Mozambique - up the far north. Cabo Delgado Province, Ibo Island and Quirimbas Archipelago

The further I moved from south to north of Mozambique, the more exhausted I felt.  The closer I got to the northern border, the bigger was the struggle. The shorter were the distances, the longer was the time consumed in order to get where I wanted.  The lack of roads, transportation, the ever present police harassment, political unrest and my own physical and mental condition made me feel weak, vulnerable and scared. Cabo Delgado province and Ibo Island with Quirimbas Archipelago were my last stop in Mozambique.

Since Maputo, the capital, and southern provinces have been persistent in their fight with the rotten officials, system would move all the bad fruits up north. Truly -  nobody cares about what happens there, and therefore Cabo Delgado province has become an asylum for all the criminals and corrupted crooks. There are no roads, so who will actually come and check if they are there at all?

I left Ilha de Mozambique once I felt strong enough to travel and felt that my body responded well to the antibiotics.  I got a lift to main junction in Namialo. From there I took chapa to Pemba. 250km, 8 hours and the classical human cargo squeeze. I solemnly promised to take it more easy now, so I took two days to recover from the chapa trip and enjoyed the city spoils (ergo, I got excited about visiting the supermarket or pharmacy, spending there half a day in the state of awe).

From Pemba to last inland stop in Quisanga I had ‘only’ 120 km. Well, guess what, it took me six hours to get there. First, the road got really bad, then it went to the state of non existing. The chapa broke, and once fixed, it stopped for dead pick up truck to collect further human cargo with accompanying load. I’m not even going to mention stops connected to the luggage that felt of the roof.

In Quisanga I waited 3 hours for the high tide (well, you can’t leave whenever you please). I observed the entrepreneurial life around the tiny little port and its wobbly jetty. Skinny chickens for sale, death or alive. Mano, why would I need chicken for?  Boys who grab your luggage and carry it through mud and water, and people who bargain for the best price. Mamas putting gigantic bags with cassava or manioc over their heads and going back and forth for ages. All under big fat, ole baobab tree.

Vamos, said capitan. So I quietly replied, si.  There it is  - my chapa boat. Now, everyone would tell me this journey will traumatize me for life. What I see here, however,  is a perfectly normal old local boat, actually, two of them – glued together, with build in wooden house in-between. I see properly sized wooden seats with some pillows on them. Those who were first took the best spots and were already napping. There was a local gin on board (teachers tend to drink a lot here, and while on the water they shall not give it in), fisherman would sell branches of fish (how do you call a dozen of fish tided together with a palm tree leaf?). Kids would sleep on my lap. The water was calm and quiet. We’d be passing sand banks and mangrove forests.  It felt peaceful.  I dozed off during the dreamy ride and felt like I have absolutely no clue why people would complain about safety on the chapa boats. Now, when we reached the Ibo Island shore, I understood why. There was another boat coming to the mainland. It was a quarter of a boat that I was in, with twice as much people in it. I saw two white ladies sitting on the edge of the boat with nothing to hold on to. Just their fear maybe. And it’s not because of the mean nature of the locals that they were pushed to the very edge. Most of them, sadly, do not know how to swim.

Island was really quiet. They’d close the tourists spots and bars, since there was nobody to enjoy them. As days went by I learned to give a day notice if I wanted to eat something. I’d end up every day at Benjamin’s Place, where local guide offers you company and his home meal (whatever is available that day). There was no shop, no market and local mamas would only sell peanut flower biscuits. Sugar, crushed peanuts and hot air to dry them into heavenly tropical snickers is what you need to make your bottom bigger and your soul happier.

The extreme heat would make all village seem deserted and emptied of life. I’d walk the streets and watch the ruins of the colonial past. Only close to the sunset you’d see fisherman coming back with the catch of the day, kids helping out with the daily marine businesses, and people waking out of their overheated sleep, greeting you from the porches.

Late afternoon swim, now that was my daily portion of entertainment. Saltos, jumps, throwing into the water, climbing the mangrove trees, underwater mangrove hide and seek. I’d lay on the water and watch the sun go down. Every night though, I’d have bad, twisted dreams. The remoteness of the island, and the scenarios of how impossible and difficult safety evacuation would be from here made me very anxious. 90 kilometers away, by the border with Tanzania, there has been another political unrest. Capo Delgado is used as a traffic point for extremists that would leave to study in Iran and come back home to preach. Local conflicts would still be solved in armed way. Civilians would die. It happened in Mocimboa de Praia, a town that I was going to use as a departure point to cross the river and get to Tanzania. I was told that they’d never harm tourists, however, I decided to go back south and get myself into first available plane to Dar er Saalaam. Reason being – what does it matter for people who have no respect for human life, if I’m white, black, muzungu or not.

When I was flying over Ibo and Quirimbas, I felt relieved to be watching the nature’s pure beauty from far away.

A true paradise? Maybe, my dear friends, maybe one day.