The Return to Tofo

I keep on meaning to email you, it's not that I don't have anything to say, it's just that I HATE computers sooooo much ; ) I believe the last time was from Pemba when I had the ear infection. So let me start with my crossing from Tanzania. Oh my goodness, this was quite a day. I woke up at 6am so I could get a local minibus to the next town. It was rampacked with people. A lady took my daypack on her legs whilst I was standing up and doubled-over, the only thing stopping me from falling over being that we are shoulder to shoulder like sardines. At the bus station I'm trying to find the truck to the border but no-one speaks English and I speak no Swahili. Luckily the word Mozambique inspired a nice man to take me on a 5min walk to where the truck really left from.

An hour later, it's hot and I'm wondering why everyone told me to arrive here so early. 30 mins later we're finally on our way and it's not for a couple of hours before we finally pass through the border post. The immigration lady is annoyed with me for coming so late and tells me it will be difficult on the other side. Great, I'm thinking, this is hard enough already. The "road" or path gradually dissappears and ends by the side of the river. There is nothing here but a handful of people, a couple of leaky looking canoes and a strengthening wind. "What the h3ll am I doing?" People tried to pull me into their canoe but I had my bag and despite being quite disorientated, I'm strong enough to insist on a boat with a motor and still barter a decent rate. As we pull out into the river, I'm so thankful I did not get into the canoe, with the wind against us it would take hours to cross. As it was, it took us a good 40 mins. The tide was so low that sometimes a guy had to get out and push the boat. I really was in the middle of nowhere.

On the other side, I climb the bank and deposit my bag in the only vaiable looking truck. An old lady made the crossing with me. She must have been about 80 years old, wrinkled with no teeth, carrying 3 chickens around her person. They gave her the cab seat whilst I stood in the back. The road was horrendous. Steep and full of potholes, the most comfortable way to ride was to stand and hang on for dear life. No rollarcoaster in the world can hold a candle to this adrenalin rush. The driver raced along with what I hoped was a good knowledge of how not to flip the truck. Several hours later, after having picked up a supply of wooden planks, we made it to the nearest "town" where they showed me to one of the two hostels. Finally I was staying in a rondavel (round house). It was small, hot and musty with suspiciously dirty linen which thankfully I couldn't inspect too closely as the electricitiy didn't work. (I always carry my own bedding with me anyway). Before the sun set, i quickly walked around the town to find something to eat. No veggies available, I was given a choice of rice or chips and egg. Having already bought bread, I was amused to find myself eating a chip and egg butty, and British people think that the food in Africa will be so different to home! I was the only tourist there but the odd one must pass through fairly often because most people didn't stare at me.

Returning to my rondavel, which was situated right next to the bus station, handy as my bus left at 4am the next day, I sat outside to read in the dying light. A noise from the rondavel next to me caused me to turn round and I noticed a young boy emerge from the hut in a open shirt, stretch, see me, make a surprised noise and quickly retreat inside to tell his companion. I wondered who had been sharing this hut. Aware they might be emabarrassed to emerge, I hid in my hut and peaked out of the door. It was my turn to be surprised now as he left the hut with a much larger, and older man. Now this sort of thing is lot more common than most people might think and to be fair the boy had a cocky swagger which showed that however this transaction had gone down, he was happy with it.

I slept easily after a long hard days travel and woke at 4am to be told by the night watchman the bus left at 5am. I did not want to risk missing it so stretched out on my rucksack to pass the last hour. People were starting to queue on the other side of the road, and I went to join them. Then a massive stroke of luck. The bus arrived and I had my arm tugged by an well dressed man who had a 4 wheel drive car. For the same price as the bus, I could travel with him to Pemba. Not only would this be much faster, it would be so much more comfortable. 3 other well dressed ladies were also offered a lift. Sometimes it helps to be white. The journey was comfortable and the driver who spoke a little English kept on trying to shock me by stopping next to people selling half a pig, chickens or other such animals. The best I've ever had was when someone offered me a stick of fried rodents - all completely intact including tail. We passed a horrific car accident, they got out to look but I stayed in the car and played with one of the ladies' baby daughter. In Pemba, he dropped me off near to where I wanted to stay. I started walking but after a while a lady gave me a lift to the hostel. There is only one and she was going there anyway.

Russels Place was a welcome relief with cold drinks and DSTV. I watched an excellantly funny film with John Travolta before going for a walk. My sinuses were still playing up and I couldn't equalise. I tried snorting salt water to help but it didn't make much difference. A few hours later the ear infection started and not long after that I was in complete agony. To be completely honest I'm not exactly sure how I made it through the next few days. That night was torture. In the morning it took over an hour to walk to town and find a pharmacy. Thankfully the painkillers kicked in quickly. Russels Place whilst westernised was very basic. I felt awful and needed cool and quiet to recuperate, consequently I checked in to a hotel (options were limited). Completely overpriced, it was, nevertheless, cool and quiet. I mostly slept until my flight left a couple of days later. Only leaving the room to eat as I was supposed to take my drugs with food.

Unfortunately you can't fly to Tofo, only to Beira. From there I had to take a bus to Tofo and the driver was a complete @#@%$. He told me the bus left at 4. It was 3.30pm. He meant 4am. It was cramped, I still felt exhausted. He didn't take us where he said he would so I had to take 2 more buses before I reached the sea at Maxix from where you take the boat to Inhambane, from there you take a minibus taxi to Tofo. I should have arrived before sundown. It was about 7pm and we were only at the boat. I'd burst into tears because the boats normally stop at sundown and I would be stuck at the port with nowhere to sleep. Amazing a boat was still going. My determination to reach Tofo was unstoppable. It was the only thing keeping me going. Text messages from a friend was supporting me as mentally, emotionally and physically I was at the lowest ebb I have ever been whilst travelling.

In Inhambane, a couple of local kids said I would never find transport to Tofo and it would cost a fortune. Walking around the market, a pick-up truck stopped and let some people out. He saw me and asked where I was going. An unofficial taxi, I paid him to take me to Tofo. One of my housemates was horrified when I finally turned up. "Getting into cars with strangers in the middle of the night!" but I'd had a good feeling from him and I was right. He even accepted my bartered price for the ride.

Once in Tofo I spent most of the first week just recovering my strength and deciding what to do next. I wanted to dive but not such a good idea with my ear, the doctor was less than helpful, but luckily I had a few friends who made sure that I just rested. As the reason why I became so ill in the first place was because I'd pushed myself so hard (looking back, I should never have left Tofo and definitly not Mikandani - ahh, the benefit of hindsight!), I took their advice.

Deciding to come back to Zanzibar was an easy decision. I could give you many practical reasons but in the end it was instinct. I felt I'd be happier there than in Tofo. Nevertheless leaving Tofo was so hard. Because I couldn't dive, I spent a lot of time hanging out with people and it was ironic that now I was finally leaving, I felt that some of the long-termers had finally accepted me as one of them. I miss my friends there so much. However, anti-biotics be d@mmed, I had some very good parties before I left! Before flying to Zanzibar, I spent a week in South Africa hanging out with some friends there. I nearly missed my lift out as I fell asleep in a sand dune after a bonfire on my last night! I visited an ear doctor who told me my ear would be fine which was a great relief as my hearing had still not completely returned. Will I ever go back? I don't know but I will always remember Tofo as the first place I've ever felt was really home.