The Tofo Tango To Mozambeats

The weight of being South African slides off my shoulders, smooth as velvet, as I cross the border into Swaziland, and a lightness washes over me like an overdue sigh. Summer has taken its toll on us. The innocence of Africa welcomes us as we greet friendly border officials and navigate the bureaucratic red tape with ease.

We’re excited to reach our destination, Tofo, a small fishing village a stone’s throw from Inhambane. To get there, we bypassed Maputo’s frenetic bustle. On our first night at Tan-a-biki, after our evening beach walk watching local fishers haul their nets, we had a taste of local Piri-Piri chicken. Butch and Percy put their shoulders to the wheel, but soon realised their efforts were in vain as their shoulders burned. We needed an early start; R&R (rest and recuperation, not Rum and Raspberry) was a priority.

Our cottage on the beach was a welcome sight, and our housekeeper, Amelia, waited for us on the path to the open front door. Everything was as it should be. We couldn’t wait to grab our bathers and towels and dive into the warm Indian Ocean. Like the dingle, “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair, and send him on his way”, we wanted to cross names off our roll call, too!

Butch and I agree that this place is magical. Children love magic, so on our daily walks we wish our children and grandchildren could experience it. To encourage their parents, I thought it best to highlight the fine attributes on offer, in the hope that they will be tempted to experience it too, one day soon.

Children of all ages, I’ll keep it simple and tell you what we’d do, eat, and enjoy. I'll also try to entice you with photographs that invite you to use your imagination and senses to explore, through my eyes, the wonders of Tofo and Inhambane.

The sun rises over the dunes, and before long, groups of fishermen walk along the water’s edge towards their primitive yet sturdy wooden boats, many now fitted with small engines. While we pour coffee and enjoy our rusks, we watch them discuss the weather, tides, and wind direction as they load their rods, reels, bait, and tackle.

As the rays hit our veranda, we push off, then step into our bathers. We wrap and roll our Capulanas (the colourful cloths women of Mozambique wear as skirts and sarongs), settle our sun hats on our noggins, polish our sunglasses and lather on the sunscreen before stepping onto the sand for our morning walks along the beach or along the sandy tracks behind the dunes, where we get a sense of rural farm life.

Our grandchildren, we imagine, would run ahead of us, stop to splash in the rocky pools, and catch the small, colourful fish left by the tide. They’d fill their small woven grass baskets with seashells and bicker over the ones they’d missed. Along the way, they’d meet local children helping their parents with nets, pushing out their boats, or digging for bait, small prawns and other delicacies clinging to the rocks. We’d all stop for a swim, and they’d body surf with Grandpa, who’d enjoy his antics like a huge whale shark quietly sneaking up on them. 

We’d lay a table on the veranda or on the beach; we’d all pitch in to make the daily fruit salad, including the deliciously sweet ladies’-finger bananas and other varieties on sale. They could pick large pineapples, paw-paws, oranges, naartjies, and yellow and purple granadillas from the children selling fruit, using the opportunity to practise some Portuguese.

Some would accompany Glam’ma to the market to buy the freshest Pão (local Portuguese bread), a bottle of Tipo Tinto (local Rum), and suco de laranja (orange juice). Once the table was laid, we’d all sit down to a delicious brunch and chat about our walk and plan the rest of the day. 

By midday, it’s customary for the anglers to return to shore. If the catch is good, Grandpa and the boys are alerted by the exuberant banter, and they wander over to see it. Later, our supplier, whom we’d arranged to meet (negotiating a price for our daily fish when we arrived), would come over to the house. Grandpa would pick our supper from the selection offered, which might include Barracuda, Cuta, yellowfin tuna, red snapper, butterfish, Lemon fish, stumpnose, rock cod, and a few exotics we’re not familiar with.

Most days we’d roll down to our gazebo, permanently set up; Grandpa would pull up a chair to read while Glam’ma assumed the sun-worshipper's position. Now and again we’d dip our toes into the warm waters while the children had free rein to play, surf, bodyboard, build sandcastles, swim, jump, and do what children all over do best: build friendships with other children. We’d know where they were at all times, hearing them laugh and squeal with delight. 

When we’re thirsty, we’d buy a fresh, juicy coconut from a seller who’d slice the top off in a single swish of his machete. Once we’d quenched our thirst, he’d break the shell, exposing the white, soft, sweet flesh which we’d scoop out and eat.  From the Old Man we’d buy warm, scorched cashew nuts, plain for the littlies and piri-piri for the grown-ups (but knowing grandpa, even the littlies will soon be enjoying the hot, spicy morsels). 

To wash away the burn, we’d eat cool pineapple, holding the huge, fresh fruit like a popsicle, licking our fingers as juice ran down our arms and dripped from our elbows.  Sticky and smelling of coco-pine, we’d all need to swim.  While the children enjoyed the waves, I’d keep a watchful eye from my floaty, paddling to keep up with the kids, the tides, and the currents!

As the sun drew water, we’d make our way back to the house; some would grab the basket, shopping list, and community purse and head off to the market to stock up on fresh vegetables, saladings, spices, and beverages. Some would dash to the outside shower to wash away the salty sand from their betel-brown bodies, while others would count shells and listen to beautiful foreign accents drifting over from the neighbour strumming her guitar.

As the sky turns pink and we’ve been sprayed with mosquito spray, the children run outdoors to enjoy the cool breeze and the games starting up on the beach; for those with fancy footwork, it might be beach football or volleyball. We’ll polish our boules for a few games, winner takes all, and we (Butch and I) end up on bar duty! 

Sundowners could be watching the waves as the lights come on, or we’d meander off to the market to enjoy the many watering holes.  After a busy day, there’s nothing nicer than the collective sigh of relief heard as locals socialise, drums start beating a rhythm and the King and Queen open for trading.  Children are seen and heard; they are welcome, and it’s safe to jump in puddles after the rain or join a group of girls skipping, playing hopscotch, or playing hide-and-seek.

After a couple of toots, we’d link arms and wander down the beach to our veranda, light the candles, and burn mosquito coils.  We might wrap ourselves up in extra lengths of brightly printed cloth to ward off the chill.  While the fire is set to braai (barbecue) the fish or giant prawns, the girls prepare side dishes, making platters of garden salad, baked potatoes, brinjals, corn or butternut.  Simple, fragrant, sweet, tart, or bitter, all the ingredients are organic, homegrown, and lovingly tended by subsistence farmers who’ve been at it for generations.

While we wait for dinner, board games, card games, dice, puzzles, or word games are hauled out, and everyone makes a fool of themselves, gets thrashed, or is hailed a winner.  The children could set the table and light the candles, light up Grandpa’s grill and hold the platter for serving. Chilled wine, fresh fruit juice, or tiny Cokes in glass bottles would be served, and to everyone’s delight, we’d give thanks for another divine day in paradise.

With full tummies, our Grandchildren would fall asleep to our sing-song voices as we challenged each other to another game.  After coffee and chocolates or fresh fruit skewers, we’d carry the exhausted little bodies off to bed, tuck them in, kiss them on their foreheads and ask that they be blessed abundantly.

When the grown-up children go on date nights, we would gladly babysit, listening to music and the crashing of waves; Oupa and I might even dance- who knows. We'd suggest one of the many small eateries in the market, the new art gallery and the beach bar.  Sumi, the Japanese restaurant, needs an early reservation; the food is top-notch, service excellent and using fresh, local produce proves how eclectic flavours and cuisines can be produced anywhere.  The coffee shop above the diving school serves the best chocolate brownies and carrot cake for the sweet tooth.

Some days we’d go off to Inhambane to stock up.  We’d pop into the boys’ favourite hardware store for plenty of maintenance goodies.  We’d have coffee and breakfast at the harbour while watching the ferries and Dhows from Maxixe.  We might catch a ride on a tuk-tuk like tourists, take a sightseeing walk through the historic buildings, window shop, or nip into a few Indian stores selling a myriad of beautiful goods. 

The girls could try on fashionable pieces in one of the many boutiques opening.  Our last stop before home might be a bite to eat or an ice-cold Coke, never forgetting Grandpa’s favourite tipple, a 2M or Manica, at a bar, and we’d never return home without our favourite Pasteis de Nata, a traditional Portuguese custard tart for dessert. Grandma, who can never resist an artist, especially one with a smile, will stop to chat, admire and bargain until she has a splitting headache for a beautiful piece to take home.

A rendezvous at the Inhambane market, an irresistible mecca for bargain hunters, “window” shoppers and those who need retail therapy.  One’s yen for wooden carvings, local art,  gifts, souvenirs, fresh produce, fish, clothing, basketry, spices, toiletries or a sexy piece of lingerie can be satisfied in this maze.  

The following days could be taken up with kayaking, sailing a dhow,  snorkelling, collecting pansy shells on a tidal island, finding an elusive seahorse or just enjoying the sail, watching the capable captain trim his sail as we make our leisurely way along the bay, enjoying the quiet lapping of the waves against the bow as we tack and trim to do a spot of fishing.  We waited with anticipation for our guide to serve fresh coconut, bananas on Pao, succulent, watery pineapple chunks, cold 2M beers, and cold drinks.

As things stand, we can harvest our own coconuts, and with the help of a local guide who teaches us how to open the hard, nutty shell, releasing the sweet, cool milk, we're later able to serve delicious coconut shavings to our guests and chunks are packed for picnic snacks on our dhow trips. 

Like a child, I too enjoy making discoveries, and on inclement days we might visit new, unexplored places, find a quiet beach, watch dhows set sail, watch fishers with their nets, or watch local ladies barter for the best prices when the mackerel run.  

We might spoil ourselves with a five-star luncheon at the Green Turtle, the number one spot in all of Mozambique, or laze on a lounger at Neptune's Bar, ordering tapas of small, delectable dishes, washed down with cold Sauvignon Blanc.  The beach is never more than a few feet away, and the little ones would never be bored with all that sea and sand about.

When the days are sunny, and the waters are crystal clear, and no one wants to budge, we’d do our trading from our deck chairs or the daybed, as traders of all ages bring their wares to us.  With friendly smiles, handshakes and introductions, we’d get down to business.  Sometimes we’d have to be firm in our dismissal of them, explaining in no uncertain terms that we’re not interested in their selection of beads, bangles or bags.  We soon realised there were traders we had an affinity for, and we supported them.  Thankfully, in Mozambique everyone respects that, and no further fuss ensued.  These are perfect days for a little TLC, and the beach massages do the trick very nicely indeed.

Although our knowledge of the history is limited, we would tell our grandchildren about the history as we know it, emphasizing how, in 1972, when the civil war broke out, the Roman Catholic church, which was very active, upped and offed before the citizenry could say AK47.  Fear of change, civil war, and Rome cutting off financial aid drove the exodus.  Christianity died quietly and unnoticed as Mozambicans fought to stay alive, and until recently, youngsters knew very little about Christianity, although they often carved pieces depicting Jesus on the cross. 

We were astonished to see a revival: small meeting places and churches had sprung up everywhere. I noticed Amelia reading a Bible, and to our surprise, dear Bob Marley, our tailor extraordinaire, invited us to his Sunday church service.  After an unfortunate misunderstanding, only Sue and I managed to join him.  Arriving in his best suit and tie, he fetched us in his Toyota 4x4 bakkie (pickup truck).  A small, corrugated building nestled in a grove of coconut palm trees was where a small congregation, mostly women and children, received us.

With the help of a translator, we participated in an emotional service of much praise and worship, dancing, chanting, and playacting.  Storytelling is still practised, and here congregants were taught the benefits of consulting a medical Doctor or clinic instead of visiting a traditional healer with ulterior motives, as is customary.  Although I’m sure much was lost in translation, and I did feel like a character from The Poisonwood Bible, a missionary who gets it all wrong, I was deeply touched by the genuine, unadulterated faith, joy and respect everyone has. 

It was refreshing to see the word of God applied to their lives and circumstances, not the dogma force-fed or indoctrinated by a multimillion-dollar church in a first-world country. I saw the words of Matthew come alive when he said: “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” And “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”  Sue and I returned home excited to share our experience.  Sadly, Amelia was very disappointed that we’d not have an opportunity to visit her congregation too!

In January 2017, a devastating hurricane blew in from the east and swept over the dune on the left of our cottage.  Although Tofo was spared the brunt of the onslaught and it was at low tide, much of the beach was swept up and dumped on our veranda, covering our lawn and garden; in some cases, along the beachfront, interiors were almost reclaimed.  Many locals weren’t as fortunate, and hundreds of homes, businesses, hotels and resorts were annihilated.  Amelia’s home was one of them.

Since then, she and her husband have painstakingly rebuilt a new home, this time a brick-and-mortar three-bedroom house and not a plaited palm frond structure, which is traditional.   Sue and I set off with Amelia, excited, to “inspect” her new home.  We were bowled over; it is lovely and, once complete, will be a showpiece in the neighbourhood.  We met her sweet daughter, who we later discovered had Malaria.   Only after visiting her home did we understand her circumstances: the distances she walks to the bus stop, and the time she needs to travel every day.

“You can’t understand someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.” Mozambicans have shown me the importance of empathy, humility and patience in living a meaningful life.  Life certainly “isn’t a dress rehearsal”, and “only time will tell” is a given.  Wise words found in the most unlikely places

I enjoyed many memorable moments; I met remarkable people; we laughed a lot; and as my skin browned, my hair frizzed, and I was rejuvenated, I even imagined a youthful glow. One highlight came unexpectedly: a teenage girl selling avocados looked at me with a furrowed brow and asked very seriously whether I was a Rasta too! 

Occasionally at the market, some vendors called me Mama Maricha!  But when a handsome young man asked to take my photograph and said, “Because you’re an African”, I felt overwhelmed and thrilled, for that is who I am.  Centuries ago, Vasco da Gama said the inhabitants of Inhambane were the "kind and gentle people"; nothing has changed.

Getting to Tofo: Fly to Inhambane Airport. It is much cheaper to fly from Johannesburg to Tofo.  From Cape Town, use a separate affordable flight to Johannesburg rather than booking from Cape Town to Inhambane.

By bus: From Oliver Tambo in Johannesburg, there's an overnight shuttle that stops at the Tofo market and leaves from there again. From Nelspruit, there's also a shuttle.  From Maputo, there are buses too. The bus and shuttle services are reliable and very affordable.

By car:  we do it.  It's a three-day drive either way.

Connectivity and Wi-Fi: At the Tofo Market, you can buy FAST, RELIABLE, CHEAP DATA.  We paid R200 ($18) for 10 GB from Vodacom!