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

 

A trumpet and a hipflask on Ilha de Mocambique

A three km long island off northern Mozambique 

History eats away at the coral rock from which the buildings on Ilha de Moҫambique are made. With its heady historic mix of Swahili, Arab, Portuguese, Dutch and Indian, this tiny island off the East Coast of Africa dates back to the 8^th century. For such a small island it’s wrought from an exhaustion of sultans and chiefs, explorers and shipwrecks, pirates, occupations, missionaries, slavery, colonialism and civil war. It gives the island a strange edge, a restless sleep; a darker shadow to its timeworn passages, a deeper resonance to footfall on its ancient stones. Take a hipflask! 

Mystery and history - coral rock

“Great acoustics”, said Darling as he took out his trumpet and played some mournful scales. We wondered if music would drive out the sad spirits. We were staying in an old slave house with upstairs balconies that looked down onto big interior courtyards – figure it out. Today it’s a laidback, tasteful guesthouse called Escondidinho run by a rather forlorn Frenchman. “Louder”, I said. So Darling blasted out What a Wonderful World and we drank some Laurentina Preta, a lovely dark local beer and considered man’s inhumanity to man. Then he played Hello Dolly. Ilha de Mocambique is 2000kms from Maputo, up near Tanzania and the trade winds. It’s definitely NOT your typical Seffrican prawns and beer holiday. This is Taste, Food, History and Architecture – the entire island is a UNESCO world heritage site because of its amazing coral rock buildings and building methods. 

High street in Stone Town 

And Romance too - if you in a foray to Coral Lodge across the bay. Total blissykins. Watch this space for special blog to follow. There will be billing and cooing.

We’d landed in Nampula – Welcome Mr Bridget said the sign – Mrs Darling didn’t seem to mind this, then a two-hour taxi drive past village mercados and wild inselbergs (granite outcrops) and finally across the bridge at sunset to this beautiful old happy-sad place. 

The Black Road divides Ilha de Mocambique. On the one side is the hip and happening chic little Stone Town, where the tourists stay and there are guesthouses and a main strip, all the attractions and shops. On the other side is Macuti Town, which has basically been a slave pit since forever. 

Macuti Town is a warren of a township with squalid thatched houses sunk below ground level. The people are mainly Muslim, but its pretty much Muslim Lite and there is nobility and history here, amazing mosques and ancient architecture. The canals have long run dry and people fetch water from wells and sleep five to a room. The island was a refuge for many thousands of people during the 20-year Mozambican civil war – its population reached over 16 000, and the island is only three-km long. 

Macuti Town baby 

And over the Black Road in Stone Town it’s Euro Chic, darlings! Buildings are being renovated and upgraded, schools are being fixed up and there are boutique hotels, new restaurants, galleries and venues. In the course of our week’s jolling we met Danes, Swedes, Australians, Brits, Italians, Portuguese; people who have holiday homes here or local interests. And of course within a nano-second of our arrival we met all the local hustlers and guides, middle men, street kids, curio sellers and t-shirt peddlers. A haggle and a hustle is buried deep in the DNA here. 

Nice ass!

Stone Town is fabulous in architecture and style. Think narrow corridors, thick-walled, high-ceiling houses with shuttered double-volume rooms and interior courtyards. Ceiling fans, long inside swimming pools with mirrors and tiles, Makonde sculptures, local cloth. Alcoves and rooftop gardens for hot island nights and the stars – oh those stars that steered the ancient Portuguese mariners, the map that lay within the Milky Way. 

Darker shadows, deeper edge 

We stayed at Jardim dos Aloes (garden of aloes) which is an Afro-Mediterranean guesthouse with Egyptian touches, run by charming the Italian Bruno Misti, who is married to the beautiful Judy. Bruno left fascist Italy to explore early socialist Tanzania and is an intellectual and teller of many tales.  He was the commodore of the Maputo Yacht Club during the civil war. Bruno’s spot is across the road from Ruby, which is the backpackers and totally fabulous and funky – best affordable option. 

The lavish lounge at Terraco das Quintadas 

We also stayed at the bizarre and theatrical Terraҫo das Quintadas, an old house owned by two vets who live in Maputo – and filled with furniture and objet from Goa, Bali, East Africa, China and the Orient. The house is over 400 years old and once belonged to a massive fish trading merchant. It had strange sounds and spirits, mosquitoes and some damp. But the décor is amazing and we had a massive egg-shaped bath in our room which was fun. 

Shivers inside the fort

On the soul front – we explored the town and its museums, bistros , churches, alleyways, beachfront and bars. We went to a night food market, talked to just about everyone we saw and Darling bought a little boy a soccer ball. Sweet, man. I met the mayor who shook my hand and then excused himself immediately. I met the port captain, the woman who runs the backpackers in Macuti Town and a traveller from Cape Verde. 

Highlight was our amble through the old Fortaleza which was built by the Portuguese after Vasco da Gama checked in here in 1498, in search of the sea route to India. It didn’t take long for the Portuguese to establish a port and naval base here. The island was an Arab trading post from the 8^th century. 

The window of the chapel 

And highlight of the highlight – a walk inside the tiny, brave church built on the promontory of the island in 1522, the Chapel of Nossa Senhora de Baluarte, washed endlessly by waves and the souls of the ancients. 

* With many thanks to Bruno & Judy at Jardim dos Aloes, Nelson at Coral Lodge, Antoine at Escondidinho, Antonio at Terraco das Quintadas and Natalie of Dana Tours and veryone else x

Mozambique and back again via Thailand, with love

Ok so it’s been one of those entirely crazy years in which absolutely nothing has worked out the way I planned but the net result has been alarmingly global and somewhat astonishing. For example, I went to Malawi via Hawaii earlier this year – and snowy New York - and now I‘ve just been to Mozambique and back again via Thailand, with a bit of Jozi thrown in. There’s also been a heady back story involving love and a musician from my youth, my Darling, who is on his way to Frankfort now, from LA.

En route Ilha de Mocambique 

Sawudika I said to the doorman at the Southern Sun in Maputo a few days ago. I was back from Thailand and in Mozambique again, nine aeroplanes later, three yachts, a ferry and a whole lot of air-con minibuses. It’s a lovely Thai greeting - you hold our palms together in front of you and bow slightly, or curtsy, eyes cast down. The Mozambican doorman arched a wary eyebrow. “No lovey, said my friend Phil gently, “you’re in Maputo now, it’s bom dia (good day). 

Sawudika Bom Dia Hello

Sawudica, bom dia, ola, sawubona, hello, pingaling, kiss kiss. What a sexy mad scramble these past five weeks have been. It went like this: Darling landed in Jozi from Manchester, coming from Hawaii via Reykjavik and Wales. Then we disappeared into the heart of the Limpopo bush and saw leopards and heard lions roar and watched the full moon rise into the African skies. Then we hit Jozi, got on a plane and half a day and about eight beers later we were barrelling along past colourful mercados and dramatic inselbergs and at sunset we crossed the bridge onto the 3km-long Ilha de Moҫambique, some 2 000km from Maputo, nuzzling up to Tanzania. The whole island is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, its buildings hewn from coral rock and dating back to the 8^th century. 

Ilha de Mocambique 

Vasco da Gama landed here in 1648 and we landed in Nampula quite some time after that and spent a week exploring this incredible island with its powerful history, ancient forts and brave churches, slave houses, squalid shantytown and amazing spirit and architecture. A strong sense of the past even if you don’t understand it, a trading post of people and history, happy-sad, despairing and delicious all at the same time. We met people from Spain and Sweden, Italy, Denmark, Australia, Portugal, Manchester; imbibed an amazing mix of African and Arab, Portuguese and Indian. Sea and salt and love, the sound of trumpets in high-ceilinged rooms; the thrum of the Indian Ocean. 

Indian Ocean prrrrrrrr

And then all of a sardine and a langoustine – we were outta paradise on a small yacht and then some walking plus a very long taxi back to Nampula and then onto a plane which then bumped us down on the Jozi tarmac. Then Darling got on a plane to Amsterdam and onto LA and I got on a plane and went to Hong Kong and onto Phuket, jolled around southern Thailand swimming in the very same Indian Ocean across the other side of the world with a whole lot of fabulous women. Then I got back on a plane to Phuket, onto Hong Kong and landed back in Jozi with a head full of rainforests, tropically dressed mountains, jungly islands, erotic beaches, emerald waters and and ohjafuckit a cheap tequila hangover. Godamn. 

Khao Sok National Park, Thailand

Darling in the meantime got a bit of travel in his troubadour and went unexpectedly back to Honolulu via San Francisco and Portland and Seattle, and is now tired – haha who would have thought? – and back in LA and flies off today, his time, on a three week desert rock tour across Europe -  check out 3^rd Ear Experience. I got onto another plane to Maputo, did some work stuff then got onto another plane back to Jozi and now I am in deep rural Limpopo nine hours ahead of LA trying to figure out what the hell just happened and if I’ll ever get laid again. He tells we shall meet again on Guy Fawkes Day in Jozi. He promises fireworks and I love the predictably sexy metaphor even though I am in a startled condition back on the Harare/ Pretoria time zone two hours ahead of G&T, I mean GMT. Good god, Darling.