk-tuk was on standby to ferry us around at our command. It was a relief not to worry about directions in a foreign city. 

Our main objective was to get Butch’s leg sorted, then decide on an itinerary.

---oOo---

By day two, Butch was back on his feet, armed with a load of medication, a good book, and a hotel reservation, where he’d spend his days with his feet propped up while Hezron and I explored the city, ran errands, and kept an eye out for our evening meal.

Our mode of transport was a Tuk-Tuk. Nippy in traffic, cool in humid weather, and with our clued-up driver, we missed every pothole, puddle and pedestrian. I loved walking out of the hotel and into my awaiting Tuk-Tuk, which would slip effortlessly into the stream, and off we’d go. The anonymity of travelling in “local” transport made me feel inconspicuous. I got away with some extraordinary street photography.

 ---oOo---

Like many cities after independence, Beira underwent tremendous transformation. Then a long, protracted, and devastating civil war descended on the city, plunging it into near-total chaos within a few years. Famine, disease and poverty followed.

In 2000, the Mozambique flood devastated Beira and the surrounding region, leaving millions homeless and severely damaging the local economy.

In March 2019, Cyclone Idai severely damaged the city, destroying up to 90% of it. It struck on March 14, 2019, with winds of up to 177 km/h (106 mph), causing flooding up to six metres deep across Mozambique.

As if that wasn’t enough, Cyclone Freddy hit just ahead of us in March 2023.

---oOo---

As a coastal city, the Port of Beira serves as a gateway to the country's central interior and to the landlocked countries of Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi. It is Mozambique's second-largest seaport for international cargo transport after Maputo.

Our hotel sat on the margin, with the Port of Beira on one side and the local fishing harbour on the other. We could lie in bed and watch the enormous cargo tankers, tugboats, pilot boats, fishing vessels and Dhows ploughing the waters.

---oOo---

The gorgeous doctor attending Butch graduated from the Higher Institute of Health Sciences. The city has two other public university campuses: Zambeze University (with headquarters and rectory) and Licungo University. This new generation of Mozambicans has lived through poverty and understands the value of a good education. Hezron said, “Without education, a child will have to fish from his canoe to feed his family as our fathers did.”

In our tuk-tuk, we explored the city, dropped off our laundry for washing, had Butch’s prescription filled at the pharmacy, stocked up on bandages and ointments, and I had the chance to photograph the many interesting historical sights dotted around the vast city.

We didn't explore the nightlife, but I'm sure there's a vibrant disco/dancing/party scene. The only remnant I saw was the Moulin Rouge nightclub near the port, a tired old lady of the night, her windmill blades flailing in the breeze. Her scarlet paintwork was a peeling scab. Those were the days, my friends; we thought they'd never end.

 ---oOo---

Like any big city, Beira’s skyline has changed. Tall, modern buildings of concrete, glass, and chrome dwarf Portuguese-inspired colonial buildings, cathedrals, churches, and government offices. Billboards, traffic lights, and strings of electrical cable do a jig in the sky.

Streets can be narrow or wide, double-lined, and either tarred or gravelled. On the pavements of most roads and streets, colourful informal trade takes place. We could buy fresh vegetables, fruit, water, SIM cards, airtime, a new pair of flip-flops, or a hat.

Shoppers weave in and out of stalls, shopping, chatting, or browsing. Pedestrians have the right of way in the street, causing traffic to stop or slow down. Local music is commonly played for everyone's enjoyment, adding to the cacophony of honking, sirens, and whistles.

I loved every minute. The very air vibrates with exciting, energetic life. Unlike in many other modern societies, the mobile phone hasn't quieted anyone down. Butch and I would often wonder what people had to talk about. The chatter never stops.

Every day, the same fisherman, housewife, stall owner, or scholar would talk with his friend on the way to work. They’d continue the conversation all day while plying their trade. The circle grew as other friends and colleagues joined. The conversation resumed at sunset, when the day ended, and continued well into the night as they went home, only to be picked up the very next morning. Amazing.

Friends laugh, families bond, colleagues discuss, and strangers talk. Everyone chats, listens, and feels acknowledged. It’s terrific, and our sophisticated, educated, liberated, wealthy societies need to do it.

 ---oOo---

Every city or suburb has a market. Fresh vegetable and fruit markets, fish markets, and general markets can’t be contained under one roof and, out of necessity, spill onto the pavements. I was fascinated by the tonnes of clothes people could buy.

Previously loved (second-hand) clothes, factory seconds, and unsold previous season’s clothes from Europe, the Far East and North America are bulked and shipped in containers to warehouses in Mozambique (we’ve come across this in Malawi and Tanzania too), where merchants buy these massive job lots of clothes to sell for pennies on the streets.

Soccer apparel is ubiquitous; teens sport the familiar logos of every European and English football team. Emirates is another well-known logo. Trendy brands, prominent ticks, vintage labels, Che Guevara and other iconic revolutionaries are plentiful. I have seen “I hate babies” emblazoned on a mother’s bosom, “Smoking kills” on a guy puffing a joint, and my personal favourite, “You inspire my inner serial killer!” on a toddler.

Football is played everywhere, and that Sunday a very important match would take place. Hezron was eager to buy his ticket for the game that afternoon. We were told that Beira beat Maputo.

 ---oOo---

Mozambicans are proud of their country and fellow citizens, and showing strangers and tourists around is an excellent opportunity to educate them and showcase their cities and national achievements. The national flag and the president’s portrait are proudly displayed everywhere, and no one ever says anything negative, even when they disagree with a political viewpoint. Hezron and I agreed: as long as the person in charge does their job and isn't there for personal gain, so be it. But if they're corrupt, they must be booted.

With Hezron, I saw many exciting landmarks. The Macuti lighthouse and its shipwreck were fascinating. It was amusing to find a wreck twenty metres from the lighthouse. Two guards stopped us and questioned us, reprimanding us for “observing” the lighthouse from the rear, which is illegal for security reasons, but from the shore (the better view) it is perfectly fine. A small token of our appreciation would’ve sufficed, but Hezron talked them out of that!

The central train station, another landmark, was an excellent example of 1960s architecture and Portuguese mosaic tiling. The great hall now doubles as a popular functions venue. Trains still run, and I'm pleased to report that passengers were waiting.

We rattled and chugged along tree-lined avenues lined with large pre-war mansions, and along the marginal, with its hotels, apartments, and villas. At the roundabout, he told me about Samora Machel, and at the Medical School, he described how students demanded Portuguese textbooks instead of English. He showed me his University and expressed his pride in his wife, who’s just completed her diploma.

The eye-opener was the luxurious and glamorous Grande Hotel Beira, frequented by “Rhodesians”. It opened in 1954 and operated until 1974, when it was closed. The building was used as a military base during the Mozambican civil war. It is currently happily occupied by over 3,500 squatters. The irony doesn't escape me.

---oOo---

Sunsets from our beachfront hotel, the Lunamar Hotel, were magnificent. We’d perch on the sea wall and take it all in. Weekends were a popular time for vendors to set up their kebabs, barbecues, sugar cane and fruit presses. Customers could buy cool drinks and ice creams (or a dram of hooch) from a car boot. Peanut and cashew nut vendors traded briskly, and potato fries were a hit.

The chap selling pineapple, ginger and cane juice had customers queuing. We didn’t mind the wait. As we watched him swing the arm of the antiquated press, we chatted with a young couple who must’ve thought we were pretty peculiar. They thought gin and tonic would be the usual tipple. No, we said we’d heard on the grapevine that we were in the right place. They agreed. We loved sipping our drinks while watching a large cargo carrier slip silently into the harbour.

 ---oOo---

At night, the city comes alive. With Hezron’s recommendations, we dined at some exquisite restaurants. Our first meal was lunch at the Sena Hotel, where we shared delicious, crispy samosas and I enjoyed perfectly prepared, fresh curried prawns.

According to TripAdvisor, we couldn’t go wrong with a meal at Restaurant Solange. We had a sumptuous meal there. It’s a modern, blue-lit party venue with a sunken bar and, I’m sure, a dance floor. The live music was upbeat and eclectic, and soon we were tapping our feet as a party of teenage girls, their friends, and parents celebrated their confirmation and took to the dance floor. Outside, tuk-tuks kept dropping off diners long after we flagged one down.

The dining room at our hotel served excellent grilled prawns, which we enjoyed on our first night. Our breakfasts with other guests were sans intérêt—a mediocre buffet. There we met the Beira Football team, who were under lockdown until after their game on Sunday evening. Only then could they celebrate that it had happened! On a few trips abroad, we've been amused by menu translations. Google Translate doesn't always get them quite right. We found this one particularly peculiar.

 ---oOo---

The highlight of our stay was a dining experience par excellence. Hezron made a reservation for us at his cousin’s restaurant, where his uncle was the chef. Restaurante do Chefe Anselmo – Cabana Frankut.

No menu; guests are invited to trust the chef, who sources fresh produce from fishmongers daily. This is a fishy experience! We settled in, ordered our drinks, and waited for our first course. Hezron didn’t let the cat out of the bag and waited with us, excited. Ours was a six-course extravaganza. Large mangrove crabs, steamed clams, crayfish, grilled line fish, tiger prawns, grilled calamari, and dessert.

Each dish was perfectly executed. Here, the main ingredient is the hero, and it shines. Seasonings, sauces, and garnishes are used sparingly; nothing detracts from the seafood, the hero of each course. 

This meal ranks among the best we’ve enjoyed on this trip and is probably the best for seafood.

We met the owner, a charming man, and his father, Chef Anselmo, a big, jolly fellow who told us a little about his visit to Cape Town, where he took part in a culinary event.

---oOo---

We wandered down the road from the yard where our Honey Badger was camping out for our last supper, and enjoyed a leisurely local meal at the neighbourhood restaurant.

 ---oOo---

While I was swanning around Beira with Hezron, Butch recuperated. His leg improved. The antibiotics, ointments and saline baths did the trick. His swelling subsided as the infection and gash healed.

Nico, Madelein, your assistants, and staff, thank you. Your local knowledge, thoughtful suggestions, kindness, and generosity saved our bacon and made our stay in Beira one for the books. We’ll remember it. You opened your arms and hearts to us without prejudice. You are the salt of the earth. We hope your fishing excursions bring bountiful catches whenever you go out to sea. May your business flourish and grow stronger as you continue to contribute to Beira’s economic growth.

Hezron, you were not only our guide but also a genuine friend who didn’t hesitate to help us, even at the expense of your family and work commitments. Your knowledge of and love for Beira are inspirational. We wish you every success in your career, and may the years ahead keep the wheels your ambition has set in motion turning. Thank you for being kind, patient and such good fun. You rank highly on our list of notable people we’ve met on our trip.

 ---oOo---

Beira has tree-lined boulevards, an eclectic mix of architecture, iconic buildings, wall art, sculptures, mosaics, music, murals, mystery, and modernity, all set around an estuary and rivers and protected by the ocean. It’s fascinating to casual visitors, intriguing to the curious, and home to the Sena people of Sofala.

Three photographs make me smile. The first represents the past, and the other the future. It might have been shocked that made me burst out laughing when I first saw the Grande Beira Hotel—the grotesqueness. My first thought was that it surely must be a symbolic "middle finger" to privilege, the colonial establishment and class, if ever there was one. The second photo represents the future. Five young boys who've turned their backs on the past and are now enjoying their freedom and civil liberties. 

 ---oOo--

Lastly, to the Ferreiras, Caldera's and every Tom, Dick and Harriet who spent holidays in Beira all those years ago, you were right to rave. I loved my time in Beira too.

It was time to saddle up and take the long road (a journey like Cape Town via Johannesburg) through southern Malawi to Ilha de Mozambique.

---oOo---