The Ministry of Fabulousness: Someone bring me a river, a hippo and a G&T please...

The Ministry of Fabulousness: Someone bring me a river, a hippo and a G&T please...: The Lowveld bush is my happy place. If I could right now, I’d be deep in the bush with Darling, a cold G&T in hand, cruising slowly w...

Someone bring me a river, a hippo and a G&T please

The Lowveld bush is my happy place. If I could right now, I’d be deep in the bush with Darling, a cold G&T in hand, cruising slowly with all the windows open, perchance to spot an impala under an ancient fig or a pod of hippos basking in the sun like giant aubergines.

Hippos like giant aubergines in the sun 

Living in Limpopo I have been blessed to be able to disappear into the Lowveld bush in between all the madness, and as that good old-fashioned bushwhacker TV Bulpin wrote: “There is nothing quite like it anywhere else on earth. There is a sense of a presence brooding over this wilderness, imparting to it an indefinable character and allure.” This presence he says, embodies all of our longing for adventure, discovery and exhilarating freedom, and is the most unforgettable thing about the Lowveld. Yebo yeah. 

Some of my best soul moments have been seeing the creatures of the bush. A very muddy terrapin in a puddle in the Kruger, a wild dog puppy with satellite-dish ears in the Klaserie. A leopard that simply slunk across our path in Garonga, a hippo dancing at dusk at Ntsiri, a herd of elephant crossing the Timbavati river road in Kruger. And the trees and the rivers, the sunsets, the sunrises, the smell of woodsmoke. 

Sleepy buffalo calf x

Loved for its bushveld spirit, the Lowveld includes the Kruger Park that stretches down from Punda Maria in the north all the way down south to Malelane near the border of Mozambique and Swaziland. It includes the luxury private reserves like Sabi Sands and Mala Mala and the humbler provincial reserves and parks; the Limpopo Valley and the meeting of the borders of South Africa, Botswana and Zimbabwe….where it seems like the elephants an baobabs will never end, although we all know the sad truth that humanity seems ever hellbent on destroying the wild and its creatures. And thank you for the places where they are at peace. 

Pregnant rhino x

I need this virtual reflection of the bush after a befok crazy year in which I packed up the old family farmhouse, packed up dad who went off to Hermanus, packed up myself and packed, many, many suitcases and went to Jozi countless times, New York, Hawaii, Malawi, Ilha de Mocambique, Thailand, and Maputo twice.

Muddy but determined terrapin x

And as the famous South African rhino conservationist Ian Player said, the wilderness is a place of reflection. It's by considering the wilderness as a whole system that one starts to find its real magic. Everything in the bush is interconnected – from the slenderest grasses to the biggest trees - and the more greater the connection the more powerful the amazement. 
Bring me a river, a hippo and a G&T please someone…

Soul spot of note - the Timbavati River Road in the Kruger 

The Ministry of Fabulousness: From a hotel room

The Ministry of Fabulousness: From a hotel room: I have spent an inordinate amount of bed hours at the Southern Sun in Maputo. That’s because general manager Bruce Chapman - s urely o...

From a hotel room

I have spent an inordinate amount of bed hours at the Southern Sun in Maputo. That’s because general manager Bruce Chapman - surely one of the continent’s finest hoteliers - was kind enough to host me once upon a time while I researched and wrote a guide book to Maputo and beyond. 

Low tide walker 

It led me to witness extraordinary spectacles across that delicious city, but also some extraordinary spectacles just from my window. An urban beach, a palm tree, a window frame -  what a fabulous composition aid for the framing of the clam pickers, the lone wanderers, the capoeira dancers, the lovers and very late at night, the traditional healers who bring their clients to the seafront to cleanse them or heal them or put them in touch with their ancestors. Which involves a great deal of loud prayer, sometimes weeping and wailing, unnerving at 3am for those who are not familiar with Africa’s religious customs. You hear it better, or worse, from the right hand wing of the Southern Sun. Often this was the time myself and my fearless street guide Phil Baker would be arriving back at the hotel after many satisfactory evenings of er, research. 

Sunrise

In the old days, before the $30 million dollar refurbishment, sigh, Bruce used to routinely book me into the Presidential Suite. It was his idea of a joke and I loved it and found it most funny, especially when one of the waiters started calling me Mrs President. Oh those were the days. Since then, Maputo has had an Economic Miracle - although it’s increasingly shaky and dubious - and I have been bumped from my perch by more important people such as those building bridges, importing cars, setting up banks and exploring coal and gas deposits.

Dear Bruce made sure it was been a very gentle transition down to the Superior Executive Princess Suite Extraordinaire on the floor below, although I do miss the big lounge of the old Presidential Suite, its two flat screens TVs and two bathrooms, vast lounge with leather couches. There was more space to shoot pictures while lying on the floor too, although my new suite has a stricter frame for composing pictures and perhaps it has made my eye more disciplined. 

The new refurbishment of course has made the Southern Sun even bigger and better and Bruce is still ever generous with his champagne and hospitality and friendship and I now have this fabulous collection of photos from the window of my hotel room. 

*  Check out www.tsogosunhotels.com/hotels/maputo

Reserved for the Ministry of Fabulousness 

The Ministry of Fabulousness: The Unbearably Bad Architecture of the Afro Parado...

The Ministry of Fabulousness: The Unbearably Bad Architecture of the Afro Parado...: The most luxurious apartments in Africa It is not in our power but in our paradox that we should search for the essence of humanity...

The Unbearably Bad Architecture of the Afro Paradox

The most luxurious apartments in Africa

It is not in our power but in our paradox that we should search for the essence of humanity - so said Robert Ardrey, Canadian playwright and palaeontologist in the 1930s.  And so it struck me recently, as I put on a hard hat and steel-toed boots and went inspecting the site where the most expensive, luxurious apartments in Africa are being built, as we speak. 

And sigh and wonder why the rich and the foreign in the poorest of African countries still go for über bling and zing instead of going for sustainable poverty alleviation and socio-eco development. It’s like , ok, you had a 20 year civil war, millions died, it’s over now, now you’ve found oil and gas and multinationals, wanna spread the love? Hell no, let’s build luxury apartments with remote controlled curtains and heated towel racks. As that iconic South African expression goes: The rich get richer and the poor get Khayalitsha. 

Over the road, women picking clams to make a living 

And as I wander, dumbfounded, there they go, up into the Mozambican skies, twin towers, one block apartmentos, the other a luxury office “park” as they say in nouveau Afro-MICE-speak (MICE being Meetings, Incentives, Conferences). 

Team Cynical 

Here you can step out of the humidity and into your uncapped, touchpad fluffy white dressing gowns with pop-up whisky in crystal glasses, and anything else you want, just call room service, darling. And next door, the rapidly rising Golden Peacock 200-plus-bedroom hotel, conference centre, shopping mall and décor ala Chinese kitsch extraordinaire. 

It was the same thing in Lilongwe, Malawi earlier this year. We visited Umodzi Park with its similarly indescribably odd architecture. Umodzi is a Chinese-built five-star hotel – puffily called The President Walmont – that also features an Afropolitan Terrace Bar as well as a conference centre, banqueting halls, wedding decks, über cocktails and dinner venues and the apparent capacity to do anything from summits of heads of state, to weddings, banquets and concerts. Just not build a clinic, a school, a wildlife centre, a food garden, an AIDS orphanage or a hospice.

It's yours for a few bar x

We toured the Umodzi like we did the luxury Maputo apartments, hungover and cynical, oohing and aahing at the expensive-expansive views over the ancient koppies of Lilongwe and surrounds, over the melancholy Indian Ocean, over the invisible poor people, over the imported suede couches and the minimal ergonomic lines of the desks and the builders asses and the sheer bizarre Shakespearean spectacle of it all.

Book now for your Malawian banquet

Dreaming of Snow

Snow poetry 

There's nothing like a heatwave to make a girl dream of snow and gosh have I been dreaming of it! I’ve only ever seen the real thing a few times, and the first proper-proper time was this year in February in New York. 

Vanessa, hot in the cold 

We were upstate near Ellenville, a few hours from NY city. I’d landed that morning at JFK - one of the coldest days in living memory - and my childhood friend and china bean Vanessa Solomon and her man Tim, and I set off into the snowy foothills of the Catskills. It started snowing as we left the city and by the time we arrived at their cabin, it was - gasp! - proper snow. Vanessa and Tim were very patient as I frolicked around laughing and patting the stuff, licking it, kicking it, patting it, rolling it up, lying in it (not such a good idea). 
We made a fire and cooked food and drank wine (we left the second bottle in the snow by mistake, not such a good idea either) and listened to Frank Zappa on old vinyl records and laughed about the weird old days. 

Toasty house 

Vanessa comes from the farm next to our family farm in Limpopo and will always have a special place in my heart for throwing a glass of cane, lime and lemonade at a racist hotel manager in Tzaneen in the 80's when he asked her to leave because he thought she was a so-called coloured, and this was a net blankes (whites only) hotel, jy weet, you know. She is now a famous sculptor in New York, so make that an extra drink thrown in that stupid oke's face haha. 
That night, fluffy, silent, sexy snow fell and draped everything in tiny crystal poetry and by morning it was thigh high and was the most enchanting thing I had ever seen. 

Fake fur to go 

I was on my way to Hawaii to see Darling - going from NY in deep snow to the balmy beachy Pacific, which presented a few minor wardrobe problems for one small suitcase, but despite my excitement I got the right wardrobe for the snow - fake fur and leather - and Vanessa was in her retro silver cat suit  looking completely hot and not unlike something off an old James Bond movie set.
In the morning I woke up and went walking into this strange snowy landscape, giggling and shivering and falling on my mielie a few times because of the ice. We sent messages of love to Darling on the frozen car window and drank more wine and the world seemed such fun and full of possibility but mainly it was cold! Sigh. 

Snowy message for Darling 

And remember this snippet from Too Darn Hot by Ella Fitzgerald:

“According to the Kinsey Report, ev'ry average man you know
Much prefers his lovey-dovey to court
When the temperature is low
But when the thermometer goes 'way up
And the weather is sizzling hot
Mister, pants for romance is not

'Cause it's too, too, too darn hot
It's too darn hot
It's too, too darn hot”

The Ministry of Fabulousness: Escape to Mother Fuckers Bar!

The Ministry of Fabulousness: Escape to Mother Fuckers Bar!: You'll find Mother Fuckers bar in Catembe My journey from Phuket in Thailand to Maputo in Mozambique is hell. There is no business ...

Escape to Mother Fuckers Bar!

You'll find Mother Fuckers bar in Catembe

My journey from Phuket in Thailand to Maputo in Mozambique is hell. There is no business class blingy-blingy, sweetie dahling this time, just two days of non-stop awfulness travel - on minibuses, planes, trains and taxis and trains, planes and minibuses and somehow at the end of it all I eventually wake up on the other side of the world at dusk, listening to the sighing of the same Indian Ocean I just left in Thailand. I have travelled some 8000km and lost five hours and large parts of my sanity.

Now I am in Maputo on business, alongside Sawubona - official magazine of our national carrier SAA - to find out about the building of the biggest suspension bridge in Africa that will link Maputo mainland with Catembe spit, and link Ponta d'Oura with Kozi Bay in northern KZN. It’s big news, big bucks, the figure of US$ 700 million is bandied about. The Chinese, the Germans, the South Africans, former Mozambican president Gubuezza - everyone is involved and the circus is in town.

Maputo skyline from Catembe

The bridge building has already begun with the dropping of 90m concrete shafts into the bay and Catembe is already pimping its ride. even though the country's economic miracle is somewhat less miraculous than last year due to coal price drops, political violence and a complete bottom out in the leisure tourism market.

Nonetheless the talk on the cocktail circuit is tough, the whiskeys are big, the wine is flowing. Construction okes, financiers, the banks, the developers, the key players, they're all there talking MICE market and global finance and positive outcomes. The Chinese-funded Golden Peacock is being built up the road with rooms for hundreds, the Radisson is building twin towers for offices and top end rentals (the most expensive in Africa) next door to the Southern Sun where I am staying (always do, always will) and the deals are going down, the alcohol levels are going up, there are even rumours hat King Mswati of Swaziland also wants a deep sea harbour....  

Thank heavens for Mother Fuckers Bar.

We spill off the passenger ferry from Maputo to Catembe 

Phil and I escape – he’s my Man in Maputo –jump on the passenger ferry and head out of Maputo across the bay to Catembe, whose entire landscape is soon to be rearranged due to The Bridge, which in some ways is a pity really, since it's quiet and charmingly dilapidated. We spill off the ferry and head to the eastern end of Catembe and up a lone sand dune at the top of a sparse village, where it’s almost impossible to reach even in the butchest 4x4 (naturally Phil pulls it off). And here we are at Mother Fucker’s Bar where no one can find me and the beers are ice cold and the views are fine. I can hear the sounds of chicken and children, and Muddafak himself is there, giant bodybuilder that he is, holding a baby of all things. It’s all so blissfully surreal and far away from airports and air-conditioning and the rich world’s portly and pompous. Phew. Bring me a Laurentina por favore. Make it a quart.

Maddafak and his bebe 

Mudda grew up on the streets on Maputo and now has a wife, two children, a chapas (minibus) and his bar. I danced with him once in one of the Rua Bagamoya clubs. All you could see was blonde fluff, my hair,sticking out of his arms. Through Phil, I have known Mudda for years, and he proved to be an invaluable connection when I was researching my guidebook on Maputo. Everyone on the streets knows Mudda. Mention his name in the right places and people treat you with much reverence, especially in the less salubrious places our research took us. He lost the mobility of his knee in a scooter accident  years ago but continues to pump iron and just recently appeared on local television talking about the importance of gym. But he’s happiest up here at Mother Fuckers Bar and we chat about his confidence in the future because of The Bridge and the prospects of expansion although God alone knows how anyone will actually get here.

Right now that’s why I love it so… 

Maddafak and his fabulous bar 

Soul safari with extra leopard

The Soul Safari concept was pioneered some years ago by the charming Bernie Smith of Garonga Safari Camp near Hoedspruit in Limpopo. Back then it raised a few eyebrows – a soul safari? Male ballerinas? Lite beer? Quick, call ranger security, get the rifles! 

But now the Lowveld has chilled out to the point we call it the Slowveld, and people like me and the Ministry of Fabulousness, remain eternally grateful to Bernie for the chance take our souls on safari.

The great outdoors meets inner peace. Gentle game drives end with massages in the Aroma Boma. Nature provides the inspiration for the North African style décor. Try a night time Bush Bath or head for the outdoor deck for sleeping out under the stars; just you and the roaring lions…

Oh and of course, Darling. This was indeed his first visit to the African bush after many years on an island in the Pacific and I think it would be safe to say he thoroughly enjoyed the Soul Safari. Astonishingly he remembered the name of the fork-tailed drongo – “That’s a fork-tailed drongo!” he shouted excitedly – he was peeing and had a beer in his hand.  I was impressed.

Garonga is a special place. We met a German family that had been there for two weeks once a year, eleven years in a row. That’s Trip Advisor fantasy stuff isn’t it? 

Darling and I got to see giraffe, rhino, zebra, wildebeest and lion. Although the lion were furtive. During breakfast we saw two elephants at the watering hole below the lodge and a whole gang of zebras and bokke pull in over lunch. We also spotted a very cheeky squirrel that stole the nuts and muffins from the breakfast buffet. 

We saw the iconic African sunset – and most deliciously of all - a leopard that strolled sexily over the sun kissed path on our first game drive. Aah lucky leopard. Darling’s first. Yeah, Garonga definitely scores high on the Fabulousness Rating. Soul Safari, must do. Check out www.garonga.com

The Ministry of Fabulousness: Welcome to Zeavola, yes we have Ladyboys

The Ministry of Fabulousness: Welcome to Zeavola, yes we have Ladyboys: The Zeavola Ladyboy and Selene “Welcome to Zeovola, ladies”, said Florian the friendly GM, “Please take off your shoes, this is a baref...

Welcome to Zeavola, yes we have Ladyboys

The Zeavola Ladyboy and Selene

“Welcome to Zeovola, ladies”, said Florian the friendly GM, “Please take off your shoes, this is a barefoot place, barefoot luxury is what we call it, in fact. You’re going to have a great time, we love parties. You can pretty much do what you like. We are also gay friendly and there are Ladyboys.”

This was an interesting welcome.

The Press Princesses had slipped and slithered out of the heady jungles of Elephant Hills Rainforest Camp in Khao Sok National Park and suddenly here we were on Koh Phi Phi island in southern Thailand, freshly disembarked off a speed boat, eager for Ladyboys,  yes, why not? But first, er, howabout a drink? We’re like, from the press remember?

“Tom Yum cocktails is what the doctor has ordered!” said Florian firmly. Well, Zeavola shall remain forever pleasantly blurred in my mind as a result of my discovery of the Tom Yum cocktail. This is surely Asia’s sexiest - made with vodka, rum, lemongrass, lime, chili and spices, like a very cold Tom Yum soup, right? With some serious kick-ass zingaling. Oh me oh my. Zeavola's slogan is 'step back to simplicity' but it may well have been 'stagger about happily'. 

Where does that leave me philosophically? 

Zeavola is suitably private and calm even though Koh Phi Phi island is a busy string of resorts with all the Experiences ranging from speedboats to visiting the actual beach where The Beach was filmed, I hadn’t seen it, but now I’ve seen the actual beach – so where does that leave me philosophically I wonder?  

I loved the place, I loved the names – Wang Long Cove, La Na Bay, Sea Gypsy Village, Loh Moo Dee Bay, sigh, yes I’ll have another Tom Yum puh-lease. Prrrr. We did just about everything from massages during a tropical rain storm to beach side dining to snorkeling, swimming. We even got to play for a bit at the Zeovola annual staff party (everybody wore red) and did indeed meet the, or a, Ladyboy of Zeavola who was suitably delicious and slender. 

The spirit of Tom Yum 

This was all after we went up the beach in search of tequila and found a Scotsman who had lost 18 friends in the tsunami a decade ago, and poured us four rounds of free tequila in glasses the size of candle holders! Anyway the Ladyboy didn’t seem to mind and I think it would be safe to say that Selene was definitely the belle of the ball. Check out www.zeavola.com

So pretty Phi Phi 

Then I fell in love with Ngam Ta

Oh  Ngam Ta, it's so big! 

They say Thailand is a pretty exotic and erotic place – and it was just a few days into our Thailand adventure that I temporarily forgot all about Darling alas, and had a heady lesbian encounter with an Asian elephant called Ngam Ta. I had a hosepipe and soap and I gave Ngam Ta an all over rub which pretty much changed my life. Her skin was rough and exciting, her ears flapped evocatively and her trunk, oh it was so big! Sorry Darling.

Goodbye Darling, Hello Thailand

The lovely Noo Dang with bubbles!

So the next thing Darling has slipped out of my grasp like a greased piglet – or perhaps it is I who is the greased piglet – and he’s on a plane to LA and I’m on a plane to Hong Kong. The only thing that can assuage my shattered heart at our temporary separation is the fact that our Princess Press Party – destination Thailand - has been upgraded to business class on Cathay Pacific and suddenly I am quaffing real French champagne along with five other happy purring princesses and we are 12 000 feet above the ground, spoilt for life.

I am on my own next to the window. My seat is like a moveable pod, enclosed in all the right places for privacy and you can push various buttons to turn it into a flat bed, and yes, you get a duvet and pillows and there’s a little cupboard for shoes and alongside the seat, a wide surface to spread out your reading material.  Like the South China Morning Post and the international express version of the New York Times. A flat screen TV of course, all remote controlled, a vanity case with toothbrush and lotions and eyepads (as opposed to i-pads) and little bottles of stuff – and never mind the fine dining which involves silver cutlery, white tablecloths, a menu offering exotic Asian cuisine. Real French wines, 12 year old whisky…. Prrrrrrr.

A flying lounge, what heaven. I think of the miserable squashed up people behind the curtain – yes THAT curtain - in Comedy Class and I feel like I really have done something to deserve this although I am not quite sure what it is. I lie there finding it astonishing how we fly through the sky and gain hours, arriving much later in the next place, timelines and zones and seas and continents and land mass and all of this in my princess pod for the next twelve hours.

Peach of a day at the Sarojin Hotel outside Phuket 

Another 20 hours later I will be on the ground in a jungly spa with a pretty and lithe Thai girl squatting over my back and giving me the most incredible massage, ironing out all the dragging of suitcases, the onward connection, passport and customs, the drive through Phuket. And then OMG the welcome Thai massage at the Sarojin Hotel. There will be water lilies and an Indian Ocean beach, a bathroom with real pebbles and jungle plants, orchids and ice buckets. Then there will be fine dining next to a waterfall with five hundred candles.  A lovely woman called Noo Dang will bring me a glass of champagne for breakfast.

But right now I am time-warped and still purring happily on the flight in my princess pod.

I did think of you Darling, of course. I have always wanted to join the Mile High Club and I hoped you would suddenly slink up alongside me in the pod, maybe with a bunch of grapes or perhaps a small flower. Don’t worry about hot and cold towels – there is an endless round of those on this flight. Of course I would have preferred the décor to be a bit more Barbarella, and maybe a better music selection – I did trawl the channels – but you never made it. So I tried every conceivable gadget, ate everything that was put in front of me, drank some wine and then not being one to sleep on a plane - took the 12-year-old whisky option, popped a tranquiliser and watched all seven episodes in the first series of Breaking Bad.

Not Breaking Bad 

Prrr and a thanks to Lesley Simpson PR, Cathay Pacific and the Sarojin Hotel, Destination Asia and Thailand SA xx

The Ministry of Fabulousness: A snort at the fort

The Ministry of Fabulousness: A snort at the fort: View from a chapel We looked out through an alcove window in the old  capela (chapel) onto a cross-shaped patch of sky. Outside, the e...

A snort at the fort

View from a chapel

We looked out through an alcove window in the old capela (chapel) onto a cross-shaped patch of sky. Outside, the eternal crash of Indian Ocean waves, inside, sacred gloom. We’d taken off our shoes and walked into vaulted heart of the Chapel of Nossa Senhora de Baluarte - a stoic little chapel built by the Portuguese in 1522 on the promontory of Ilha de Moҫambique, a tiny island off Africa’s east coast. Underfoot, through the cool marble, we felt the presence of ancient souls, and in the salty walls and faded inscriptions, heard their whisperings.

“Let’s have a drink!” I whispered to Darling perhaps a little too quickly. And I don’t know why I was whispering either. Our guide was outside talking loudly on his mobile phone. This little chapel had stirred me - I was imagining a desperate shipwrecked Portuguese sailor, for some reason, upon bended knee, or a sea leg perhaps, praying hard to God, with nothing left but his faith and the stars above him and well, all the Arabs, the Goans and the Swahili sultans who were here before him. Like #missinglisbonalot.

Inside the fort 

I had intended to bring a bottle of beautiful red to the Chapel of Nossa Senhora de Baluarte.  What else would you take to a Catholic church? I’d imagined a wistful cab sauv - perhaps we’d even remember to chill it to capela temperature – to go with the spirit of this tiny church and its island - only three kilometres long –all strung out by occupations, missionaries, slavery, colonialism and civil war.   

But I was giddy with travel and love and I had forgotten the wine never mind my own name, so here we were, Darling and I, slugging on a couple of ice cold Laurentina Pretas that we’d bought from a beachfront barracas near the fortaleza, It’s a lovely rich dark beer and I immediately felt better about the poor sailor and all the other lost and hopeful souls in the Chapel of Nossa Senhora de Baluarte.

And since we were in a Catholic church I confess we’d also had a beer before this one, we’d had one up on the ramparts of the fortaleza, overlooking the ocean and its mysteries. Fort São Sebastião was built after the church, from around 1560. Famed sailor for the Portuguese crown, Vasco da Gama first landed here in1498, in search of the sea route to India, and it was not long after that the Portuguese built this vast and powerful space. The light was falling in glorious ways as we’d browsed the fortaleza and its empty rooms, its corridors and cavers, its prison and chambersr. Here and there an outburst of graffiti.  We stopped talking and left as the sun was going down, silent in the presence of history.

Slow boat to Coral Lodge

The pretty pink boat that could  

So I’m in reception at Escondidinho, the forlorn Frenchman’s guesthouse on the historic Ilha de Mocambique. I’m already hot and discombobulated. It has taken three hustlers, the receptionist, the forlorn Frenchman’s son, a frenzy of sign language and haggling over small denominations of cash to finally kick start my Mozambican SIM card and load airtime onto my smart fucking phone.

Now here I am talking to Nelson from Coral Lodge 15.41 across the bay.

“Hi Nelson, do you think you could er, lend us the cash to pay the boatmen to come out to your place? Um, this is Bridget, er Bridget from the Ministry of Fabulousness…”  With a touch of Cash-flow-alitis- in-foreign-landus. “The island banks, they’re not synched to our, er, finances right now”. It was true. Darling’s Bank of Hawaii was not speaking to Ilha do Moҫambique’s Millenium Bim Bank . Funny that.

Pause.

“Of course!” said Nelson with enthusiasm, actual enthusiasm. “I will have the cash waiting for you, see you later”.

Salty sailor hard at work 

And so we sailed local style with a couple of happy salty sailors across the bay to Coral Lodge in an old-fashioned dhow and sure enough, there scurried down the stairs, the cash-carrier and above Nelson stood, arms akimbo and said “Welcome to Coral Lodge”.

Aaah Coral Lodge.  Karra-raj as it sounds in softer Swahili, corra-lodj, in swarthy Portuguese. Mmmmm. Soft white sands, baobab sunsets, fabulous food and really cool people. Set in a little bay with thatched chalets, a pool, various places of repose, a sexy bar and dining room visited occasionally by a nagapie (bushbaby) which sat on Darling’s head for a while. I can’t remember its name now, damn I should have taken notes but I was drinking an incredible G&T at the time, with lime, cinnamon, Madagascar peppercorns and star anise.

The place for honeymooners and swooners 

Seriously this place is amazing: there are outdoor showers, air-con built into the bed (WTF!) cushions everywhere, beach loungers. Waiters pop up with coconut milk cocktails at just the right time. You can go on gentle snorkels and dives, a bit of quiet kayaking or just hang out and swim. Oh and the Indian Ocean, that sighs and sings in blues and greens. Sweet tides.

Coral Lodge is the place for honeymooners, swooners, crooners, over- the- mooners. But the part we liked the most turned out to be the village nearby the lodge. This is Cabaceira Pequana, an ancient place with crumbling noble mosques dating back some 600 years, and a small population of about a thousand. It’s famed for its cemeteries and architecture and its boa gente (good people) as Da Gama described them.

Acine, part guide, part wannabe pop star 

Our guide was Amine from Coral Lodge. When he wasn’t working he was a singer in a local band. So along with a solemn visit to the grave of Mussa Al Biki who was the sultan here at the time of the arrival of the first Portuguese, he also took us to a house to watch a short video clip of him performing a kind of R&B island rap. “It’s about a broken heart right?” Said Darling with simpatico. Amine nodded and touched his chest.

The children of Cabaceira

He took us on a tour of the village and we saw children, cats, dogs, goats and chickens, and old men playing games on wooden boards. We peeked inside the small cool houses with thatch and reed and the spaza shops which have little on offer. Cabaceira is caught in the grip of old and new. There are increasing numbers of cellphones and satellite dishes but the people still live mostly off the land, a few employed in the hotel or on the island.

Water from an ancient well 

The village still draws its water from a well built by Vasco da Gama. Think jazz maestro Abdullah Ibrahim’s Water from an Ancient Well. We watched the young women and girls drawing water with plastic buckets and nylon ropes, waving palm trees in the background. And then round the corner, much to Darling’s delight there was a soccer field with actual soccer players! So he dashed on for a round or two and got over excited as men do when they play football.  I think it was the highlight of Nelson’s life when he heard about it. What is it about men and football?

Darling in action 

“We of Coral Lodge will never forget you”, he said to Darling, when we left. “You have played football with us, you have played the trumpet and made us happy and worn our bushbaby, thank you ... thank you my dear friend”. He said that about a million times when we left – and afterwards in emails and Facebook messages, “Dear friend, we thank you for the love and enthusiasm you gave us in these past days, many

The iconic dhow upon the Indian Ocean, sigh... 

hugs from Nelson… oh and say hello to Brenda.”

Check out http://www.newmarkhotels.com/accommodation/lodges/coral-lodge-15-41/  xxxxxx