04 Aug |
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The hammering of the chisel as it cuts into the hull of the dhow is all that disturbs the silence. Midday in late-summer on Ibo island and the enveloping heat drives most people into the shade, save perhaps the odd goat bleating its way along the sandy road in front of Ibo Island Lodge. The carpenters though are hard at work, repairing the traditional boat that stands braced up on the sand.  In the distance the falling tide leaves the roots of the mangrove forests exposed. They look like stilt-walkers, balancing precariously on legs too thin for top-heavy bodies. A fishing dhow tacks against the falling tide, its traditional lateen sail flapping in the southerly trade wind known as the kusi. It’s a scene that hasn’t changed much in centuries. Men have repaired and sailed their dhows here since the 1500s, and it was the kusi that took Arabian trading dhows as far afield as Zanzibar and Oman, their holds of spices exchanged for ivory, amber and slaves. When the Portuguese sailed into these waters in 1522 they could see the Arabs had a good thing going and attacked the fort on Ibo, setting the stage for nearly 250 years of colonisation. “The Chinese were here too,” says Peter Stroucken, the unflappable manager of Ibo Island Lodge, over dinner that evening. “There’s a Chinese graveyard at the back of the village with inscriptions in Mandarin. They came here for the sea cucumbers to ship back east.” Sea cucumbers, slavery and a Portuguese fort… perhaps not what you were expecting from tropical paradise? The Quirimbas archipelago in Mozambique’s far north is best known for its islands’ soft white beaches, exquisite coral reefs and five-star Robinson Crusoe lodges. But Ibo… Ibo appeals to a different sort of traveller. A traveller looking to feel the soul of a destination, not just soak up the picture-postcard views. A voyager who’s happy to get lost in the history and drink in the atmosphere of a place that’s an echo of a time long since lost. Ibo Island is just that place; an island where you wish the walls could talk and tell you of the sights they’ve seen. Talk they can’t, but a window of removed plaster certainly offers a whisper of the history behind Ibo Island Lodge. “This main lodge building used to be the old registry office for the island,” explains Peter. “The bedrooms next door are in what was once the governor’s house,” Unlike many of the island’s crumbling buildings, Ibo Island Lodge is exquisite; restored to its former glory and furnished in the style that may well have graced the governor’s residence back in the day. Four-poster beds and cool screed floors grace the lodge’s fourteen en-suite rooms scattered around tranquil gardens. High ceilings soar above spaces filled with loved and lived-in furniture, either imported from India as the Portuguese would have done or handcrafted locally. Thick walls of coral brick keep the rooms cool and airy, while outside on the veranda a hand-carved wooden bench simply begs to be sat on. It’s here that I find myself gazing out over the receding tide, the carpenter’s rhythmic hammering somehow soothing on this humid afternoon. There’s scant time for sea-gazing though, as Ali is chomping at the bit to get going. Walking tours through the village are one of the main attractions of staying on Ibo, and the lodge’s well-trained guides such as Ali – who grew up here – are adept at bringing the island’s history to life. First stop is one of three forts built by the Portuguese to keep any trading competition at bay. In his lilting Kimwani– the local dialect of KiSwahili – Ali explains how the Portuguese kept a firm hand on the slave trade that supplied the booming plantation islands of Mauritius and Reunion. At the Customs House around the corner shelves of records lie neglected, a broken window letting in the rain and salty sea air. I flip through a ream or two and see that the earliest date back to the mid-1800s; a time when Ibo was the centre of trade for Northern Mozambique, a fashionable and prosperous outpost of Portugal. This was the island’s heyday; before trade routes shifted, slavery was abolished and the island began its slow decline. We walk on… past grinning kids, a bustling spaza shop, a noisy carpentry school, another Portuguese Fort. Since I last visited in 2006 the island seems to have turned a corner; buildings are being renovated, and a new guesthouse is having its final coat of whitewash slapped on. Ibo’s tourism appeal could just be its new goldmine. Or perhaps that should be silver mine. The island is famous for its silversmiths, a craft said to date back over 800 years to when the first Muslim traders arrived here. There are now over 40 traditional silversmiths on Ibo and the best place to watch them at work is the star-shaped Fort of São João Batista, the last stop on our walking tour. On the cool flagstones a dozen or so artisans patiently fashion molten silver into delicate bands. In the fort’s old kitchen an old man uses a makeshift bellows to heat the small furnace, melting raw silver. Ali tells us that Ibo’s fine filigree jewellery was originally made from colonial-era Portuguese coins, melted down and refashioned into the delicate bracelets, rings and necklaces. On a rickety table the finished product is laid out for tourists to haggle over. An exquisite bracelet that won me many brownie points with my wife cost just a few hundred rand. A small price to pay! From the ramparts of the fort I notice that the tide is coming in, lapping at the leaves of the mangrove trees. Time to go snorkelling. Delving into Ibo’s history is one of the island’s main attractions, but diving into the depths off the fringing coral reef is just as rewarding. It’s not long before we are a few hundred metres offshore and rolling backwards into the water. The kusi has stirred up the silt and dropped the visibility, but there is still much to entertain us. Fire-fish float between the coral bommies, baby moray eels leer at us as we fin past and small barracuda hunt on the surface. Watch out for those tropical sea urchins; their needles wait patiently for an unwary sole. When we surface the sun is on its last legs, dropping quickly to the west, and the Lodge’s rooftop restaurant is calling. One of the highlights of Ibo Island Lodge comes at the end of the day, when there’s simply no excuse not to kick back on the rooftop’s colourful cushions, cold 2M (the local beer… just ask for a ‘dosh-em’) in hand and drink in the outstanding sunset views. It’s been a busy day and my stomach is grumbling its unhappiness. “We’ve got crab curry for dinner,” says Therin, Peter’s wife and co-manager, as plates of steamed crab claws arrive for starters. “The crabs here are some of the best in Mozambique, caught in the mangroves this morning.” The curry is outstanding, and I get to see those mangroves up close the next morning on one of the lodge’s regular kayak trips.  Harris, the lodge’s senior guide, makes piloting the sea kayak across the channel look so, so easy, but it takes me awhile to get the hang of the rudder and keep us in a straight line. In between paddling tips Harris brings the mangroves to life, explaining the life cycle of these unique trees that can thrive in both salt- and fresh-water. “When the seed pod falls off the tree it must sprout roots within two hours,” he explains, “Otherwise the tide will simply wash it away.” Mangrove forests have protected and provided for the islanders since time immemorial: shielding the shoreline from storms, providing wood for their dhows and a nursery for the fish that are their livelihood. As if to prove the point a shoal of fingerlings explodes out of the water at the tree line. “Probably being chased by the Mangrove Snapper,” says Harris, as we begin our paddle back to the lodge. We’re running out of time and we need to get back to the lodge before the tide turns. We have an appointment with a sandbank. Ibo Island Lodge may not have white sands on its doorstep, but my last morning there was spent on the best beach I have ever wiggled my toes into. All it takes to get there is a boat and a tide-table. The lodge’s dhow motors slowly away from Ibo, heading north towards Matemo Island. My suitcase is stashed on the deck and I wave a silent goodbye to Ibo Island Lodge… Harris points out a speck of white in the distance; The Sandbank is just beginning to poke its gleaming crown above the water. The Fort of São João Batista disappears behind our wake and 20-minutes after leaving the lodge we are marooned on a deserted island. No water, no civilisation. We couldn’t be happier. Myself and the other guests hit the sand running to explore our piece of paradise while the crew set up camp for the afternoon. Within minutes a Bedouin-style tent shades a table set for lunch, umbrellas and beach towels are laid on for couples to relax under, and a small fire (thoughtfully downwind) is lit. The Kingfish reeled in on the way over is coming soon to a table near you. “The bar is open!” beams Harris, rattling the ice blocks in the cooler. The crystal clear waters off the sand spit become our private playground. A father and son frogmarch towards some snorkelling. One half of a honeymoon couple (guess which!) grabs a fishing rod to try his luck off the point, while a young Swiss couple just sit and stare, almost in disbelief, at their surroundings. And the two South Africans? Well, we find a plank of wood and a wayward coconut and start up an impromptu session of beach cricket; Quirimbas-style! Before we know it though, lunch is served, the fish is finished and the tide is coming in. No matter, my ride to the next island is just pulling onto the sandbank and it’s time to move on. So long Ibo, and thanks for all the fish. ESSENTIAL INFO
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