Good, Better, Mozambique

It’s a long, winding road to Lua No Mar, a cottage on the beach in Tofo, a pinprick on the map of Mozambique in the Province of Inhambane. This is the place of long white beaches, mosquitoes, sand fleas, balmy days, and the friendliest, most accommodating people in Africa. Vasco da Gama, the scoundrel who landed there around 1498, called it “The place of the gentle people.”  

To while away the 2400km and approximately 24 hours strapped into a vehicle, we enjoyed Stephen Fry's "The Fry Chronicles," narrated by Stephen Fry, a delightful book titled "Runaway" by Peter May, and "The History of the Rain" by Niall Williams. All excellent choices, well read and most enjoyable.

We know you so well, Stephen, that we're expecting an invitation to the forthcoming wedding! Road trips are shortened by www.audible.co.uk, also available from www.amazon.co.uk. I have a subscription that entitles me to one download per month, delivered wirelessly to my iPod (or any smartphone, I'm sure).

For us, it was a race against time because we had an important deadline to meet, our children were arriving from Canada, and we had to meet them at the airport. On day one, we hit the road at 1H00 and arrived in Pongola at 15H00, right on schedule.

We entered Swaziland at the very convenient and efficient “Onverwacht” border control near Pongola. Official business was quickly taken care of, and we set off, driving through the lush green sugar cane estates, sometimes dodging herds of Ngunis, goats, cyclists, overloaded vehicles, and potholes.

Rumours had been flying around about traffic officials in Mozambique, bribery, unnecessary fines, and general unpleasantness, so before we left, we made sure we had all our ducks in a row and were prepared for any eventuality. Just as well, because as we'd hardly set foot in the country, we spotted the hand.

We immediately put on our hazard lights (this was one reason for a motorist’s fine) and came to a slow, gentle halt. The officer approached our vehicle, greeted us, asked about our destination, and waved us along, wishing us a pleasant stay and journey in Mozambique! Our jaws dropped.

That was the first of many, many stops, and each one was handled in the same courteous, friendly, non-aggressive way! Hats off to the Mozambique Traffic Authority. It was great to be back in Mozambique with its roadside mayhem, potholes, bikes, beasts, colourful stalls, and cheerful citizens.

The Honeypot was our first stop, a campsite with self-catering one-bedroom wooden chalets, communal ablutions, and a restaurant. It was situated on the EN1 near Xai-Xai. I was delighted to spend the night there. Our accommodations suited us perfectly; although the room was small, it was neat as a pin, clean, and very affordable.

Our meal in the restaurant was good; our first Laurentinas and 2Ms were ice-cold and just what a weary traveller needed. We were ravenous and thoroughly enjoyed the Portuguese Piri-piri chicken, salad, and chips, which were especially good with a good glug of “All Gold”. I slept like a log and didn’t fret about our vehicle or the precious surfboard strapped onto the roof rack; the security was that good. Oh! And the showers get the “thumbs up” from me!

On day 2, we had a deadline to meet, so we were up at 3H30 and off we went as the sun came up just after 4H00. The EN1 is the jugular vein of Mozambique. Villages line the way; most local trade and industry take place there. It’s colourful, vibrant, exciting, and frenetic.

My knitting was packed away as soon as we hit the road because I love the sights and sounds of life along this busy artery. I’m always astounded by the pace, the improvements in living conditions, the rise in the economy, and the road’s good condition!

Gone are the potholes, diversions, and broken-down or abandoned vehicles. Speed regulations are something else and often quite confusing, but they need to be taken seriously. Traffic officers are on duty in almost every village, even at 4h00! We got the impression that there was a definite change in policy regarding “foreign visitors,” which was a pleasant change.

We rolled into Inhambane at 8h30; my throat tightened as we drove past the cemetery where two years ago a delightful young man with a lust for life and endless energy was laid to rest, a keen scuba diver who suffered a shallow-water blackout just off the reef in Tofo. An ancient gardener was shuffling about, tending the wildflowers on a clear, blue-skied, endless summer’s day.

There was time for breakfast, so we stopped at the Inhambane harbour and, to our delight, saw that the Peixe Bistro was still in operation. Our first impression was that business was still booming, and early-morning customers were already enjoying their first or second espressos.

The shy waitress is still there, and her English has improved considerably. We ordered breakfast and waited... and waited... and waited for almost an hour. My nerves were shot by the time we were served. Two later arrivals were served quite promptly. I’m certain someone had to hot-foot it to the Market for supplies—so typical of Mozambique.

One forgives quickly. I believe the management has changed, which shows. A pity. Such a good location, with so much potential—I hope it’s still around next time we visit. I know the old rusting fishing vessels, with the tide gently lapping their hulls, will be there, and the Dhows will still be sailing to Maxixe.

It took us 45 minutes to reach Tofo and unpack our overburdened Land Cruiser. We hugged and kissed our Amelia and gave quick instructions on how to prepare the bedrooms, unpack the crates, fill the ice trays, and get everything spic and span for our guests, who were up in the air. Poor Precious had to put his foot down to get us to the airport on time, and we just made it with a few minutes to spare. The LAM flight was touching down as we screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust.

Much to my horror, I couldn’t contain myself any longer and burst into great, heaving sobs as my boy and his lovey disembarked. With shaking shoulders and a heaving chest, I managed to snap a few for the memory bank. My boy was back on African soil, and I couldn't be happier.