Magical Mozambique

Published Oct 11, 2006

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'What do you mean you've done away with first class?" I asked the ticket vendor at Joburg's Park Station.

"Third class only to Komatipoort," the man said impatiently. "We did away with first class last month."

I looked at my travel partner. She shrugged. "Two, please."

The tickets to Komatipoort cost R70. Our plan was to go from there to Maputo and up the Mozambican coast by whatever means possible.

We made our way onto the train and luckily found ourselves a double seat. Soon the train was packed. People loaded huge boxes and bundles of blankets onboard. Vendors selling peanuts, apples and cheap whisky walked up and down.

The train got fuller and fuller as it stopped at each station.

Passengers bantered and bartered. Even the ticket conductors had a good rapport with the passengers. Throughout the journey there wasn't a moment of silence.

Eventually people were asleep in the luggage racks above our heads. A family of six had found themselves a place outside the toilet.

In the seat on our left, a Mozambican man made regular calls on his cellphone. I wondered who he was talking to. I heard the man say Italy and France and goal. Then it hit me.

I had found a way to keep up with the World Cup soccer final being played that evening.

Late that night the man shook me awake. It was pitch black outside. The train was roaring somewhere through the Mpumalanga countryside. People were cheering and laughing. "Italy win penalties," the man said.

Early in the morning I woke up to see the sun rising over Mpumalanga's sugarcane fields. The loveliness of the sight almost made up for my aching back. The man who had been shouting the scores was asleep, his head tilted back and his mouth open, an empty bottle of whisky on the blanket on his lap.

Soon we were in Komatipoort.

In town, we enjoyed breakfast before finding a minibus to take us to Maputo. The driver charged us R45 each, including our bags. The taxi was packed with people in the back having lively conversations and bantering with the driver.

When we stopped at the border, the driver pointed out the building where we should have our passport stamped.

"I will meet you on the other side," he said. "These women have no passports, so I must drive them through the back."

"Do you think we should have let him drive off with our bags?" my travel partner asked.

"I don't know, I feel like we can trust him."

We had our passports stamped. It seemed we were the only people in the queue. As promised, the taxi driver met us on the Mozambican side of the border.

The minibus had to stop on two or three occasions for our driver to pay an "administration" fee to a Mozambican policeman.

"It makes life easier for all of us," he said. "If you don't pay them they search the whole vehicle. They take about an hour to do it and I have to repack all the luggage."

We arrived in Maputo and with the help of an old local who had been on the minibus, we trekked through town on a selection of minibuses to Fatima's Backpackers.

Fatima's is a favourite stayover for budget travellers. It has comfortable beds and showers, and there is always some lonely soul to chat with at the bar outside.

I was surprised to see how neat and tidy Maputo looked. I was last there in 1994.

Many of the old Portuguese houses and buildings had been restored, the roads were in good shape and the mounds of trash that had littered the streets before seemed to have disappeared.

No visit to Maputo is complete without a cocktail at the Polana Hotel, followed by a seafood dinner at Costa da Sol.

We took a minibus to the restaurant. It was as I remembered it. The moon rose over the horizon as the dhows sailed past in front of us. A cool breeze blew off the Indian Ocean as we drank the local 2M beers.

Before sunrise the next morning, we were on a bus to Inhambane.

It's a long and bumpy trip that winds along the southern Mozambican coast. During stops, people rush to the sides of the vehicle selling freshly baked Portuguese bread loaves, oranges and cashew nuts.

We made it to Inhambane late in the day. A selection of minibuses representing the different hotels and backpacker hotels were waiting.

My partner and I were talked into taking the Fatima's minibus and off we went to Tofu Beach. Tofu has become a favourite holiday spot for South Africans, although when we went in July, it was fairly quiet.

Fatima's has rustic little reed huts that overlook the ocean.

A restaurant makes lovely meals of peri peri chicken or calamari and chips. If you buy a fish from the locals, the chefs gladly cook it for you for a small fee.

At night, backpackers from every corner of the globe sit around a beach fire, drinking beer and exchanging stories. The day after arriving, my travel partner and I went out with a local company to snorkel with whale sharks.

We searched for a while, but then our wily captain spotted a huge dark shadow in the ocean.

We dived in and there it was. The gentlest of giants. Nine metres long, our guide said. It was awe inspiring.

I wished we had more time to explore Mozambique, but after six days we had to get back home. We had another bumpy bus trip and overnight train ride ahead of us.

"Ready for the trip home?" I asked my travel partner the night before we were to leave for home.

She smiled.

"I went to see a travel agent before we left," she said. "I hope you don't mind." She reached into her rucksack and pulled out two air tickets to Joburg.

I could have kissed her.

- This article was originally published on page 11 of The Star on October 10, 2006

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