Ponta d’Ouro

Even before arriving in Mozambique Kraemer had been in touch with a friend of a friend named Blake who had been living here for several years and gave us the scoop on the safety situation in Maputo, whether Kraemer should bring his tent and how he’d really love if Kraemer could bring him some pine nuts so that he could whip up the pesto he was craving. He and his partner, Tumelga, purchased land and are building a home in Ponta d’Ouro. The beach is named the Golden Point for the shipwrecks said to have left behind treasure. As the southern-most beach in Mozambique, it's just 10kms from the South African border.

So when they were headed down, we took the offer to grab the backseat. Glad we did, as I’m not sure we would have made it otherwise. The road to the beach was less a road and more a conglomeration of dirt and sand trails that split every 50 meters or so. If a driver decided that the trail was getting too worn or wasn’t drivable, all he needed to do was start his road off to a different side. A few cars later and there would be a new road; of course not a sign was to be seen (though Blake claimed that “all roads lead to Ponta”). And calling it bumpy is a complete understatement. After a light rain we did pass one chappa stuck hopelessly in the sand with its passengers either pushing or milling around the road, waiting ‘til either they dug it up or night fell and the tigers started to pick them off one by one.

The town itself is small with a decidedly rustic feel. There are a few restaurants and lodges, but the place is still underdeveloped, probably owing to the pain-in-the-ass, 150km road that takes 4 hours. The bad road has its advantages though as when we stepped onto the beach there was approximately nobody around. That’s a big fat zero. So we plopped down on a nice sandy stretch with the waves crashing in front of us and the lush green hills rising behind. One hippy traveler chick did manage to walk by and looked as if, with a mile of virgin beach uninhabited, she was going to settle right in front of our piece of beach. Taryn shot her a pretty evil eye, so she moved on.

Tumelga’s mother and uncle are living in Ponta, and as soon as they heard that the land was available, her mother told Blake. They plan to use the house themselves but mostly to rent it out – a pretty solid investment, as there are plans for a new bridge from Maputo to be built within the next two years that would reduce the trip by an hour and for the road itself to be improved.

We stayed at Kaya Kweru, a nondescript lodge with basic amenities, a pool and a restaurant. And for anyone looking for a place to stay there, I’d definitely recommend this joint if you take their recently-added self-catering option (meaning you have access to a kitchen), which was clean, private and saved us lots of money!

I hate LAM

Kraemer is working with TechnoServe here in Maputo, but they flew him to check out some chickens up north in Nampula. A fabulous little escape called Ilha de Mocambique is situated just 2hrs from the city, so we made arrangements for me to come meet him in Nampula before shuttling to the island for a weekend in paradise.

But with the good comes the bad. And a verrry long day.

I had requested my (half-day) Friday off and left the house at 6:30 am or so to catch my 8 am flight. I was just a little nervous about being in the airport by myself, even though I knew it was small, and when I got there, I was, well, lost. I thought I’d found the check-in area for domestic flights, but as I scanned the signs – Tete, Beira, Chimoio – my final destination was nowhere to be found. I asked an attendant stationed at the entrance (doing absolutely nothing), who didn’t have an answer for me. I meandered around the airport looking for additional counters. Surely I was just missing something obvious. When I stumbled upon the LAM customer service desk, it took about five full minutes of scanning through the computer for them to find information about my flight.

I should have known right away that I was in for it when it took so long for her to tell me my flight time. Finally, she heaved a sigh, stood up and walked outside her glassed-off cube to explain to me that my flight wasn’t leaving until 9:40.

Sure, I wasn’t happy, but I thought I could just wait. And then came the real news. No, no, my flight wasn’t delayed, it was CANCELED. And I wasn’t leaving at 9:40 AM, I was leaving at 9:40 PM.

Back to work.

They told me to come back by 7:30pm and everyone at work agreed – you never know when they’ll give away your spot.

7:30PM I arrived on time, found the right counter and made it through security in three minutes flat. I’d planned to carry-on but as I was about to walk away the lady told me my bag looked too heavy and made me check it. I had kept my money with me of course but forgot I’d left my camera in the top pocket. Crossed my fingers.

7:33PM Plop into an entirely uncomfortable plastic chair and amuse myself by staring at the other foreigners.

8:36PM Woman beside me wonders aloud when we’ll board and where, given the place has no signs and no attendants to be seen. Proceed to enter into long conversation covering topics ranging from dining options in Maputo to dating practices in the U.S.

9:10AM Attempt to board the flight flying from Maputo to Nampula to Pemba, given that my ticket doesn’t say anything about a layover in Beira, though apparently there is. The woman I’d been chatting with tries, too, and we both got nasty glares and an earful. Something about our stupidity, I'm sure. But this woman actually spoke Portuguese and was lost, so you can see how I'd be confused.

9:20PM First plane departs. Excuse me?! You mean there was an EARLIER, DIRECT flight, and you didn’t put me on it when my flight got canceled?

9:30PM Told we’ll board at 9:40.

9:40PM Absolutely no boarding.

10:00PM Nothing. Bar closes.

10:30PM Nothing. Try talking to anyone wearing anything airport or airline related, even if it’s one of the luggage truck drivers. Everyone stares down at their toes and giggles before walking away.

11:00PM Every time an announcement looked imminent, a cameraman who happened to be on the flight would whip out his black box and scare the poor little messengers into dark corners. Finally someone announces that we’ll leave at midnight and that they’re planning to serve us dinner in the airport. A couple of Mozambicans are outraged and demand an explanation. I didn’t hear the response first hand, but rumors circulated that because the plane itself was 10 minutes late in landing, the first contracted crew had walked out, and the ensuing delay was due to lengthy negotiations with a new crew.

12:40AM Five hours later, and I’m finally on a plane.

3:30AM Land in Nampula

3:36AM Wake up in a cold sweat on the airplane floor with about four heads hovering above me. Whether from stress or dehydration or blood rushing from my head when I sat up abruptly, I had blacked out. The girl who’d been sitting across from me was hold my legs in the air, and one of the flight attendants rushed to get me some sugar water as soon as I came to. I’d felt myself going and waved frantically as we taxied down the runway; they must have unbelted me and got me to the floor after I’d slumped over. One of the airport workers escorted me inside.

3:42AM Checked my luggage at the baggage claim. No camera. No phone charger. Well, dang.

4:06AM Checked into the hotel in Nampula – we’d canceled our reservations on the Island.

Good thing the Island was amazing. I hate LAM.

What I Think

When writing about India I felt I always had to have a story to tell. Well, folks, that took too much effort and surely contributed to my dearth of entries. This time I’m just being lazy … which is why I’m a month in and only now posting my entries. But this time I’m not going to worry about having to tell you about a spectacularly wild event (like getting on the wrong train without any money, ID or form of communication) or whether or not I’m posting pictures (though I will!) This time I’m just going to tell you what I think.

It’s not fair to compare Mozambique to India because I’m here and not there, and aren’t our memories always rosy? But the temptation is impossible to resist, so I’m going to go down that road anyhow.

1. Odors. India had lots of trash burning going on and more than its fair share of rotting flesh and street-side excrement. But it also came with magnificent wafts of fried dough and other street foods, of fresh laundry and fresh rains, of incense and steaming chai. In Maputo I am generally met with chappa exhaust (crazy little vans that whiz around the city picking up people so that they can sit on one another's laps to get around). But when I get to the outskirts of the city, I find sea breezes and seafood – whether it is fish off the boat or fried calamari. The grills are always going, stacked with whole chickens, oftentimes marinated in the cook’s own rendering of the country’s go-to piri piri spice.

2. Housing. Holy baloney, Mozambique blows India Out. Of. The. WATER. The TDY house is huge: three stories, three balcony porches, a spacious kitchen, a dining room and a small living room, five bedrooms, five full baths, a ballroom (yes, it’s small, but a ballroom), a car park and a small pool (not that there is anywhere to sit or even lay next to it, but isn’t that beside the point?) We have a rotation of guards who let us in through the front, solid wood-paneled gate when we ring, a clan of maintenance men and a housekeeper who cleans three days a week and occasionally cooks. And washer, dryer and dishwasher in house.

3. Safety. There are certainly worse places in DC, really, there are, and I was cautious in India, too. But here? I twist Kraemer’s arm to run with me in the mornings (though we frequently see the Ambassador walking with her husband, so it ain’t that bad), and I’m very alert when leaving and entering my house. Basically, no one has been seriously injured of which I’m aware, but there have been carjackings and muggings and home invasions (of people I’ve met or work for the USG) … because they want to steal your stuff. Your cell phone, your tennis shoes, your money, whatever.

4. Transportation. Sucks. Let’s just be real about it. Sometimes I feel like a prisoner in my own house. We aren’t allowed to take the chappas (er, not that I would), and only two cab companies have been vetted. There is no good bus system. And this is just within the city. No cross-country trains, and I might as well be flying to the moon when I get on a plane – it would cost upwards of $700 just for me to fly to a beach up north (this country seems to me about the size of California). Granted, I could reserve a USAID vehicle; but they’re almost all stick, and Maputo’s traffic is nearly as crazy as India’s (and left-side driving), and you wouldn’t find me driving there. India’s traffic might have broken my leg but at least I could take the bus, geez!

5. The view. Pretty much doesn’t get any better than this. From my house, well, I look out at the back of the Canadian Embassy or some such, but even that is kinda fun. I like the architecture. But from my office? I can see the ocean, not to mention a spectacular sunset just before I leave work at 5:30 (clearly, it’s winter here). Every morning we get picked up by a driver who then shuttles us to work, every morning along the boardwalk lined with palm trees and the morning’s fishermen.

I’m not sold on Mozambique as somewhere I would want to live – but it’s growing on me.

Belin

I almost feel like there isn’t much to say about Belin except that it rained. And rained a lot. As Mozambique is a coastal country, there are a number of opportunities to visit the beach. We’ve even got the beach in Maputo (though not the kind you want to go hang out in – kinda like Mumbai’s beaches, it’s just too close to the city.) So this was our first attempt at a beach vacation.

Firstly, I almost squeezed my fingers into smithereens on the way up I was wringing them so hard. I was petrified. The road is relatively narrow, and if there was a speed limit, I didn’t see it. There aren’t really any lines – they wouldn’t serve much of a purpose anyhow, as people basically drive wherever they feel like it as long as there isn’t a car coming in the opposite direction in the immediate future. The roads aren’t kept up that well, so it’s oftentimes necessary to veer toward the center of the road to avoid the rough edges. That and everyone passes everyone, all the time, usually without a honk and oftentimes on a curb. There aren’t any dotted lines that tell you when it’s “okay” to pass – and that’s what I don’t trust. Individual judgment.

Frightening road aside, we made it to Belin in one piece. But getting to the house we were renting with another couple was a different story. We were in this tiny little bugger of a car and were up against some ginormous puddles. Puddles that would swallow us whole. And was still raining. After taking some adventurous turns and windy back roads we found it – only to determine that in these conditions we’d never leave our house, so we promptly returned to town and rented some rooms with a beautiful view of the bay.

And yes, it rained some more. We spent our time there eating, drinking wine and playing cards. A brief morning run on the sand (which showed me I was entirely out of shape).

I also should not fail to mention the amazing cashews we picked up there and on the way home. They have these “cashew” trees that are basically just twiggy trees they use to hang bags of fresh, roasted cashews and empty bags just to catch your attention. It works. Yesterday I learned that after the civil war the cashew industry struggled and AID stepped in to help save it. Yet to learn exactly how, but I’m glad they did. These babies are delicious. We’ve since discovered the piri-piri variety, which are seriously spicy but completely addictive.

A week in Maputo

We arrived in Mozambique with high expectations. Dreams of white beaches, unexplored world class fishing, awesome uncrowded surf breaks and some good seafood. My first impression upon landing is that it was cleaner than India. I know that's similar to saying less painful than shaving with a cheese-grater, but these are first impressions. Our house is a nice three-story building with parquet wood floors and about 5 rooms. We have a distiller made in the U.S. by GE "Durastill." I thought it looked like a great piece of machinery, but ours tasted horrible.

Whether it's paranoia instilled in the U.S. government or a true picture of the crime rate in Maputo, we definitely have bars on every window, guards and a plethora of razor wire. But just judging from our neighborhood (the nice part of town) most places have at least a serious electric fence or razor wire.

It's custom in Maputo to take your wedding pictures on the jetty; maybe it's also good luck or some such, I'm not quite sure.

But one of the nice things about Mozambique is that you can drink anywhere you want to. And that is greatly facilitated by a plethora of people with ice chests selling refrescoes. So on the way to the fish market I grabbed a beer and took in the beach. The beach is nice and there is a pretty big tide, which leaves the dhows (or small boats with a sail) stranded high and dry.

We spent the first weekend at Bilene, a small beach resort up the coast about three hours. It takes a while to get out of the city because there is only one road heading north and everybody had built along side it or at least comes there to set up shop. Turn the same road into a turning lane, and then add pedestrians flocking up and down the sides and you have the makings of a very nice African traffic jam. Crazily about thirty minutes outside of the city there is a stadium that could easily seat 80,000 and is being built by the Chinese. Maybe my development theory is incorrect, and maybe they have the infrastructure base to support such a stadium, but it seems a bit presumptuous and a huge waste of money when the per person GDP is $330. But whatever, they are building it, and Louisiana did the same thing, and I love Tiger Stadium.

It rained on us when we arrived at the beach and while trying to make it to our original accommodations it quickly became apparent that four-wheel drive has its place and that place is Africa.