North of Maputo, space lengthens, the distance from one beach to the next grows. Here, dunes can follow their natural path, blowing sand in-land to form the roads, paths and gardens. The waves lap, no walls or artificial breaks to impede their momentum. I’m back to the natural, raw coastline where I belong. Although I have not always felt such a strong affinity to the sea, it truly developed living on the Gold Coast, such that moving to Brisbane, little less than an hour away, felt restrictive and dull. Now, living in Botswana, I feel the same draw to the coast. To walk in the sand, breathe the thick salty, humid air, and then finally to launch myself into the sea is a desire I just cannot shake. It is the one thing that I really miss being outside of Australia.
Having now arrived and checked into my villa at Tofo Beach, I hail Antonio and ask him to point me in the direction of town. Town is a strong word. He insists on taking me to a restaurant, and as we pass two or three restaurants advertising fresh fish, crayfish and prawns, I try and protest and insist that each will be fine. He neither understands nor particularly cares what I’m trying to say, as he leads me on to what can only be a friend’s restaurant/bar. As I step into the restaurant, the shack amidst half a dozen others, I’m greeted with a smile. I ask “what’s for lunch?” “Pizza”, is the reply. Not exactly what I was expecting or desiring here in this subtropical paradise. “What about seafood?”, I ask. “Tuna”, the lady responds. That sounds fine to me.
Manuela is her name. Tall, at around 6 foot, she is a lean woman but with well-defined arms and wide, strong hands, the hallmark of years of hard work. Is she 28 or 48 years? I cannot be sure, but I’ve learnt not to ty and judge the age of many of the men and women in this part of the world; at least my instinct leans to the younger end of the scale each time. Nevertheless, her big brown eyes draw me in with each “ola” or that is directed my way. The beer arrives, half-a-litre of the local 2M Mozambican draught, which is ice-cold and refreshing, a sensation that is welcome in the high-20s heat, where the humidity pushing 90%.
The tuna arrives, curried with olive oil and garlic, and served with sliced onion, tomato and two wedges of lime. The music, tuned in through what must be an apparently strong Wi-Fi connection to jazzradio.com, switches to “s’wonderful” from the previous Latin acoustic beats. A hot-rock arrives along with a small, freshly baked loaf of bread. Phew. I though the tuna was on the rare side; it turns out that it’s my job to cook it.
I had hesitated when Manuela offered the tuna. Being the overly proud individual that I am, I have never confessed to not having a fondness for fresh tuna. Unlike the pink and white fishes which I adore, tuna has too biting a flavour. But after a mere minute on each side, I released the first of six fillets from the hot-rock and moved it to my plate, with the grilled onion and some chilli to accompany it. Although still rare the tuna was to die for. Whiter than all tuna I’ve had before, the texture was that of a sword-fish fillet and the colour whitish-pink.
The non-musical entertainment is what I had expected. A splattering of fit, tanned Europeans carrying masks walk past every few minutes, having finished their morning dive or off to start an afternoon snorkel. Local Mozambican men pass rocking boardies or a wetsuit pulled half-down, revealing well-sculptured abs and strong biceps, no doubt from a lifetime spent fishing and diving. Two or three mothers, with infants strapped to their back, trudge past, off home for lunch. Each infant is adorned on their mother’ back with the wrapping of the most colourful patterns: red, yellow, black, green, and purple; an endless array of designs. They match the head-wraps of their mothers who are perspiring under the weight of two bodies.
The odd GP-registered car drives past, signalling the arrival of visitors or semi-locals from Gauteng province in South Africa. The proportion is not too dissimilar to that in Gaborone. But these are the Joburgers who like fishing, surfing and diving, not the sort that are trying to make a buck-or-two in Botswana and the first to complain about the heat, dryness or lack of culture.
After another beer, I pay my dues and thank Manuela and the chef profusely as I walk out. It’s half-block to the beach, and I follow it for 100 metres. The breeze is picking up, although it’s now 2pm in the afternoon, and so is the heat as the sun commences its descent from the peak, falling ever so slowly over the nearby grass swamps.
I find the road again and follow the signs, turning a left and then right, back onto the main road and to Tofo Scuba. I greet Brodie, surprised that I’m staring at a blond, plump British lady and not the young surfer-come-diver I had pictured when emailing a couple of weeks ago. After completing a couple of forms, I thank her and begin to depart until my return early the next morning, for a day of whale shark snorkelling and scuba diving.
But I can’t help but ask, “where are the cheapest beers in town?” “Well, there’s plenty of places down the road for 60 Mets, or you can pick them up next door for 80 Mets”. “And here?” I ask. “70 I think”, is the response. I look behind me at the PADI flag flying on the beach as the late morning divers walk up the beach with grins wide. And at Fernando, the bar man, dressed in long white flowing shirt and pants, eager to serve. “That’ll do”.
