I
T was the trees that spurred me on, lonely sentinels on the water’s edge in the very far distance. I’m sure that there are places where trees grow in the sea, I thought, but I’ve never seen such a sight. A glorious freak of nature.
So I found myself in the pre-dawn half-light on the beach heading towards the trees.
Vilanculos, Mozambique, is described in Lonely Planet as a sleepy village with magnificent beaches. It is. They are.
As I walked along the beach, on the hard shoulder at the water’s edge, the sky went from pewter to pink. Suddenly, there it was — a brightness that announces the arrival of the sun, long before it actually makes an appearance on the horizon.
Out of a rosy sky came the golden orb peeking over the horizon, then quickly rising to cast reflections on the water.
It was low tide, the sea as calm and flat as a bath, and just as tepid. Barely a ripple broke the surface.
Little wooden boats, paint peeling, dotted the ocean. Further out were the big boats, motors gleaming, masts tall and straight, sterns covered in shade-giving canvas.
Now in the early morning chill, young men in tattered shorts emerged from the bushes along the beach carrying long poles. They pushed their dhows out of the shallow water using the sticks and headed out to sea, casting their nets as they went.
On the shore, a jocular bunch of