We left Nampula for the fabled Ilha de Mocambique, a UNESCO world heritage site. It was the former capital of Portuguese East Africa and was an interesting mixture of African and European culture and architecture.
The crumbling buildings and abandonned ruins still allowed you to imagine how grand this island once was. Our days were spent wandering the narrow streets and admiring the colonial architecture. An eerily serene moment was spent in the old Portuguese fortress, completely alone; partnered only with my thoughts and the ghosts of a former empire.
We also did a day trip to a nearby Praia by dhow and witnessed Ilha the same way fishermen from centuries ago had: from the sea.
We were enjoying our last meal in Ilha when we were interrupted by the likes of Shayne and Sue, who waltzed into the same bistro we were lounging at. There were some fake smiles and forced small-talk and we promptly paid our bills and headed back to the lovely Casa de Luis.
We warned our gracious hosts about the unwanted South-Africans and left in the night towards our next destination, the sea-side town of Pemba.
Pemba was good for two reasons: they had electricity and a terribly slow internet connection. This was the first time in 2 weeks that we had some kind of access to the web thanks to the apparent collision between a submarine and the fiberoptic cable to the entire country. Only in Africa!
The snorkeling in Pemba was great but the concentration of prawns was overwhelming. The prawns I'm reffering to are not of the marine variety, but the term we use to label white South-Africans (Thanks District 9). Russell's Place, the inconviniently located backpackers was a prawn breeding ground and the atmosphere reflected it: everyone keeping to themselves or captivated by their laptops for hours on end.
It was unfortunately Chris O.'s last night with us and we decided to party it up big before he joined his significant other in Europe. We had previously met a DJ from Nampula on our way to Pemba and he was spinning at Kais Nightclub.
At the club, the music and lights were pumping, but there was literally no one in the entire club. We didn't care, we proceeded to dance anyways. For a good hour or so we were the only people on the dancefloor. We were finally joined by the most unlikely guest in the whole club: a geriatric gentleman with no teeth and literally no fat on his skeletal frame.
What he lacked in adipose, he more than made up for in stamina and dance moves. His favourite move was a right-leg shake. Each time he did it we were convinced that he would fall over and break a brittle hip, but thankfully, he proved us wrong.
So there we were, 4 white people (we had been travelling with a German named Stefan and a Swiss girl named Meret for quite some time now), a giant Asian and the oldest man in Mozambique, dancing to house music in an empty dance club. Priceless.
The following morning we said goodbye to China Grande (as Chris O. had been nicknamed in Portuguese). Luckily for him his flight left several hours before the arrival of thos prawns Shayne and Sue. We just couldn't seem to escape them! Nevertheless, we tried our best and fled to the island of Ibo, which is only accessable by boat.
Ibo was the second most important city to the Portuguese colonists, but its isolated location, lack of electricity and running water leave the island far less touristy than Ilha and therefore more "real".
Ibo resembled Ilha in historical significance alone. Its streets and buildings looked as if they had been abandoned centuries ago and had remained untouched and uninhabited since that time. What made Ibo even more impressive was its minimalism, its emptiness and the sparsity of population. At times it felt as though we were the only ones on the island. That we had been dropped into an apocalyptic film where an entire town had been wiped out.
Even though the town had few residents, no electricity nor potable water; we still managed to find ice-cold 2M beers at the generator-powered haven known as Cincu Portache.
Like most entries I write, any literary eloquence can be cancelled out by my own stupidity. After having several ice cold 2M beers and going to bed at a modest hour, I had a Lariam-induced dream, the exact details of which I don't quite remember. At a certain point in this dream I was urinating and unfortunately in reality I was also urinating; off the side of my bed and onto my right shoe.
Since Chris and I were sleeping in the same bed, he was obviously awoken when this happened. Due to our longstanding friendship and his immunity to my ridiculousness, he just assured that I wasn't messing up his side of the bed, rolled over and went back to sleep. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is!
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