TOFO POINT BEACH, MOZAMBIQUE
ARRIVAL
Captain Sydney safely landed us in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, where we transferred to the commercial South African airline to return to Johannesburg for another overnight stay, and then departed for Mozambique the next morning on LAM airline, which is banned from flying in the United States. Our 50 seater plane first stopped in Vilanculos, another oceanside town, where we stayed on board while some passengers disembarked and others joined us for the final leg to Inhambane, the closest airport to the surfing village of Tofo. We arrived to chaos. One man stood behind a small desk inside the 400 or so square foot terminal overflowing with 100 people. We were the first to deplane and I concluded that this sole man served as the customs agent. We completed each of our immigration papers that I managed to scrounge from somewhere. We turned it in with our passports, now inclusive of our visas that we were required to obtain from the Mozambique Embassy in Washington, D.C. prior to departure from Arizona under strict application and timing guidelines. Once our entry was stamped and approved, we were oddly required to have our baggage scanned before exiting the airport. We escaped the small building only to be swarmed by taxi drivers. Our transport was supposed to be prearranged with the lodge and we searched frantically for him to avoid the hectic mass. One man had first approached me before the others and I informed him of my intended destination. While the others insisted they were my assigned driver, this kind man stood back from the rest and pointed to my prepaid transporter. I was incredibly grateful to him for his considerate assistance so that we could escape the madness. The drive to the beach was approximately 30 minutes mostly on a paved road, through the marketplace in Inhambane, past villages complete with mud huts, avoiding all of the children, people and goats lining the roadway, over lush rolling hills and past cell phone towers, past children playing soccer in a dirt field beside a school, past a small cemetery with hand made cement, above ground vaults the size of a coffin, and many shacks operating as stores with Vodafone painted in red across their fronts. We made a short stop at the only ATM in the region that is shared with a petrol station to withdraw Mozambican Meticals, and finally crossed the sandy roads that led to Casa Barry Lodge (www.casabarry.com).
BUSH TO BEACH
On day one in Tofo my emotions are being stirred like the current of the Indian Ocean. Being on the shores of this lush green tropical land with thatched roof chalets dotting the hillsides, white capped waves topping off the magnificent blue waters, being immersed with the stunningly beautiful Mozambican men and women who are walking the massive sandy beach selling freshly caught barracuda, home roasted cashews and sweet fruits like coconut and pineapple straight off the trees, and hearing the gentle beat of bongo drums rising above the sound of the rolling tide, I am missing my love desperately.
AND SHE'S UP
Why did I chose Mozambique? In 1998 I lived in San Pedro, Costa Rica and studied international business at the University of Costa Rica. I traveled the country and fell for a Costa Rican surfer. Despite weekly opportunities to learn to surf some of the best waves in the world, I never once set foot on a surfboard. It has always felt like a missed opportunity, but fortunately it was not too late to cease the next opportunity to learn to surf. As I was planning this journey looking at a map of Africa, and having once seen a photo of the beautiful beaches of Mozambique, I opened a guide book and instantly flipped to "surfing" in the index. Only two locations were mentioned, one being Tofo Point Beach. I told the travel agent I'd like to go to Tofo and she asked, "Where?" I said I want to learn to surf and the guide book says Tofo is a surfing village. I had the image of a small beach town where people from around the world go to surf and never leave. She said she didn't know anyone who had ever been there but she would inquire and make a reservation.
This morning I took my first surfing lesson from the handsome, reputable owner of the Surf Shack located just a short walk down the beach from Casa Barry Lodge where I am staying. My instructor is from Holland. He arrived in Tofo three years ago on holiday to surf, and...he never left. Rosie owns the fabulous asian fusion restaurant upstairs from the Surf Shack, which she opens a few indefinite days a week for only a few hours until she runs out of food. It took days to capture the opportunity to enjoy her famously popular dishes. Rosie is from Los Angeles. She arrived a year and a half ago in Tofo, and...she never left. Just as I had imagined, there are many more stories of the same tune. Tofo is a special place on this Earth. It is still pristine and relatively untouched. The waters are home to dolphins, humpback whales, huge manta rays and the rare whale shark, the largest fish in the ocean. It is a marine biologist's and backpacker's delight.
I am proud to confess that my first surfing experience was a splendid success. I suspect that my many days on a skateboard, snowboard and wakeboard significantly expedited my learning curve. My instructor commented on my fitness level, and spent only a few minutes with me on the beach explaining the basic mechanics of surfing, the board and the waves. I then practiced my pop up on the hand drawn surfboard in the soft sand. He offered for me to first ride the waves laying on my stomach like you would on a boogie board, but I elected to bypass that step and go straight to a stand, which he happily condoned. The waves that morning were chest height. Once I paddled my way out into the surf, applying the technique he showed me by pushing my chest off the board into a sort of push up position as the white waves toppled over me, and my body adapted to the chilly blue water, he turned my board in the direction of the shore while I laid on my stomach and with his glowingly warm smirk he asked, "Are you ready," and I answered, "I guess so!" When he eyed what he determined to be an appropriate wave he yelled, "Paddle, paddle, paddle" followed by "Stand up!" I grasped his instruction and before I knew it I was up! Riding my first wave! All the way to shore! I bailed off the board before the fins hit the sand in the shallow waters. When I turned back toward the ocean's depth I admired his two arms raised high above the tide screaming success! I jumped on the board and paddled back out in glee to be greeted by his sincere magnetic smile and after catching a couple more waves he said, "By the way, you are already on lesson two." By day two of surfing I was turning left and right. On day three I took a bit of a thrashing but by day four I was riding green water. I'm expectedly hooked.
TAXI?
I had quite miscalculated the amount of cash I'd need in Tofo because I was anticipating more availability to use my credit card. In actuality I was keeping a running tab with my travel mate who had been the only one between us to withdraw from the ATM on the way in. Running short on day two we needed to find transport back to the ATM and inquired at Casa Barry reception. The man working the desk informed us that the lodge did not have anyone available to drive us, but another guest, Damir, had arranged for a driver to take him back to the airport to pick up his surfboard that arrived subsequent to his arrival in Tofo. The man at reception asked Damir if he would mind if we hitch a ride to stop at the ATM and Damir graciously accepted. We would have to drive the extra 30 minutes to the airport beyond the bank in order to get a ride back to Casa Barry as well. Moments later the "taxi" driver handed Damir and I his keys. My travel mate had gone back to our chalet to get his bank card as this was unfolding and Damir and I stood there perplexed. The man at reception explained that the driver had somewhere to be and would not have time to take us, but that WE could drive his Toyota-Four-Runner-looking-car, and then handed us 500 Mets to put gas in it! Damir said I can't drive on the left side of the road and I said neither can I, but knowing my travel mate had prior experience I volunteered him. When he arrived back at reception I handed him the keys and said, "You're driving!" I briefly explained the circumstances, the three of us jumped in the car, laughed in near hysterics and off we went! We made our introductions to Damir and once he explained that he is Serbian and living in Norway working on an off shore oil drilling rig I laughingly proclaimed, "So a Serb, a Jew and a Catholic walk into a bar....we'll see how this joke ends in a little while!" None of us precisely knew how to get to the airport and about 10 minutes into the drive we discovered we had made a full circle right back to our starting point! We giggled recognizing the beginnings of my earlier joke was pretty much our reality. We inquired for direction and eventually arrived at our first stop at the petrol station/ATM, then continued on toward the airport. We didn't have too much time before the sun would set and we'd be driving in the dark. My travel mate was maintaining a safe speed only to encounter every vehicle darting past us at an alarming rate. He picked up the pace despite my shaky nerves in the backseat as we came in such close proximity to the people walking on the side of the road. My decent sense of direction guided us for awhile but then we realized we should have reached the airport by now. Damir was brave to roll down the window time and time again to inquire for direction as we made every effort to communicate between our multiple languages with those we asked. Despite people having told us at Casa Barry that it was a nearly straight road all the way from the lodge to the airport we managed to make many wrong turns. We finally arrived at our destination about an hour later only to find the airport had closed!! Poor Damir would have to return at 10 am the next day to collect his surfboard. We raced back now driving as the locals do toward Casa Barry to reach it before nightfall and made one more stop at the gas station to put more petrol in the vehicle at our own expense, since what should have taken about an hour became a two hour adventure. But with every experience comes an opportunity, and here we had made a wonderful new friend who we'd end up spending much of our time with over the course of the next week.
All of my transportation experiences in Tofo were similarly intriguing. One day I rode standing in the back of a pick up truck with a couple of young local males to return to the ATM yet again, only to discover that my bank card would not work. I am fortunate to be able to rely on my travel mate for cash, as I otherwise have little means to pay since U.S. dollars and credit cards are not widely accepted here. Another day I accompanied another new friend to the market to pick up a ride to the ATM. We were confronted by a young man who asked what we needed, and when we explained that we wanted a ride to the cash machine and back, he claimed he could help and negotiated a price with us. He then escorted us to a run down small passenger van that was loaded with local people. We didn't understand what was happening when he made everyone get out of the vehicle and told us to get in. I realized we had clearly overpaid when the driver suddenly drove away with only us and 2 other people in the van, and I felt terrible for all the others who were left standing in the market where we had left them. On Saturday night we joined our new friends, Damir and Chris to go to the trendy hot spot, Mozambeats Motel, where a DJ would be playing. The four of us walked somewhat aimlessly nearly 30 minutes in the dark on the sandy roads until we reached the motel. There were few people there at the time so we sat at the bar and ordered food and drinks. The local bartenders were friendly. The open air bar area had ample room to dance on the wooden floor that stood elevated beyond the grassy courtyard set with couches and a burning fire pit, beside the nicely lit pool lined with a few cabanas, and opposite the ground level dance floor built around deeply rooted trees. Others began to wander in as the increasing volume of the music filled the night air. In no time most of Tofo had arrived and I found myself surrounded on the dance floor by people from all over the world where we swayed to the beats emitting from the French DJ's sound system consisting of pop, latin and classic tunes, and impressively supplemented by his own percussion and an incredibly talented saxophone player. The party vibe increased when the now notorious group of Australian guys carried a table on to the dance floor and commenced the act of drunk table surfing. After many cocktails and hours of dancing, the memorable evening drew to an end and another new friend, Ryan, helped hail a truck to give us a lift back to Casa Barry. The doors opened and three Mozambican men asked where we were heading, then told us to get in. My travel mate hesitated as he later described the three men as looking like Somali pirates, but I had already jumped into the back seat leaving him little choice. The driver quickly inquired in broken English where we were from and then engaged in friendly conversation for the duration until he dropped us right in front of our lodge. I offered to pay him for the lift and he absolutely refused to accept any cash. We exited his truck, they all bid us farewell, and we abruptly recognized how our own culture may have tainted our trust in humanity and promptly opened our eyes to the innate goodness that still exists in the world. This belief was reinforced another day when we inadvertently found ourselves walking the main road back into downtown Tofo. I was in a bikini, shorts, barefoot and cashless. A jeep pulled up next to us with a Zimbabwean who I'd guess to be about 70 and graciously offered us a ride. He asked where we were going and when I told him he inquired, "Why are you going this way," and I had to admit, "Because I made a wrong turn!"
FRIENDSHIP
I've discovered that in a locale where people from around the world travel to in order to catch the surf and immerse themselves in a slower, simpler life, that making new friends is as easy as saying hello. Over the course of the eight days in Tofo I spent countless, wonderful hours talking with strangers who quickly became friends. I would run into Damir and Chris for breakfast nearly every morning where we'd laugh as we reflected on the events of the prior evening. After breakfast I would usually surf with my instructor Aryean and then hang at the Surf Shack with his beautiful, worldly girlfriend Michelle, chatting about the interests in our lives. By midday Ryan would head down to our lodge to accompany me in the afternoon's activity, such as walking the market or the beach, hitching a ride to the ATM, loitering at the Casa Barry bar, grabbing lunch, or surfing, where we might run into Damir and Chris once again. When day after day I encountered the kind family from London at breakfast, lunch, on the beach, at the Surf Shack, and/or at Casa Barry, it became a running joke as to who was following who. I shared my hard-to-get table with them at Rosie's restaurant the day I finally managed to find a spot in time for her asian fusion before it was gone, and while we savored our grub father Will taught me photography and cricket basics. One afternoon word had spread that the Wimbledon final between Federer and Djokovic would be airing on the TV in the Casa Barry bar. Nearly every visitor in Tofo gathered to watch. We all crammed in the bar joyously for hours emitting the typical ohs and ahs of a tennis game until the players reached match point and Damir cheered and danced for his nation's win. It was a particularly special afternoon for me because I was reminded of my mother who passed almost 5 years ago to this day, and her absolute adoration for the game. She would have been proud to be sitting with this crowd who was also clearly enamored with the sport.
Day after day and night after night I stuffed myself with fresh seafood, including prawns, tuna, barracuda, lobster, redfish and kingfish prepared in every which way: whole pan fried, deep fried, coconut encrusted, in tomato curry, in thai curry, on a kebab, in homemade ravioli, and in soup, to name a few. We enjoyed a fabulous heartwarming dinner at what became our favorite local restaurant, Tofo Tofo, with Chris (from Hermosillo, Mexico living in Djbouti), Damir (from Serbia living in Norway), Ryan (from British Columbia living in Dubai), Mark (from Cape Town living in England) and Josephine (from England living in Tofo), where I had the cherished opportunity to introduce all of them to my new favorite fish, barracuda, in the savory tomato curry, and all agreed it was mouthwatering good. Many afternoon hours were spent sitting in the Casa Barry lounge chairs beside the book exchange gazing out to the nearly vacant beach and gleaming ocean below, taking advantage of the lodge's free wifi, as each of these new friends and others wandered in and out, reading, writing, chatting and working. Many are journalists of varying sorts who can work wherever their desires take them so long as they have internet access. One afternoon, as time escaped us and we sank deeper and deeper into the comfortably cushioned chairs, Ben, the 6 foot 5 Aussie, invited me to his backpacking retreat that evening for the Aussies' final night in Tofo before they boarded a bus and moved on to Swaziland. That night Ryan and I stopped in the market for a 6 pack of Savanna Dry cider and walked along the sandy beach road until we reached Fatima's. We meandered around the property past the small hut chalets and communal showers and toilets, following the sound of voices, until we located the communal kitchen where we found Ben, Rosie and a few newbies (to us). Music was playing from a hand carved coconut radio (Chris had bought one earlier on the beach and if I had room to carry one in my luggage I would have also, without a doubt, purchased one of these amazingly sophisticated yet incredibly simple coconut speaker/radios). Within the hour the long wooden tables filled with my new found friends for a chill evening of drinks, smokes, music and conversation. Ben hugged me goodbye as I left, for he was to take the early morning bus, but then hugged me again the next night when I ran into him on the beach after he was convinced to stay one more day in this village where people never leave. When Ryan and I walked back toward my lodge I received yet another embrace, this time from Veronica, the local girl working in the market from whom I bought some groceries during the course of the week, and Joaquin, the 14 year old boy who made me bracelets and gave me the local fist bump handshake that I had grown to know. Ryan commented, "Everyone in this town knows you" to which I replied, "Friendships, they complete me."
CHAOS
We encountered complete chaos in the airport on our departure much the same as upon our arrival, and even more so. We had been told at reception that morning that our flight on LAM, quite possibly the most unreliable airline around, was delayed; however, much to our delight, our flight which was scheduled to make multiple stops on our return route would now be flying directly to Johannesburg. We stood for at least 20 minutes with the one man show at the airport who issued tickets, checked passports and loaded luggage into the Xray machine, as he typed away on his computer with intermittent internet access, and asked me multiple times if I was flying to JoBurg that day. Eventually he loaded my baggage and handed me my passport and boarding passes, of which there were two, which did not quite add up to having a direct flight. With ample time we sat in the small bar and drank Amarula, the creamy, delicious African alcoholic beverage derived from the local Amarula fruit that elephants, baboons and other wildlife sometimes find themselves unknowingly intoxicated by, and that tastes like a combination of Bailey's Irish Creme and Amaretto. I was journaling when I felt a warm embrace behind me and someone say, "I thought I'd find you here." I looked up to find that fetchingly handsome smile of my surfing instructor. We kissed cheek to cheek and I raced out to find Michelle who was returning to Ghanna to work for three months on her next architectural project while Aryean would remain in Tofo to run the Surf Shack. I hugged her with love and support as I was reminded of my departure from the Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, when my boyfriend and I sat for hours on that final morning hand in hand, my head on his shoulder as we savored those last moments at a loss for words, lip to lip as we closed our eyes and held back tears, eye to eye as we gave each other strength to survive this time apart in our new found relationship, and said our goodbyes. It was only upon exiting the tiny terminal to head out to the plane that we were stopped and advised that we needed to complete papers and have our passports stamped once again. Though I did not understand why we needed to complete a disembarkation card to leave the country, with relief I located the Mozambican woman who carried them. Once complete I found the man who had issued my boarding pass and he walked me to the same small desk I encountered upon my arrival. There were many people in line who had just arrived and only one agent behind the counter, but the man directing me guided me to jump ahead of everyone. I could feel the eyes glaring at me from behind and I didn't dare turn around. There was one young man, a backpacker, ahead of me whose visa must have expired, and was desperately seeking approval to leave but was denied. I wanted so much to help him but was too wrapped up in my own sense of anxiety. The man who walked me to the counter who had issued my boarding passes, tore one at its perforation and returned the balance to me, then pointed to the man behind the counter who stamped one of my boarding passes and my passport. At this point everyone's anxiety seemed to heighten in the confusion and two foreign women began yelling at each other about cutting in line. I walked back to the doorway to enter the tarmac where two planes were waiting, and was asked where I was going. When I said JoBurg he pointed to the larger plane and took my boarding pass. Upon review he proclaimed that I was going to Maputo. I repeated Johannesburg. In broken English and partly Portuguese he asked where my other boarding pass was and I tried to explain that the man inside took it. He clearly said, "Please go get it." I weaved my way back through the chaos to the very same man who issued my boarding passes and had subsequently taken one, tapped him on the shoulder and politely asked if I could have it back. He looked at me strangely and I pointed to the man who was now asking for it. So he shuffled through his papers, I said my name was Benjamin, and fortunately it surfaced. I returned to the exit and handed the man both boarding passes. He allowed me to pass and pointed to the larger plane. I proceeded in that direction when one of the two men (I've lost track as to who was who at this point) ran after me and redirected me toward the other plane. I pointed back to the man who gave me the initial instruction and while I stood aimlessly they carried on a conversation in Portuguese. They seemed to come to an agreement that I should board the smaller plane. By now I wondered which plane my bag was on, but wasn't overly concerned because what I understood was that both planes were ultimately going to JoBurg, only the larger plane would arrive there in only a matter of an hour or two, while the smaller plane would be stopping in Vilanculos to the north, and then Maputo to the south, before finally arriving in Johannesburg. They pointed me to the smaller plane. Michelle arrived behind me on the tarmac and when she looked at me confusingly, I said I guess I'm taking this plane to JoBurg. Since she was taking the other one we embraced one final time, I bid her strength, and we agreed that we would connect on Facebook. I ascended the short set of mobile stairs to the plane and just as I reached the doorway, one of those men came running up the stairs behind me yet again. He stood there inquisitively and then oddly turned and descended. I called to him, "Where are my bags?" He replied, "Don't worry, everything will be okay." Being out of my control I giggled inside and trusted that it would all work out. Sure enough he was right; a half day later I arrived in Johannesburg, and so did my baggage.