W A TASTE FOR MOZAMBIQUE
Though it’s famous as a feast for the eyes, Shelley Seid finds the flavours of the Bazaruto archipelago leave her licking her lips
E ate well in Vilanculos. The little, coastal Mozambican town, 750km north of Maputo, is famous as the gateway to the Bazaruto Archipelago rather than as a culinary destination, but part of our sea-and-sun weekend was a hattrick of gastronomic adventures.
On day one, we booked, as any self-respecting tourist does, a dhow outing. We chose Magaruque, the island closest to Vilanculos. At 1.6km long and 1.4km wide, it is the thirdlargest of the six that comprise the archipelago. The excursion promised excellent snorkelling, sunbathing, long walks on the beach and a lunch of freshly cooked fish on the sand.
The day began at 8.15am, when we were dropped at the beach and scrambled through the breakers to be hauled aboard by first mate Alfredo Baoane. The dhow was basic; it had a fair amount of creaks and leaks, a little engine manned by a silent skipper and a washed-out sail. It also had an ingenious cooking area aft — a space of deck about 1m² filled with old ash and, in its centre, a steel triangle piled high with hot coals. It was where our grilled fish and calamari tomato stew would be perfectly cooked.
The minute the vessel began heaving across the waves, Alfredo whipped out a large kettle, set it on the fire and made each of us a cup of tea — milk, no sugar — and served it, with biscuits, on a tray, without spilling a drop. It was an auspicious start.
Visiting out of season is the secret to a perfect excursion. The beach was deserted. There is a permanent deepwater channel immediately in front of the beach and we snorkelled for an hour, spotting a reasonable cross section of the almost 200 species of fish found in the area.
We walked along the shore and frolicked in the tepid water like mollycoddled Robinson Crusoes, and returned to our thatched lapa to find lunch laid out: rice salad, fresh bread,
sliced mangos and bananas along with the seafood. We over-ate and passed out on the sand. It had been, I thought, a Kardashian-style version of Survivor.
We left a little early, around 3pm, our skipper slightly concerned about some dark clouds. We sailed past a flamboyance (I promise) of flamingos, waved at a passing fisherman, and spotted a few dolphins. It can’t get better than this, I said. It didn’t.
Instead, a storm broke. It was fast, rough and frightening. The skipper struggled to control the sail. It was Big Dipper time at the funfair, only wetter. I was slammed from one side of the dhow to the other, visibility was zero.
Suddenly I smelt something familiar and a huge bowl was thrust under my nose. While the storm raged, Alfredo had made popcorn. It was surreal, like being on the screen and in the audience of The Perfect Storm at the same time.
The meal we had on land the next night was as interesting. That day, we’d had a guide, snappy dresser Faquir Nhamue. Between taking calls on his outsize tablet, Faquir had shown us the local market — the salted fish tied together with reeds because plastic bags are now outlawed in Mozambique; tailors operating peddle-driven Singers; piles of dried clams used to season dishes; ice cream made from baobab fruit.
We walked through town to a clearing, where Faquir showed us a cashew-nut tree, the fruit apparently used to make gin or jam, and groundnuts springing from beach sand. He also described the national dish, matapa, made from cassava leaves and coconut. We were charmed. “Where would we eat the best
matapa in town?” we asked. “At my auntie’s,” he replied. Good tourists, we forked out the money and arranged for Faquir to take us to his family for supper.
The home was a compound of houses on the edge of town, a circle of small, reed-and-thatch bungalows. In one, clearly the communal kitchen, a young woman, Faquir’s cousin Sarah, squatted on the floor, stirring the contents of a huge, dented pot balanced on coals. Occasionally, by the light of her cellphone, she would take a look at its progress. Pay-as-you-go electricity is expensive and often people just don’t.
We needed to find our way around the cramped space so we all pulled out our cellphones and, in a room lit up like a Josh Groban concert, the children squatting on the floor eating from recycled Rama tubs, we, the guests of honour, sat on the only chairs, balancing plates of what looked like thick grass soup on our laps. It tasted like nothing I’d eaten before — intense, fresh with a hint of peanuts and garlic and coconut milk that had nothing in common with Thailand. Auntie Katerina, a gracious and warm hostess, dressed me in a bright strip of Frelimo print for the obligatory photo shoot and invited us to visit again.
Our final gastronomical encounter came on our last night in Vilanculos, this time in more conventional surroundings. Bahia Mar, a boutique hotel that offers some of the best views in the world, had been our home for the weekend. We had spacious, luxurious accommodation, private access to an ideal stretch of beach and a private plunge pool. Together with the other residents, we shared a rolling lawn, an infinity pool with its own bar, an excellent spa and thoughtful service.
In the spirit of toasting to the perfect weekend, we ordered the special — the chef’s seafood platter. I’d never seen anything like it. In the centre of the platter sat the Rocky Balboa of crayfish — it must have been almost 2kg — while, hanging on to the edge, were several portions of line fish, a handful of overweight prawns and a heap of tender calamari. Not far behind was a plate of excellent chips and a bowl of salad. We’d hit our trifecta.