I walked from the hotel in Nampula, in search of the minibus going to Ilha de Mozambique. This was made difficult by the minibus stand being in a completely different place than what my map said, and necessitated stopping to ask some construction guys (not actually doing any construction) for instructions. When I got to the minibus stand, there was a French couple on the minibus. I was perturbed:they were the first white people I had dealt with since I got into Mozambique–they were perhaps the first two I had seen.
When another white guy got on the minibus, I was even more perturbed about what Ilha de Mozambique was going to look like, although also gratified that the conductor quoted him the same price he quoted me and was just as unwilling to bargain with the white guy as he was with me.
When the minibus finally arrived in Ilha–after a trip that, while long, was not nearly as tortuous as I was worried about* in spite of the jump seat in front of me cutting into my leg space–the minibus driver was nice enough to take all us touristy types to the places we were staying.
I spent most of the trip looking through my guide book, trying to decide where I was going to stay (reservations are for, um, not me), and eventually decided on Casa Branca. The solo white guy was getting off there, too. I crossed my fingers and hoped I wouldn’t regret failing to make reservations.
There was only one room. Which made sense, given that there were only three rooms total. Wish I had noticed that earlier. Sigh. John (the solo white guy) and I introduced ourselves to each other, and I asked John if we needed to fight for the room. He told me since I was on the minibus first, I should get the room. Which was, y’know, probably not nicer than I would be, but was nicer than I wanted to be.
While I was waiting for the room to be cleaned, a couple of students from Spain came out and asked if I wanted to split a dhow trip with them. Having been traveling for 5 days straight**, I told them it would be fine if we went the next day, but I wasn’t up for that day, and they said ok.
The room was sweet: a four poster bed with the best looking mosquito net I’d seen in a while; windows that latched open so that I could see, hear, and smell the ocean (a bit of a mixed blessing at low tide); a big, clean private bathroom across the hall, which only had a cold water shower, but water could be heated for a bucket bath. The staff seemed nice, but the charges for laundry were exorbitant, and there were signs saying that I shouldn’t wash my clothes in the large bathroom. The bathroom with the plastic corral of clothespins. Hmm.
Ilha reminded me a lot of Stone Town in Zanzibar, only smaller and more manageable. I stopped using the map in the book within about 15 minutes, which is pretty impressive for someone as directionally challenged as I am.
I spent the rest of the day wandering around, looking where I wanted to go when it wasn’t a Sunday, letting John copy my map when I saw him also wandering around, and eating homemade ice cream.
*One of the other passengers bought me some raw cassava, and then was surprised when I knew how to eat it. It’s niceties like these, even when you don’t speak the same language, that make a long, cramped trip seem less long and less cramped. Also time to forget the whole process of regaining feelings in your toes.
**One day from Zomba to Liwonde, one day from Liwonde to, um, Liwonde, one day from Liwonde to Cuamba, one day from Cuamba to Nampula, and then this day.
