Ibo – a peaceful, idyllic island…for now
I woke in the morning and opened my eyes, remembering that I was on the boat. I said good morning to the skipper and the new guy who was walking up to the boat. Wait, what? New guy walking up to the boat? Yes, the tide had gone down and it was now possible to walk up to the boat from the island. I went back to sleep for a little while, very comfortable on my cushion. I woke up later and looked at some locals sitting on the shore. No doubt their minds were wondering “What is that white chick doing sleeping out on that boat?” Finally, the guys hanging around the boat exchanged another “Good Morning” with me, letting me know it was time for me to get off the boat so they could unload the contents.
I got out, the guys helping me unload my bag, and sat on some crumbling buildings to eat a few bananas, wake up, and get ready for the day. After a little time to myself, I went to my guesthouse, set up camp, and set out to check out the island. I fell in love with it quickly. Children were nice, walking with me, but rarely asking for anything (although sometimes they did). It was really just a very pleasant island.
The women in northern Mozambique are known to wear all-natural face masks, called msiro (it has other names in other places), which is made from the bark of a tree. The women wet the bark and rub it with a stone; a paste is the result, and that’s what they put on their face. They wear it the whole day, going about their daily business. The result? Beautiful, supple skin!
I found a woman with the msiro mask and asked if she would let me try. Without a second to lose, she swept me to the back of her house and was brushing my face with the white paste. A crowd gathered around to watch. After the mask was on I asked “Now what?” meaning…what do I do now, but it was not interpreted that way. “Money!” Yes, yes, of course. I gave her about a tenth of the price she asked and was on my way.
I spent the afternoon with one of the appointed local guides – Alafo Mado, whose name, when said fast, sounds like “Smoked Allah” in Portuguese. He spent the afternoon showing me around the old Portuguese Fort, an old Hindu crematorium, and some big fancy house being built by some ambassador.
After dinner that night, all the other guests at the guest house went to sleep as I stayed up and wrote a little. With the generator turned off (which provides power to the guesthouse), I could hear singing in the distance. It would stop and start…sometimes it was closer, sometimes further away. My curiosity piqued, I set off in search of the source of the sound, the moonlight leading my way through the paths on the electricity-free island.
Carefully paying attention to my way (so as to not get lost finding my way back), I finally found the source of the singing…there were four men, fairly young, going door to door. Their rhythm was held by the use of spoons, or some sort of similar-sounding metal objects being clung together. I sat on the porch of a house while I listened to them make their way from house to house down the road.
Finally they approached the house I was at, went to the door and started singing. Then one of them saw me and came over to talk to me. I told them I heard their singing in the distance and came out to find them. They explained that they do this during Ramadan (the Muslim month of fasting, which it now was…Muslims are not allowed to eat, drink, or pass anything past their lips between sun up and sun down. It is a time of purification. Ibo is nearly, if not, 100% Muslim.) It is a way to ask for alms – they sing and hope to recieve food or money in return. They sang a song for me, but unfortunately I didn’t have anything with me to offer them.
The next day I went for a long walk in the morning, through the mangrove forests and along some beautiful beach areas, watching the fishermen and women off in the distance, fishing in the low tide. As I came back into town, I found that I had arrived just in time for a formal (and free!) tour being conducted for some ambassadors to try to raise support for tourism promotion on Ibo Island.
The ambassadors were the funniest group of people I had seen in a while – a tall blond Swedish woman, a short, well made-up Brazilian woman who couldn’t seem to put her phone away, a tight-lipped Russian man who looked like Eugene’s father, and a young Canadian guy who looked like he just got back from the gym. Two others were visiting from USAID…they explained to me that projects had been cut back during President Bush’s terms but now were being expanded. The reasoning being to put a Western influence in countries with Muslim populations, in order to reduce the likelihood of extremists forming terror networks or whatever…
Ibo Island is very new to tourism, but it’s definitely picking up. Things are a lot more relaxed than on Ilha de Mozambique, for example, where a tourist can’t walk 30 seconds without being hounded for something. My question, though, is how long will the tranquility of the island last? And I discussed this with several people. For example, a lodge was under renovation and, when done, would attract people paying something like $300/night for a room. What happens to the local population when, while, yes, you are creating jobs, (but not for everyone) but you introduce this high-class lifestyle right in front of the eyes of people below the poverty level? On their own soil! You won’t have the same, peaceful idyllic island that I knew while I was there.
“What’s to stop children from begging from the tourists?” I asked one guy, from Ghana. “Children in Mozambique need to be in school, by law” was his answer. Yes, great. But why should they go to school when they can get more from tourists during the day by begging? In the end, they had all their canned answers. The guys from USAID assured me they would suggest a luxury tax in such cases…and that was about the best I could get.
This happens the world over, I know…it’s such a dilemma. I’m sure I’m just as much part of the problem in this respect. In the eyes of these people, I’m just as rich in my little one-person tent as the next guy in their luxury resort.
Tags: Ibo Island, Mozambique, Mozambique, Tag Index
Tania
January 29th, 2007 at 4:37 pm
You, your writing, and your journeys continue to amaze me. I cannot tell you how in awe I am of your thoughts and what you’re learning “out there”.
July 31st, 2007 at 5:24 am
Hello from Maputo – read your the story of your time on Ibo Island with interest. I smiled broadly at para 10 and was reminded yet again of how varied perceptions can be even among those who to some extent share common background and points of reference. Safe travels
Kind regards,
James a.k.a. young Canadain guy fresh back from the gym.