Swell gazing can be a tedious past time, breaking your day down to the minutiae to ease the passage of time. Letting hours drift away through mindless optimism, ready to shelve responsibilities should the swell come early, stealing a few precious moments between the ocean and you. Not so in Mozambique where days and weeks thread together, the passage of time marked only by sunrise and sunset. Days of the week, hours of the day, dates of the month are left on the tar road somewhere far back towards the border along with responsibility and expectation. Life here is easy and free; laissez-faire, laisse-tomber, just take it as it comes and go explore.
Waking early with the birds, the sound of the palms rustling in the wind is easily mistaken for raindrops through the threadbare thatch roof. Falling out of bed onto the cool concrete floor you unravel yourself from your mosquito net, grab a coffee, put on some baggies and take the stroll to the point. Cutting a fine line amongst the reed shelters the path is soft sand covered in husks shorn from coconut shells and brown fallen palm leaves. Kids play football with whatever resembles a ball, darting amongst us as we walk, giddy and excited at our passing interest. We descend the hill and the point opens up to our right, a lady is selling home baked bread in the shade from a small coppice of trees, we buy a couple for pocket change and continue to walk until we come to the headland and take a seat.
The tide is wrong, the swell too small so we keep walking until we come to the monument, a symbol of struggle and suffering, today used by surfers as a line-up for when the serious swells come. From here the Portuguese took slaves to the Old World but more recently marauding militia threw men, women and children to their deaths on the jagged lava below. It is a powerful symbol and a stark reminder of what has been and gone. A symbol of how quickly times change on the Dark Continent as we stand beneath the shackled crooked arm in boardshorts tearing off husks of freshly baked bread. A message not lost on us. From here we continue until we reach a small wooden plaque daubed ‘barraca dos assasinatos'. From amongst the bushes appears a small blowhole in the lava rock reef, its steep and jagged shaft opens into a small cavern below into which prisoners were dropped for torture or interrogation, often left for days at a time until they gave up the information needed or were relieved through death. Standing carefree, it's hard to place ourselves here as travelling surfers. But we are welcomed by all; in three weeks all we have seen is smiles. Time will heal the past, gone but not forgotten. Tourism will be Mozambique's saviour.
By the afternoon the tide has dropped, the swell is here and we're ready to go, stomachs full from local fresh fish bought in from the wooden Douws earlier that morning. Bruce Gold is here, camping next to our small hut and he accompanies us down to the point along with South African filmmaker Shaun Lange, brother of prestigious underground charger Rooster Lange. They've been in Mozam a long while, happily stuck after selling their car to prolong their stay. Around the fire the night before Shaun showed me some footage of another local point with Bruce in the pocket of a tapering right-hander, holding a high line on the hollow face and flying on his green longboard for a full minute. ‘But no telling where' grins Bruce, 62 years old, smiles in his eyes and no plans of returning to his native J-Bay just yet. Not with these waves.
The water is empty, we stretch on the beach and chat away; there is no rush, no crowd to beat, just enjoying the moment. We paddle out and make our way along the reef, lining ourselves up on the monument and take our turns. Between the sets we dive down deep, exploring the lava fingers of the reef below in the crystal warm waters, no need for masks such is the visibility. The waves are steep and hollow, as we glide along the open faces the greens and blues mix with the dazzling whites of the sand as the afternoon sun pierces the clear water, reflecting off the bottom into our wide eyes as we ride, wave after wave until the sun sets and it's time to go. We paddle in as a group, convene on the beach and walk slowly back to the camp, sharing tales of the waves we rode.
Arriving back the sun has set, the air is cool and a stack of dried coconut husks sits beside a blackened iron boiler. Two hoses run away into an open-air palm fringed cubicle. I stoke the fire; the flames spill over and envelop the boiler, sending out a pocket of soft yellow light in the pitch dark. I wait a few minutes until steam begins to rise from the top, whistling softly in the still night air, and open the valves. Warm water courses out and I rinse off the salt. Above the sky is clear and the stars are out in full, no light to obstruct them. I let the water run and stand a while taking it all in, reflecting on the day that's past and the days ahead, leaving my worries behind, excited for tomorrow, not wanting to leave
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