A canopy of stars at the edge of the world

“It’s just around the corner”, the driver promised me, balancing a bunch of bananas, ripening in the sun on his lap, whilst tackling the many potholes filled with rain water scattering reflections of the bush. The man had skill, but he had promised me this an hour ago, and again the hour before that. I looked over at the women, their mellow movements in harmony with the jolts and continuous breakdowns. I wished I looked that composed on such a journey. I definitely did not.

Before our ‘pledge’ to reach Ibo Island (a Unesco world heritage site, nestled in the Quirimbas Archipelago just off northern Mozambique), my boyfriend and I had taken an 11 hour train journey across Mozambique’s northern district. We had traveled past Pemba, where the tin roofed houses framing the bay reflect the yellow hues of dawn. Past Baraka Surpresa, a ramshackle of a hut that looking like a treasure trove appealed to the hoarder in me. Past miles and miles, of rich, untamed landscape and then finally, when we reach the coast, we hitch a lift north-bound in a pick up with a thrown together roof for another full-on day of traveling ‘bliss’.

Uncomplaining chickens lay scattered at our feet amongst sacks of maze and branches of sugar cane. As I gaze at the dirt road that is our ‘fate’, I begin to wonder if venturing somewhere on a whim is really such a good idea. But I am lucky, English is scarce, so my upbringing in Portugal comes in handy and allows me to chat to the passengers. ‘Soon”, ‘soon we will get there’ the driver says. I’m skeptical, as the ‘bus’ seems to be pushed, rather than driven.

We arrive and board a dhow, its triangular sail flapping in the wind and finally stumble upon the island, the stress of the journey instantly expunged. There it was: A picture of eerie isolation. The dense green interior and crumbling forts spill out onto the white sand, which in turn crumbles into the aquamarine sea. Abandoned overnight, when the Portuguese were expelled by the post-independence government, colonial mansions, ancient hindu temples and slave posts scatter the outer rim of the island. There is no electricity or fresh water on the island and the closest bank and supermarket are 8 hours away by boat and then car. We find somewhere to stay, a timber and thatch affair with unbroken views of the beach and the sea beyond, on which battered canoes with characteristic latten sails are launched daily by optimistic fishermen.

Excitement growing, we begin to weave our way through the narrow alleyways of the old town. Passing one doorway I catch a glimpse of the silversmiths banging metal heavy handed; another one reveals an improvised school class, the children sitting orderly on the floor; in another, women chat loudly, muciro face paint heavy on their cheeks. Children run laughing and screaming. All around roofless ruins are reclaimed by nature. Meandering roots and winding creepers contrast with the fading yellows and ochres of the walls. Echoes of old Portugal mix with Arab and Swahili influences. As the night falls we go to the local eatery and have some fresh fish and rice and if we’re lucky a cold beer, a canopy of stars overhead. To me Ibo Island seems almost forgotten, abandoned in its prime, and isolated from everything, it seems as if we have reached the edge of the world. However, remote though it is, across the bay a small luxury resort (reached only by helicopter) is the modern-day mirror image of that once-glorious place, setting up picnics for honeymooners on sand banks and arranging sustainable island-hoping tours.

The ancient dhows are helping to revitalize the economy, not thorough fishing or trade, but by taking tourists from one tropical island to another and thus providing jobs for many islanders. After a seemingly interminable civil war that ripped the country apart and saw landmines planted with unheard enthusiasm, tourism is now the country’s biggest industry and the economy has witnessed a steady growth for the past decade. Snorkeling off one of the best coral reefs in the world, canoeing through the mangroves that line the shore, exploring the villages that pepper the islands, meeting the local people or simply lying on a pristine palm-edged beach with a book in hand, Ibo Island truly is a slice of paradise.