06/11/2026
Coconuts and Cassava
Vilankulos to Barra Beach: told it was a 5-hour drive, arrived 10 hours later.
Bouncing along Mozambique's roads is a lot like driving across Fraser Island on sand. One minute your arse is comfortable, the next you're kissing the ceiling, all while hoping the trailer and our luggage are still hanging on behind us.
Every agent is holding their bladder, doing the nervous giggle and keeping their s**t (literally) together. The apprehension about our first "bushie bushie" experience on the side of the road hits in the moment of squatting, when you wonder whether a lion or a porcupine will be your end. You scramble through every Africa documentary you've ever watched, racking your brain for what wildlife even lives in this country and whether it will eat you.
This is a unique country, where the local bore water hole doubles as the village Tinder site. The young lads know the women's collecting routine: when the elder mothers visit, it's definitely a no-go zone, but when the young ladies turn up, it's time to dress to impress and turn on the charm.
This destination is not for the precious traveller. It is raw, bare bones and grassroots. Long-distance driving, potholes, sand and patched roads. Sudden braking and swerves to the right, then the left, dodging cows, kids running alongside the bus and slower utes. Every 30 minutes there's another checkpoint, where you wonder whether you'll be paying a "fine" of some sort or whether the guard is in a good mood.
Oh, and a side note: Mastercard is not our friend. Visa wins when withdrawing cash today, but the Bank of Nicole came through with the goods. Picture us all standing around a Mozambican ATM, tuk tuks bustling past. Spot the tourists: a group of giggling agents all looking over our shoulders, paranoid whenever a local approaches. Are they being friendly, or are they about to scam us?
So going with a reputable tour company is the only way to travel here. Mozambique is not for the ignorant tourist. It is beautiful, exotic, and a smack in the face of survival, life and purity.
Yes, children walk miles to and from school every day with crisp white shirts and long black pants or skirts. Yes, you see women and children carrying gallons of water on their heads, with babies wrapped in sarongs on their backs.
A surreal feeling washes over you, as if you're in a moving fish tank watching this unique world drive by. You wonder how the locals see us cashed-up white tourists. Do we show them hope of more to come: more infrastructure, more security, more education, more opportunities for the next generation? Or do we symbolise greed, just another organisation taking, taking, taking and never giving back?
I find myself reflecting on what travel offers that you can't find in a brochure, or hear from an agent passionately describing a place in a consult. It's the thoughts, the moments, the reality checks you can only experience once you've been there yourself. A documentary doesn't throw this emotion at you. The smells, the bounces, the scares, the unknown, the unfamiliar land: you need to experience it for yourself.
This is travel in all its glory.
