Mozambique
Welcome to Compass Travel
Why would anyone in their right mind want to visit a country which made headlines with civil war landmines and floods. Which is only known to a handful of aid workers and Africans who go out there to play over Christmas. To be honest, I didn’t know too much about Mozambique at the time, it simply was number 24 on the list of Africa destinations I wished to tick off and the opportunity presented itself when I was temporarily excused from my usual guiding duties.

With favourable winds I negotiated myself on board a dhow to cross over to the Bazaruti Archipellago, another location rich in adjectives; more beautiful, more blue, more clear, more white. But my biggest surprise came when I rolled overboard with compressed air strapped to my back. Giant turtles, a white tip shark, dolphins, all took turns as if they were part of a larger choreography. On the next occasion I encountered enormous manta rays, though I have to admit I missed a few. The previous night had been quite sociable and I had been indulging in too much 'Cerveja National', forcing me to concentrate on the horizon and keeping my regulator clean.

I discovered the local transport system was serviced by what they call 'chapa´s', or bakkies as we know them. As any African mode of transport, they’re never full. Easily 16 people are cramped into the back, along with fish baskets, live chickens and breast-fed babies. A cheap way to travel, though your bum will still remind you of it 3 days later. Carefully walking around the palm trees to evade falling coconuts, I drew mass attention when I visited a local village at Tofo. Tourists are still rare in this country and I was chased by a group of kids as they merrily guided me from the school, to the church, to the chief and I had to succumb to palm wine as nearly the whole village was in pursuit of a modeling career in front of my camera.

I got to chat with a South African who had started a campsite there and he explained to me how he’d been battling for years to upgrade the education and have a water pump put in for the locals in the immediate area. For that is another aspect of Mozambique; bureaucracy is developed into a fine art, there’s no such thing as logic, nothing makes sense and the shortest route seldom is a straight line – a philosophy causing many hilarious or even frustrating moments, for example when they want to fine you for driving with sunnies on????!!!!!

If I want my report to be accurate, I should also make a mention of the broken trees, sunken houses, washed away roads, refugees in tents, food distribution programs and the number of aid workers I encountered. After all, this was the year 2000, just after the floods. You can rest assured your tax money has arrived. Plenty of Red Cross, White Cross or whatever else Cross was running around.

I was surprised to see how quickly this country had bounced back from its ordeals. Many houses were already fixed, the maize and cassava planted, the emergency detours put in. My wanders took me to the historical city of Inhambane where the Portuguese established a lucrative business in the slave trade in the 17th century and I was startled by the intensity of Maputo, former playground of the Portuguese upper class. But now, after all the neglect, converted into a typical capital city of a third world country, like so many capital cities of so many third world countries; loud, dirty, but with a fascinating history and interesting if you know where to look.

Reluctantly I left this remarkable country. The sun and the abundant mosquito’s had left their traces in large, yet very tanned bumps. But apart from bumps, Mozambique had also evoked a variety of memories. The beaches resemble Zanzibar and the campsites, with their hammocks, thatched roof huts and out-door-bucket-showers have similar set ups as in Malawi. But the rest felt very much like West Africa to me. Like in the West I had a communication problem on my hands, like in the West the people drink palm wine and are able to bake decent bread and with their traditional, colorful clothing, the lantern lit reed stalls, you would swear you were in the outskirts of Accra. Until occasionally an amputee skips past, telling you without a doubt, this has to be Mozambique.