e landed at Inhambane airport at about 16:00. The flight from Maputo was not fully booked, and just a few of us embarked on the tarmac and went to the airport building. A few tourists on their way to Maputo from Valankulos stay on board. On the runway stands a lonely suitcase – signs of things to come?
It is as if we have stepped back in time. The terminal is painted in the same beige, orange, and light blue hues as the vintage sign from 1948: Aerodrome Inhambane.
Confusion reigns as we walk into the building, with departing tourists moving through the same security gates we use to enter the building. Then we are directed to the left, in an outside holding area, awaiting our luggage from the plane.
Everywhere hotel and lodge drivers stand with handwritten pieces of paper. We frantically search for our names – nowhere to be seen. We see our first piece of luggage being delivered and grab it with relief. As we wheel it out of the way, stretching to see whether the other two bags have also made the trip in the double prop 30-seater that brought us here, I spot a man with a black top with Guiquindo Lodge embroidered in red. He is as black as his top, sporting bright white teeth and an endless smile, and shakes our hands enthusiastically. No introductions are necessary – the relief on our faces and in our handshakes are probably more welcoming than his, which is enough to confirm that we are being collected.
We collect all three bags, and there is a moment of panic as I cannot find my laptop. We almost rushed back on the tarmac to return to the plane when I discovered it in my hand, together with the bottle of duty-free Ballantine’s Whisky we had purchased at Maputo airport. With an apologetic smile to the official about to help us back to the plane, we follow our luggage to the car park, where we are unceremoniously ushered to a rust bucket of a Toyota Taz. Our rescuer at the airport is not the driver, but we seemingly have the means to get to the lodge.
We look skeptically at one another, but after thirteen hours of travel, albeit in the same time zone, we are not up for a fight – and have no idea how else we’d get to the lodge. It is highly improbable that our three large bags will fit into the already half-filled hatch of the Taz. Still, we are ushered into the back of our car with five pieces of hand luggage containing cameras, lenses, and laptops. The rest of our bags are forcefully stuffed into the back, and the lid is shut – sort of.
There is nothing roadworthy about this vehicle. No seatbelts are to be seen anywhere. The back door panels have been covered by ornate carpets, with no handles to open or close the half-open windows. The speedometer does not move above zero, and the odometer is stuck on 171 800km. There is no way of determining how many more journeys have already been made. The pressure plate is worn out, so our driver starts the car in gear. We lurch forward and start at a snail’s pace, with various 4x4s with lodge badges painted on the sides moving past us at top speed.
We have arrived in Africa – a different Africa than the one we come from. An Africa where humans survive in utmost poverty. Spaza shops line the road from the airport, reminiscent of a similar scene in Zanzibar. Small patches of land are planted with green crops of fresh vegetables, probably each belonging to a family who relies on it for their subsistence living. Goats roam freely, and children play in the dusty streets as we drive toward town.
We will be taken to a bank to change our South African Rands to Meticales. We are given the choice of an ATM or a bank. As we have cash on hand, we prefer just a simple exchange of money – not quite sure of the exchange rate; a bank seems a saver option, regardless of the high commission they will no doubt charge. We recognize a green FNB sign, but the queue outside the bank looks ominously long – it is a Friday and month-end.
We drive around a marketplace, and they stop next to the road. “Wait here. I bring the man from the bank.” After a short while, a well-dressed man greets us through the partially open window, and in a mere few minutes, we exchange R600 for 2500 Meticales, in a deal that appears shady as a drug deal in downtown Chicago.
“Now we go supermarket,” our host declares, and off we go again, grinding through the gears. When our driver struggles to find the next gear, the car is shut off in the middle of the road, slammed in gear, and started again. We arrive in front of a small white building. The specials of the day are written on a blackboard with white chalk. Nervously we get out, having to leave all our belongings behind in an open car.
Memories of little towns with small shops and stale food spring to mind. We look for the familiar that will provide enough sustenance for the night. Tomorrow we will explore more.
We find some cans of tuna and mayonnaise, milk, and cheese to supplement the snacks we’d brought from home – laughing at the irony of starting our holiday on cans of tuna and mayonnaise – the food we’d survived on as students.
Paying with the unfamiliar Meticales, we pour back into the Taz, finding space for our shopping amongst our body parts and hand luggage; we set off again. This time we stopped at a petrol station. “For bread.” Here is a far wider variety of food to shop from, but we order 4 large bread rolls. With only 1000 Meticales to pay with, our chauffeur pays for our bread rolls. They smell fresh and wholesome.
We now make our way out of the village onto an open road. More spaza shops selling everything from food to timber, clothes and shoes, and plumbing supplies accompany us on either side of the road. Occasionally we glimpse a goat tied to a tree and a village dog running through the grass.
Then we see the turnoff to Guinjata Bay. At least we’re going in the right direction – not that we will know where to go if we’re abandoned here. We drive past a neat collection of spaza shops with taverns selling beautifully displayed beer, white corn and other vegetables. Our driver gets out to let down the air in the tires – we are clearly driving towards the sea now, and the road is very sandy.
As we drive through coconut groves, small children run along the road. We pass a sandy field where a soccer game is in progress. A small child runs over the road right in front of our car, briefly causing our hearts to freeze.
Over the subsequent rise, we see the full moon hanging in the sky, framed by coconut trees in the distance. It is a beautiful sight, and even our companions are enamored by the moon’s beauty.
We start up a steep incline, and it becomes clear quickly that the Taz will not reach the top. We grind to a halt, and our driver gets out to inspect the car from all sides. We know there is trouble when he starts kicking at the front left wheel. As the dusk sets in, we get out and confirm our fears – we have a flat tire.
It is unlikely that the Taz has a spare or the necessary tools. Still, our driver is ever-optimistic and hauls out an air compressor amongst our luggage. Ever hopeful he connects the compressor to the very flat tire. One car arrives, greets in Portuguese, a few foreign words are exchanged, and he drives on. Another comes by, driven by a white woman. She stops, reverses, and then drives on again – probably feeling unsafe – I cannot blame her.
We realize that the optimism of our driver with his compressor is just false bravado – like the desperate blowing up of a burst balloon by an errand child. We flag down the next car, a Toyota Land Cruiser bakkie, and ask for help.
The Afrikaans accents greeting us are life-savers as the dusk turns to night. JJ and his wife Ronel offer to take our host and us to Guiquindo Lodge. Our luggage is quickly transferred, and with great gratitude, I climb into the cabin with Ronel. Everyone else gets onto the back. We stop at a petrol station where they fill 25-liter containers with petrol for their boats – they own a ProDive center in Guinjata Bay.
As we leave, the route to the lodge is discussed, and our host offers to direct Ronel to the lodge. As she engages the four-wheel drive of the Toyota, I realize how much trouble we were in. There is no way that the Taz would ever deliver us to the lodge.
Through the open window, our host directs, “Lefty, lefty again, now righty, now lefty…” We drive on sandy roads, up steep inclines, and much sooner than expected, we stop next to a large building standing in what seems to be no man’s land – our destination for the next two weeks.
As we are visiting out of season, we are lodged in the sizeable self-catering unit, which can sleep six – a mini-villa for our two-week stay.
28 July 2018
We’re off exploring this morning – we need to find a shop to buy much-needed supplies for our stay.
Almeida greets us warmly with a “Morning Missy, Morning Boisy.” He explains that we just need to follow the road and we’ll get to the shop.
He suggests another route, however: “First go the beachy, then the restauranty and then the shoppy.” He feels we won’t find the way back if we first go “shoppy, then beachy”.
Off we go, on the sandy road, in the direction we think the shop will be. Last night we arrived in the dark, so we rely on our intuition and set off on the sandy road. We walk past single goats tied to coconut trees amongst empty holiday lodges. It is off-season in Guinjata Bay. Along the route, workers are building what seems to be new houses, greeting us warmly with a wave and a nod of the head. A large Vodacom tower announces the possible presence of signal – if we had a Mozambican sim card. And just past the tower, we notice a sign “Taurus Shop – Guinjata Bay”. From the description sent to me by the lodge owner, this is where we should be able to find most of our supplies.
We venture in and are warmly greeted by the Mozambican girl behind the counter. We instantly recognize many familiar South African brands, including Four Cousins wine, KWV Brandy, Ballantine’s Whiskey, and Gordon’s Gin.
In the admin area, a friendly smile greets us and welcomes us. We soon establish that the shop belongs to a South African woman, Elzet, who speaks Afrikaans and has many friends on the West Coast. She apologizes for the lack of supplies in the shop, which we hadn’t noticed. She assures us that she has more supplies arriving on Tuesday and that she has fresh, rather than frozen rump and fillet steak in the back.
We are too happy to have found this treasure chest.
2 August 2018
Looking at the photographs we’ve taken so far, we seem obsessed with food.
Opportunistic traders have been beating their path to our door from the first day with a wide array of attractive, fresh food: crayfish, prawns, tuna, mussels, and oysters shucked at our doorstep. The best fresh fruit and vegetables you can imagine: ripe, red, glossy tomatoes, thick-skinned oranges, lemons and naartjie, large papayas, a bunch of tiny bananas, a massive head of lettuce, some onions and garlic, two large cucumbers, and large, yellow, smooth-skinned granadillas.
The prices are keen. The quality is astounding. The seafood is ample, fresh, and smells like the sea. The naartjies are plush, easy to peel, and the inside is fresh, juicy, and super sweet. Each segment of the oranges is filled with sweet nectar, the lemons oozing with fresh, sour juice. The papayas are sweet, their fragrance filling the room as we scoop out the plump black pips. The sweet taste of papaya doesn’t need supplementation with lemon and sugar for added flavor. However, the most incredible taste and smell is that of the large, yellow, smooth-skinned granadillas.
From their appearance, we would not have guessed that these are granadillas, but the smell is pungent, fresh, granadilla-like. A waft of sweet sour fills your nostrils as you cut through the skin, and the inside is filled with juice and pulp that are sweet and unmistakably granadilla.
We are instantly upset at the lie sold at supermarkets in South Africa: the small fruit, hard and unripened, tasting bland and devoid of fragrance. Artificially chilled to last longer – how much nutritional value does this hold?
Our taste buds have bloomed here – sweet crayfish and prawn meat, salty tuna, and mussels. Everything tastes fresh and healthy.
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