Currently Going With The Warm Mozambique Flow - Zavora

The main artery running north to south through Mozambique is the EN1 highway, with subsidiary roads splitting off like veins to the east and west, taking travellers to their final destinations.







These roads provide the lifeblood for millions of Mozambicans who depend on traffic flow to survive. Small hamlets dot both sides of the roads, giving vendors, shop owners, informal traders, and artisans a chance to make a living.





At the beginning of a township and again towards the end, one often finds a school or nursery school, and children of all ages walk or ride their bicycles to school, using the EN1 as a thoroughfare where they expect safe passage.







Traffic officials vigilantly police speed limits in these areas, and roadblocks are set up to check necessary documentation. This is a conundrum we’ve learned. We were flagged down for speeding, doing 66 km/h in a 60 km/h area. The 1000 metical fine, or, to make the paperwork disappear, a 500 metical “donation,” is accepted in cash. No receipts.





That incident has been our only run-in with police or traffic officers. Our Honey Badger glides through since her beautification. Once the formalities are settled and we’ve greeted each other in our broken Portuguese and English, the enquiries shift to our destination and where we’ve come from. The map on the side of the Badger is a great aid, and Butch’s red marker pen shows precisely where we’ve been.





We do have our favourite watering holes and always stop at the Toll Bridge cafe for breakfast or lunch depending on our direction. Truckers on long-haul trips and locals dine here. It is our introduction to the real deal. Nothing has changed over the years.

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Road maintenance is reasonably good, and potholes might appear only on the remotest stretches of the highway. Heavy summer rainfall has also contributed to some of the damage. Like in India, everyone has the right of way at once, and oncoming traffic has to make way. It freaks me out, but once you get into the swing of things, at the slower pace, everyone has time to swerve or make way. I haven't experienced any road rage; motorists indicate when it’s safe to overtake, and oncoming traffic often warns motorists about speed cameras, etc. Soft horn toots are friendly, not intimidating or aggressive.





There are many taxis. A taxi is a vehicle of any age or condition that is fit or not to transport people and/or goats. Owning a motorcar, minivan, or bakkie is a luxury few can afford, so “public transport” is vital, especially in rural areas. There are no weight restrictions or passenger restrictions. We once travelled in a taxi with 33 other passengers, with luggage, bags and my vanity case. I have nightmares when I see open bakkies carrying standing passengers (you can fit more if they’re packed like sardines in a tin). Seeing school children travelling like that is hair-raising. We all know nothing good can come of it if the driver, which often happens, loses control of the vehicle. Officials seldom stop these vehicles.

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Once we left the highway and continued our journey to our destination, Zavora, many roads became “next level.” Sandy or muddy would depend on recent rainfall. When the red sand slowed us or bogged us down, we’d call a pit stop, Butch would deflate our tyres, and I’d make my signature gourmet Pao’s. Lettuce, tomato, cheese, avocado and gammon with a generous sweep of Hot English Mustard. That would be our standard fare. For dessert, we had jelly babies, wine gums, or a slice of fruit roll. In the heat, we keep our water bottles full to stay hydrated. Butch knows it’s time for a coffee when my chin drops to my chest, and my gentle exhalations become more audible than our book.



White plastic bags strung up on dead trees and branches, waving in the breeze, signal the sale of cashew nuts —delicious, irresistible snacks sold in small bags for next to nothing. When we stop, sellers run up to our open windows to display their offerings. We have since bought raw peanuts in the shell, bananas, enormous pineapples, and delicious, buttery avocados.

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Luxury holidays to islands and coastal lodges are trendy. Guests fly in and are whisked off in Land Cruisers to glamorous spas and hotels where they are pampered from dawn to dusk and are expected to do as little as possible for as long as they can. I get the appeal, but I find it sad that many tourists miss the authenticity of countries like Mozambique by protecting themselves from often complex realities. More importantly, they miss the smiles and bright colours, too. Being cocooned in this way heightens perceived fears. Instead of deeper understanding, we build fortresses where we imprison ourselves, and old prejudices remain unchanged, limiting the richness of experience and leaving us to return home relaxed and tanned, with anxieties and stress bottled up but poorer in understanding, humility, or compassion.







We were ready to experience everything Zavora had to offer when we parked the exhausted Honey Badger on the lodge’s driveway. We told the manager our only criteria: we wanted to be as close to the beach and ocean as possible.







For divers and snorkelers, Zavora is a top destination. It offers numerous coral reefs, subtropical fish, and manta rays. Two well-known shipwrecks are the Dutch troop carrier Klipfontein (built in 1939) and the Rio Sainas. 



For snorkelers like us, the renowned coral and rock "pool" accessible at low tide is a dream. We could walk along a rock shelf to the circular pool, the size of a football field. At high tide, fish enter the pool, and as the tide recedes, they are trapped inside. Amateur divers like us can snorkel at low tide and see virtually all the fish swimming in that area.







A few minutes later, we were shown to our campsite atop a dune overlooking a postcard-perfect beach and aquamarine sea. The tide was high, but we were assured that in the morning we’d be able to walk for miles, beachcombing.





We’d dined in the lodge’s dining room on a previous visit and would do so again. After a day of heavy driving, I encouraged Butch’s yen to relax and unwind. With our chairs facing the endless rolling waves crashing onto the beach, we sat with our drinks and let our minds take it all in. Ozone was what our lungs and blood corpuscles craved.







March was the off-season; we were the only diners that night, and the chef treated us to prime cuts of Dorado. Do-rade is a small fish with tender white flesh, shimmering silver skin, and, when grilled or fried, a rich, succulent, meaty flavour similar to pompano or red snapper.





We enjoyed our well-prepared, perfectly grilled, buttery fish and would return the following evening for the same dish. For dessert, the barman spoiled Butch with a well-made Don Pedro, while my virgin Don Pedro, with a strong espresso, hit my sweet spot.



I went to bed and sighed contentedly. 







The next day, I jiggled my rotund way into a bather, sipped my morning coffee in my chair on the dune, and wrapped my kikoi around my waist, watching the tide recede as predicted.





We set off with my little cotton bag, a freebie from the Italian bus company, our water bottles, my lip gloss, a plastic bag, and my phone. Beachcombing is slow, and I enjoy taking my time. I inspect every rock and tidal pool. From afar, I work out the best route to make the most of my search for pretty or unusual shells. Sometimes small subtropical fish get trapped in the pools as the tide recedes, and I enjoy spotting them.







Sea birds were a pleasant surprise. On previous visits to Mozambique, we had seen only crows and a handful (we could count them on one hand) of other birds. To and fro, they dashed on their spindly legs, leaving no mark on the shimmering water, just a faint footprint. Beautiful, joyful little tits and babblers! We were thrilled to see them again after so many years.





A few fishermen set their lines and nets while divers pulled on their flippers. We’d stop to look inquisitively at the day’s catch on our return. We were, indeed, in the market for oysters; we told one diver. He promised to look us up later.

 







Lunch was two dozen fresh oysters, shucked right on our doorstep. We had lemons, freshly cracked black pepper, local piri-piri, and a dodgy bottle of Tabasco sauce I dug out of the back of my spice cupboard to go with them. The sea on our tongues! Next to me, Butch was tucking into the oysters with great abandon. Not quite Casanova, who was reputed to eat 50 oysters a day!







Fishermen returned later in the afternoon, when the tide came in, to sell their catch to guests. We were bowled over by the two enormous crayfish the two men brought our way. Unfortunately, they had been speared. We’re not keen on speared crayfish; we prefer them caught. Sometimes sand gets trapped in the flesh when the spear is removed. The crunch of sea sand on my tongue sets my teeth on edge and is not appealing.

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A special treat: my first morning coffee in my night clothes. On our second day, I did some housekeeping and caught up on my laundry, which had been piling up. With everything spic and span, I spent the rest of the afternoon in my hammock, swinging, reading, and dozing. A treat I rarely afford.



I unpinned our laundered sheets and towels from the washing line and couldn’t resist bringing handfuls of cloth to my face, taking deep breaths of fresh, clean ocean air and Skip. Few things are more satisfying than that. Ask any housekeeper. I folded my laundry carefully before stowing it.

Excitedly, we unpacked our Thule to find our snorkelling equipment, only to discover that my goggles had no head strap and our flippers had no ankle straps. It showed how well prepared we were; taking things for granted can leave you in the lurch. 



With borrowed goggles and our booties on, we made our way along the rocks to the tidal pool. Locals were also setting out to harvest crayfish, mussels, oysters and fish. A kaleidoscope of fish, in every description, size, colour and species, glided and swam, dodging and diving, hiding in dark crevices. Colourful fins swayed to the rhythm of the seagrass. Healthy corals thrived in the warm waters, and we found it fascinating and exhilarating. As I floated, buoyed by the warm water, I lost touch with the realities of my life. In this warm-water womb, I blended with my environment and the ocean's silent ebb and flow.

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I always try to give a fair review of the campsite we stay at. COVID wreaked havoc on Mozambique's tourism industry, and many lodges, hotels, and backpackers closed their doors. The Zavora Lodge survived but needs a lot of work. Not much maintenance has been done since the new owners took over a year or two ago. The campsites are very basic. Electricity and water are available. We had a shady gazebo where we enjoyed our meals. The ablutions, although basic, were clean; the tepid showers were OK. I could wash and rinse my hair. We enjoyed our stay, didn't expect much, and were quite comfortable. Once the aftermath of Freddie and COVID has been cleaned up, Zavora Lodge will meet the standards travellers to these parts expect.









Although we don't plan our routes and itineraries far in advance, we make exceptions, especially when we can spend time with friends or family. Our camping buddies, Sue and Percy, would be in Tofo, a fishing village near Inhambane. We hadn’t seen them for five months and needed to catch up and share a long, big hug.

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After our online chat, we couldn’t contain our excitement any longer and decided to head up to Tofo a day earlier than expected. Our arms, shoulders and legs were regaining their golden colour. We felt invigorated, healthy and eager to explore one of our favourite destinations.



Who says old age is not for sissies? There’s never a dull moment, and retirement is exhilarating. My theory that sunshine on the skin, blue skies and the ocean reflected in our eyes are antidepressants which will be proven one day!