The water below is so transparent that even from 2,000 feet, flying beneath low-lying clouds,
I can make out the silvery flash of dolphins and sail?sh corkscrewing through the waves.
Stretching to the horizon is an exquisite ribbon of palm- and mangrove-studded islands, each
rimmed by a halo of ivory sand. To the west, plying a maze of tidal waterways, are dozens
of creaking dhows, sails billowing, atavistic reminders that this was once a remote outpost
of the Arab spice route and slave trade. Seen from my vantage point—an eight-seat Islander
plane—the Quirimbas archipelago recalls the South Pacific. In fact, this 200-mile-long
chain of coral islands—32 in all, only half of which are inhabited—lies off the
northern coast of Mozambique. And if certain entrepreneurs and tastemakers are right, the
Quirimbas may become Africa's answer to the Maldives.
For now, however, the islands remain blissfully off the map. Few Mozambicans, let alone foreign
travelers, have ever set foot here. And though I come from neighboring Zimbabwe, I hadn't
heard of the archipelago until two years ago. Even during Mozambique's brief tourism heyday—the
swinging 1950's and 1960's, when rich white Africans and Europeans filled the cafés,
nightclubs, and colonial hotels of Lourenço Marques (now Maputo) and the glittering
Bazaruto Islands—the Quirimbas remained cut off, as if preserved in aspic.
By the mid 1970's, of course, most of Mozambique itself was off-limits. In 1964 the country
was wracked by a violent Marxist revolution, culminating in the 1975 overthrow of Portuguese
rule; this was followed by a brutal civil war that would claim an estimated 1 million lives
before its end in 1992. "I like to spend some time in Mozambique," Bob Dylan sang on his 1976
album Desire, but in those days—and for the two decades that followed—no
one else wanted to be anywhere near the place.
And yet, and yet.
It has now been 13 years since the civil conflict ended and, astonishing
as it may seem, Mozambique has reinvented itself as the most seductive destination in East
Africa. In Maputo, those Mediterranean-style cafés and boîtes that drew comparisons
to Lisbon's are again bustling. No doubt you've heard that the Bazaruto Islands are thriving
once more, with a slate of luxurious beach lodges and exclusive diving resorts. But the real
frontier, and the greatest rewards for travelers, can be found up north.
My reason for visiting the Quirimbas is twofold: this remote corner of Mozambique could well
become my parents' new home. As second-generation white Zimbabweans, they are essentially
under siege by the increasingly deranged government of Robert Mugabe, which has designated
their game farm in eastern Zimbabwe for "resettlement" (Mugabe's policy of seizing white-owned
farms to relocate landless peasants). Their animals are being poached, and their tourist business,
along with Zimbabwe's economy, has collapsed. It is now likely that they will have to flee
the country. In anticipation of this, my sister, a London-based real estate dealer, recently
bought—over the Internet, for a song—a five-acre plot of beachfront in Pemba,
the mainland gateway to the Quirimbas. The plan is to make this the setting for a guesthouse,
which my parents would help to build and to manage. Indeed, at the end of my journey through
the islands, my father will be flying from Zimbabwe to join me in Pemba, where both of us
will see the property for the first time.
The irony of this is not lost on us. When my sister and I were growing up in Zimbabwe, Mozambique
was a forbidden zone, forever at war. My parents, however, had known the country in a different
era, and would regale us with tales of louche Mozambique weekends of sun, sea, sand, and Portuguese
wine. In 1962, they had actually spent their honeymoon on Bazaruto Island; they still have
the grainy Super-8 footage to prove it. Zimbabwe's collapse, and Mozambique's coincident renaissance,
speak volumes about the pain, the promise, and, above all, the unpredictability of Africa.
Less than a half-mile wide, the island of Quilálea is too small for an airstrip. It's
too small for much of anything, in fact; its only tenant is the nine-room Quilálea
Island Resort. Owned by a plummy white Kenyan colonial and his blond Belgian wife, this chic
and intimate retreat, the first high-end hotel in the archipelago, has been the talk of South
Africa's fashion set since it opened, in 2002. To reach it, you fly to the neighboring island
of Quirimba, which gave its name to the archipelago, landing on a fairway-smooth swath of
grass in the middle of a coconut forest; from there, it's a 20-minute speedboat ride to Quilálea.
Although I am the flight's only passenger, I still half expect to be greeted upon arrival
by reed-skirted island girls proffering garlands and froufrou cocktails. Instead, I get a
grizzled 75-year-old German in a battered truck carrying a .22 rifle. "I'm your lift to the
boat," he mutters. "Put your bags in the back."
His name is Joachim Gessner, and the gun is "to shoot the monkeys that steal my coconuts."
On the drive to the harbor I learn that Herr Gessner and his wife own a plantation on Quirimba,
where he has quietly farmed coconuts since the 1940's. I ask what he did during the revolution
of '74'75, when many of Mozambique's white settlers fled in terror. He shrugs. "We listened
to it on the radio," he replies. Herr Gessner tells me about the National Geographic journalist
who came to write about this long-lost paradise. "When was that?" I ask. "Nineteen sixty-four,"
he says. "Nineteen sixty-four."
The hotel's speedboat is crewed by three jolly locals in navy-blue sailor suits, former fishermen
from Quirimba. (Money is scarce on the archipelago, and jobs at the resorts are in high demand
among the islands' Quimvani and Macua tribes.) After a four-mile ride to Quilálea we
pull into a secluded cove; stone-and-thatch pavilions peer down from higher ground. My bags
are whisked away by uniformed porters—and, yes, here comes that froufrou cocktail, served
in a coconut, which I sip in an open-sided, tile-floored bar decorated with tribal wood sculptures
and chess sets. A dugout canoe hangs from the ceiling. On a stone-and-mahogany deck overlooking
the beach, a saltwater pool glistens in the sun. It seems I'm sharing the resort with just
one other guest, a sunburned executive from British Airways.
Quilálea's nine thatched-roof villas were hewn out of rock, teakwood, and mahogany
and furnished with ornate wooden carvings by the Makonde, a tribe from the northern mainland.
Each villa opens onto a small private beach; from my sprawling king-sized bed, through flowing
white cotton curtains, I can gaze over the mirror-like surface of the bay.
Isolation has been an ecological blessing for the Quirimbas: the marine life here is among
the most exotic on earth. In 2002 the Mozambican government, with endorsement from the World
Wildlife Fund, declared Quilálea a marine sanctuary; the lodge offers deep-sea diving
excursions over the island's protected reef. Manta rays, hawksbill turtles, and humpback whales
populate the waters here, not to mention the exceedingly rare dugong, a near-extinct mammal
with human-like breasts, from which the ancient myth of the mermaid likely derives. The sanctuary
protects a two-mile radius around the island. Beyond that are the storied fishing grounds.
Predictably, dinners at Quilálea are feasts of exquisite seafood, all of it caught
by Quirimba fishermen: yellowfin tuna, steamed in a banana leaf; spiny lobster, stuffed with
crab; and tiger prawns, grilled in the Portuguese piripiri style with spicy chiles
and olive oil.
On my second morning I follow a sandy path through a dense mangrove forest teeming with birds,
to snorkel the waters off Turtle Beach. I spot neither dugongs nor turtles, but the bay still
recalls a Darwinian paradise. Schools of exotic fish glitter against pink coral; snakelike
moray eels devour crabs right in front of my nose.
Mostly, however, I take Quilálea at its word—or, rather, its name, which comes
from the Swahili lala, meaning sleep (the island's cove was a resting place for Arab
ships). In the course of two days I nap on the beach, by the pool, and, during languorous
deep-tissue massages, in a candlelit treatment room perched on rocks over the water. My new
friend from British Airways does much the same. Over a poolside game of chess I ask him whether
BA is considering flights to Pemba. Flushed by fine wine, he gives me a blank look that suggests
he's lost all interest in the outside world.
The Portugese came to Mozambique in 1498, but for centuries before and after their arrival,
Arabs sailed these waters and settled the islands, trading in cloth, tortoiseshell, and slaves.
To this day, the Islamic in?uence endures in the north: coastal tribes speak Arab-influenced
Swahili, not Portuguese, and the majority are Muslims. (Mozambique is said to be named for
a 16th-century sultan, Mussa-Bin-Tiki.) Today, the north is being transformed by a modern-day
sultan of sorts—a Saudi tycoon, Adel Aujan, president of Rani Resorts. In 2001, Aujan
erected a $20 million hotel on Pemba Bay when the town was little more than a backwater. Now
his company has opened two exclusive resorts in the Quirimbas archipelago, on Matemo and Medjumbe
islands—both decidedly flashier affairs than the Quilálea Island Resort, and
perhaps a sign of things to come.
Getting to Matemo requires another 20-minute puddle-jumper flight. The drive to the resort
passes through seaside villages of thatched mud huts shaded by swaying palms. The hotel car
draws stares from beautiful Quimvani women standing along the roadside, their faces masked
in white: paste from the mussiro plant, used to moisturize the skin. The shoreline
is patrolled by bare-chested men wielding miniature bows and arrows, hunting fish. I've stayed
in dozens of resorts in Africa where a depressing, faux-tribal scene is served up to Westerners;
there is nothing ersatz about this village or these people.
My first glimpse of the resort is breathtaking. Framed through the sweeping Moorish arch
of the entrance is a crescent-shaped beach fronting water so radiant it hurts the eyes; for
a moment I'm convinced I'm staring at a trompe l'oeil painting. The resort's man-made elements
are equally stunning, all Afro-Arab opulence: a thatched-roof lounge is brightened by Zanzibari
daybeds piled high with colorful Moroccan cushions; stained-glass lanterns line the walls.
Persian rugs and teak four-poster beds outfit the 24 identical wooden villas, all of which
are set along a private beach. Villa bedrooms are a little too dark and busy for my taste,
but the sliding glass doors open onto a private porch equipped with a sea-facing hammock.
Matemo's good looks are not yet matched by the service. Upon my arrival, a porter escorts
me to my villa, then realizes he's forgotten the key. "Shit!" he says, before running back
to get it. At the hotel's restaurant, few of the waitstaff speak English. Such teething problems
will likely be solved in time—and, in any case, they don't seem to bother my fellow
guests, among them a well-dressed Middle Eastern gentleman and a glamorous Austrian couple
who spend their days windsurfing and diving the oceanside reef.
Over beers in Matemo's lounge I meet David Rissik, a South African environmentalist employed
by Rani Resorts as a consultant for its conservation programs. Rissik is well-versed in anthropology
as well, and he speaks with wonder about the Quimvani people. "I've seen fishermen catch eight-hundred-pound
blue marlin—in dugout canoes, with hand lines! They'll hook this huge fish and be towed
out to sea for sixteen hours." Rissik explains that those tiny arrows used to spear fish are
similar to those used by San Bushmen in the Kalahari Desert, and are likely related, and that
the local dugout canoes, with their single outriggers, may have been modeled on Madagascan
warships, which raided the islands for slaves in the 19th century. The archipelago is a living,
Most astonishing of all, Rissik informs me that although the mainland is easily visible from
Matemo's beach, few islanders had ever set foot on it. Now, a luxury hotel has opened in their
backyard. Suddenly those teething problems at the resort seem entirely forgivable: islanders
who had literally never seen a knife and fork until a year ago are taking my dinner order,
mixing me cocktails.
Compared with Matemo, whose residents have barely glimpsed the outside world, the island
of Ibo seems positively cosmopolitan. This former Portuguese slave-trading post—just
30 minutes by boat from Matemo—is commonly known as a ghost island; in fact, it holds
a thriving population of around 3,000, some of whom speak Portuguese and a few even English.
True, most of Ibo's Old Town is in ruins or disrepair: goats graze beside a crumbling 1580's
Catholic church, and the wrought-iron street lamps—not unlike those in the older barrios
of Lisbon—have been left to rust in the salt air.
Yet Ibo also possesses a surreal beauty. At the star-shaped Fort of San João Baptista,
built in 1791, cannons still sit in turrets facing the sea. In the shade of a fig tree in
the courtyard, silversmiths craft intricate necklaces and bracelets from old Portuguese coins.
During the revolt of the 1970's, the Portuguese turned this fort into a political prison;
now it is a gathering place for artisans. From slave island to jail to jewelry market: here
Ibo's harborfront road is lined with three-story colonial mansions, all sorely in need of
repair. Yet many are being bought up by pioneers from Cape Town, Lisbon, and London, to be
transformed into guesthouses. As I gaze upon these grand fixer-uppers, it occurs to me that
Ibo could someday be a thriving historical destination, the Zanzibar of the Quirimbas. This
"ghost island" may well become a boomtown. Perhaps my sister should have invested here instead?
I meet my father back in Pemba. While it lacks the serene beauty of the islands—its
industrial harbor is jammed with hulking fishing trawlers—Pemba does have a certain
frontier-town energy. At beachfront bars, Portuguese returnees, white South Africans, Brits,
and Scandinavians speak of the impending tourism boom, hatching plans for game-fishing charters
and diving schools. Rumor has it that the Aga Khan visited Pemba recently, that Bill Gates
is on his way. Yachts and catamarans bearing South African and Mediterranean registries float
in the harbor. A casino has just opened beside the bay, and Wimbe Beach is now rimmed with
trendy restaurants. None of those places, however, can compare in ambition to the Pemba Beach
Resort Hotel. This luxurious hotel, owned by Rani Resorts' Adel Aujan, rises from the western
edge of Wimbe Beach, its adobe arches and sweeping lawns reminiscent of an Arabian palace.
In the terra-cottatiled lobby, birds sing in palm trees planted in urns. My father and I
settle into wicker chairs on the veranda to sip gin and tonics alongside ruddy-faced Europeans,
government officials, and foreign-aid workers who've made the hotel into something of
a base camp.
Suddenly I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's the Middle Eastern gentleman I met on Matemo.
Would we care to join him and his brother for a drink?His brother, it turns out, is Adel
Aujan himself. I'd pictured a Svengali-like figure, but Aujan is more an Arab Gatsby: charming,
soft-spoken, dressed in pressed beige flannels and an open-necked shirt. "I came to Africa
on a hunting trip in the 1980's and fell in love with it," he explains. Drawn to the Arab
history of the east coast, he became especially smitten with Mozambique. While Aujan's main
business is a soft-drinks company back in Saudi Arabia, Rani Resorts and Mozambique itself
remain his true passions. Besides the Pemba Beach, Matemo, and Medjumbe properties, Aujan
also owns the Indigo Bay Island Resort on Bazaruto Island and the Lugenda Bush Camp in the
far north of Mozambique. In 1998, he built the Stanley & Livingstone, a British colonialthemed
hotel at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe; however, the political turmoil and collapse of tourism
there have led him to focus on Mozambique instead. It seems my father and this Saudi tycoon
have something in common.
The property my sister bought lies across Pemba Bay, on a peninsula called Londo. Just next
door to our property is the peninsula's sole development to date: Londo Lodge, a soon-to-open
boutique resort owned by a Dutch venture capitalist. We hire a boat to bring us across the
bay; rounding the peninsula's southern tip, we glide into a tranquil cove. Even in its unfinished
state, Londo Lodge strikes me as the most beautiful retreat of all. A dramatically curved
stairway leads uphill to a ring of thatched villas, perched on high bluffs with an eagle's
view over the water. A spectacular teakwood deck has been built beside the cliff. My father
and I trade looks: These are some neighbors.
Accompanied by a local guide, we hike for a mile along a cliffside path, and I'm struck by
how different the terrain is here, compared with the islands. The earth is redder; the vegetation
is bush, not mangrove. Thick-trunked baobab trees, more common to the dry African savannah,
loom everywhere. Soon we come upon a grassy clearing marked by a stone boundary. My dad recognizes
the place instantly from the photos—this is it. The plot sits beside the water, fronted
by 100 yards of beach and anchored by a giant baobab standing sturdy as a totem pole. My father
darts about excitedly: he envisions a thatched villa poised on stilts above the beach, and
a larger main house behind that. He has already spoken to contractors in Pemba to work out
how to get a water supply connected, a generator set up. He will turn 70 next year, but today
he has the energy and ambition of a young man.
We sit on the beach, open the bottles of cold beer we've been carrying, and watch as a wooden
dhow appears and a fisherman casts his net directly in front of us. I notice that the plot
itself faces west, back to Africa. As we watch a fireball sun sink into the horizon I realize
that it is setting over Zimbabwe. But right here, right now, this small parcel of land feels
like paradise, feels like new beginnings.
DOUGLAS ROGERS is a journalist and travel writer based in New York City.
May through September is the best time to visit Mozambique, with no rainfall and temperatures
in the mid seventies. The hot, humid rainy season lasts from October to April.
Most travelers from the United States fly via Johannesburg. Mozambique's national carrier,
LAM, offers two flights a week between Jo'burg and Pemba; on other days you must fly to Maputo,
then connect with the daily flight to Pemba. (Another option is to fly to Lisbon and pick
up a direct flight on LAM or TAP Portugal.) The resorts will arrange for plane, boat, or helicopter
transfers to and from Pemba and the islands. Visas ($25, cash only) can be obtained upon arrival
in Mozambique; consult your doctor about required vaccinations.
WHERE TO STAY
Quilálea Island Resort
DOUBLES FROM $690, INCLUDING MEALS
Pemba Beach Resort Hotel
DOUBLES FROM $242, INCLUDING BREAKFAST
AVE. MARGINAL, WIMBE BEACH; 800/524-7979 OR 258-272/21770
Matemo Island Resort
DOUBLES FROM $596, INCLUDING BREAKFAST AND DINNER
Medjumbe Island Resort
A brand-new, exclusive 12-suite lodge, accessible only by boat. DOUBLES FROM $686, INCLUDING
BREAKFAST AND DINNER
Guludo Base Camp
This shabby-chic tented camp is set on an isolated eight-mile stretch of beach on the mainland,
opposite the islands. Activities include sunset dhow cruises and guests-versus-villagers soccer
matches. DOUBLES FROM $352, INCLUDING MEALS
Opening in November, this cliffside boutique lodge consists of 10 luxury villas built out
of stone, timber, and thatch, done up in an Africa-meets-Asia style. Amenities include Belgian
linens, king-sized beds, and designer bathrooms. DOUBLES FROM $550, INCLUDING MEALS
A newly created eco-reserve—conceived in part by the London Zoological Society—with
three luxurious lodges on three of the archipelago's northern islands: Vamizi is already open;
Rongui and Macaloé are scheduled to debut in 2006. DOUBLES FROM $800, INCLUDING MEALS
The deep channel and long reef east of the Quirimbas makes for some of the world's finest
game fishing—the catch includes marlin, sailfish, and barracuda. All resorts offer their
own game-fishing excursions. In Pemba, an even better option is to book through World Charters
(27-35/571-0104 [South Africa]; www.world-charters.com; $500 for a five- hour trip, $700
for eight hours, including boat, fuel, tackle, and soft drinks). You'll find PADI-licensed
dive instructors at every resort as well, but for the best diving and snorkeling trips (at
bargain prices— $30 for a single dive), visit Pemba Dive (258-82/ 611-530)
on Wimbe Beach.