The way it began should have been a dead give away. There was a misunderstanding as to when we needed to be at the airport, which is why Jacqui’s dad Neville ended up taking us an hour earlier than we had planned. Now, as much as we love all you crazy folks, this is why Marnie and I avoid relying on other people like the plague. Neville dropped us off in Sandton to take the Guatrain to the airport.
Inhambane is a third of the way up Mozambique’s coastline, and arriving by plane is a nerve racking experience, as it’s not readily apparent where it is you’ll be landing. Descending lower and lower over salt marshes and palm thatched houses, and you’re thinking, um, runway? Any time now. Seriously.
Hovering a few feet above God’s Green Earth, and finally, there is solid ground. Wheels, meet Tarmac. Good ta know ya.
After twenty minutes of laughable customs procedures (it may well be that Bin Laden is hiding there—they’d never notice) and a forty minute bus ride later, we arrived at the Flamingo Bay Water Lodge.
Visually, the place is stunning. Tucked on the inside curve of a spit of land jutting into the Indian Ocean, the buildings are all built on stilts. During the day, the tide exposes bare sand, to be replaced in the evening with ten feet of water. A five minute stroll down the boardwalk winds around to the twenty chalets at the low tide water line. A golf cart is available to shuttle guests to their accommodation, utilized mostly by people who looked like a little walk would do them a world of good.The theme of this trip was to be “decadent laziness”, so much cat napping and reading ensued until dinner. We went up to the lodge a bit early for cocktails, but the couples already there seemed eager to keep to themselves. Fine by me—I’m not about to waste all this wittiness and charm on those who don’t appreciate it.
The evening’s dinner entertainment included some local kids doing traditional dances, including an albino—ironic given that I’d been researching them for my story. Apart from a stodgy bottle of Portuguese wine, the meal was very nice, and I thought it was a very successful first day.
Where we ran into trouble was activities. Given that they purpose of the trip was to accomplish as little as possible, we should have known better. There is, however, a reason we so rarely just take trips to the beach. We like to do stuff.
Unfortunately, our guide informed us that whale shark sightings are rare this time of year. And to say that I snorkelled with dolphins is a bit of an exaggeration. The first time we spotted them, I had just rammed on my gear and slid into the water, managing to gulp down a few mouthfuls of sea water, when a whale was spotted. Divers aren’t allowed in the water with the humpbacks and their calves, so back to the boat, by which time the whales had managed to move on as well.
Shortly afterward, we spotted a much larger group of 15-20 dolphins surfing the waves in tight formation. Our guide had mentioned that these dolphins were much more shy than their Atlantic counterparts, and to see them speed is of the essence. No kidding. Spotting several fins above the surface no more than fifteen feet from the boat, I slid into the water. Stick my mask under water and—nothing. Take a quick peek up top, spot more fins, search underwater, and—nothing. If you are ever in need of a physically humbling experience, try to swim with dolphins.
So while I was technically in the water in close proximity to dolphins, I’d hardly say I swam with them. If that were the case, anyone who jumped into a body of salt water could say they swam with dolphins. There’s got to be some dolphins in here somewhere, right?
I’d say Marnie enjoyed the whole experience from the safety of the boat, but enjoy is definitely not the word to use. Our boat was a fifteen person Zodiac with two inflatable side runners attached to a fibreglass frame, with two outboards on the back. Swerving in and out of the surf not far from shore in search of our quarry, and the seas were rough. More than once, Marnie gave me that look of immanent desperation, clearly green about the gills.
Luckily, she managed to hold out from parting with her breakfast until most of the boat’s occupants were in the water during our first encounter with the dolphins. The second time, we had just returned to the boat from our second encounter, and our poor landlubbing lady was feeling a bit embarrassed. Though at least the second time, there wasn’t much left inside her to dispose of.
On our way back, we did spot a humpback and her calf, though they don’t look like much from the surface. It’s the dudes that do all the tail flapping and breaching, one of which we saw from a distance. Back at the beach, the other boat we left with tell us they swam with a small whale shark. Poo.
Needless to say, the rest of the day was spent lounging poolside, and we retired to our room early after dinner. The barracuda, a first for me, was delightful.
At least it was while I was eating it. I awoke in the middle of the night to stomach cramping and an ominous rumbling. The hotel brochure said it was fine to drink the tap water, but you never can tell. Or it could have been the shrimp starter I had earlier. Either way, everything I ate for the next several days flowed through me like the mighty waters of the river Zambezi. Fortunately, we had a very light schedule planned for our last full day; massages and a day at the beach. Having never had a professional massage myself, I was fairly satisfied, but Marnie was left disappointed—both by the rubdown itself and the masseuse’s dragon breath.
Arriving at the beach, one could have been forgiven for thinking they were actually at the Gulf Coast during storm season. The numerous watercraft evident the day before had disappeared, a choppy sea of white caps left in their wake. The sun was bright and warm enough, but the rippling wind never allowed you to feel it for more than a second on your skin. Determined to turn our pasty corpses crispy brown, we endured. Then came Armando.
The previous day, wasting time before our ocean safari, we had been tracked down to the water by a young boy selling seashell necklaces (it’s illegal to sell shells or take them out of Mozambique, by the way). I told him we didn’t have any money, which was true. Here is my mistake: the kid asks, “Maybe later?” and I say sure, maybe, to get rid of him. Walking away, he says, “You remember me, my name is Arrrrrrrmannn-do.” When Marnie told me that kid would find me later, I laughed.
Well, I wasn’t laughing when, after five minutes of harassment, Armando and his buddies wouldn’t leave us alone, insisting that I promised him. The staff at Barra doesn’t seem to care about the patrons beyond pumping them full of expensive boat drinks, so the unpleasant task fell to me. So I ignored them. Tried the polite approach. The polite but firm approach. The polite but you’re testing my patience approach. But still, Armando insisted that I had promised him.
So I yelled. Loudly. At children. Poor, impoverished children. And I didn’t, and still do not, feel bad about this.
Why? Well for one, I still didn’t have any money on me. Two, the lodges contributes part of the large fee we paid to community projects. And three, it was our vacation, and just because I am white doesn’t mean I’m a walking ATM.
Plus, Armando is a jerk.
After they left us alone, we put up with the wind for another half hour before returning to the hotel pool, sheltered from the wind on the other side of the bay. Half asleep, lying on my stomach, I hear whispers. Alo? Hey, friendo.
The little cretins had followed us several miles from the beach. Not Armando, but his buddies. And here I thought the resort didn’t allow children under twelve. A waiter chased them off under the boardwalk, and we fled to the safety of our chalet.
At dinner we were finally allowed to sit upstairs on the balcony, which the night previous had been so rudely stolen out from under us by a couple that was leaving the next day (even though we had asked about it first. I know—petty.) The winds were still howling, so were forced to sit just inside the doors. We enjoyed our last dinner, and the company of our friendly waiter Juan.
Our flight the next day wasn’t until after two, so we had planned to sun ourselves by the pool the next morning after breakfast. Overnight, the winds had shifted, and were now screaming out to sea across the Lodge. So instead of swimsuits and a dip in the pool, we enjoyed our last few hours reading with sweaters zipped to the neck. It’s not to say that we didn’t enjoy our trip. It was the first time either of us had seen the Indian Ocean, and at least one of us enjoyed the ocean safari, but we had both been told nothing but good things about Mozambique, so expectations were high. The food at the lodge was mixed given the glowing reviews it received online, and the level of service didn’t do justice to the beauty of the location. Marnie and I agreed that we’d like to go back to the country some day, but probably not to Inhambane.
