Pointe du Linge Linge - a tale of hospitality and hatred.

One never really know what to expct when traveling, and sometimes the expereinces can take you by surprise. This is my story of Pointe du Linge Linge, Mozambique and the two characters who we met on its shores.

At about 9am we finallly left Tofu. Bags packed, fasted vas to the bikes, photos taken, peddles tightened, a high five and a 'thank you' to set us on our way. This was it. We were off.  Day one we cycled for about 30kms then caught a dhow accross the bay to Maxixe, paying 200 met and 2 t-shirts. That night we slept like poor kings.

It was the next day however that we came to Pointe du Linge Linge. After another 30km cycle we finally reached the coastal village of Morombene. Here we loaded the bikes and trailor onto the Dhow and sailed upwind across the bay, shifting our weight and bodies accross the boat everytime our captain would tack throught the water to pick up speed, navigating over the bikes and mamas on board.

After three hours and a few stops we arrived 200m off the coast of Linge Linge. With bikes and bags atop our heads we waded through the water to the shore and bundubashed lost through the jungle as the sun came down, till we found what turned out to be our destination - Funky Monkeys. Knowing only what we had read in the 2 lines in the Lonley Planet - the reality was a pleasent shock to us. Rural, empty, no frills, paradise.

Almost immediately we were greated by Lucio, the first character in my story. A slightly built man, black Mozambiquan but clearly of Asian decent, missing a tooth right in the front of his mouth, old ripped shorts and his best (or only) t-shirt on, one good eye. Lucio welcomes us to his home and asked for a mere rate for us to stay with him. "Family first, money later" - as we discovered was his signiture line.

As we cooked dinner that night we talked and laughed in his broken English and our non-existent Bitonga. In the kitchen also sat his wife and wife's sister (or wives as it actually appeared to be once the sun came down). The night led to the bar and to card games and betting and buying each other one or two too many drinks.

On cheap wine Lucio was drunk, loud and more welcoming than ever. His sister-in-law sat next to him, looking embarresed and proud and ensured his cigerette was always lit. For Lucio guests really were more important than the money they brought with them.

The next day we awoke and after a swim in ocean and a walk on the beach, we began building the table we had promised him the night before. That day we worked, we rested, we ate. If Linge Linge wasn't paradise, then it was certainly the beach across the bay.

It was only the following day when we met the second characters in our story. We were looking for a lift out of Linge Linge, as the Dhow and 45km ahead of us was probably too much for one day of sunlight. From the hammocks we spotted some familar looking faces heading to Orland's Bar. South Africans - maybe they could help us out.

After a quick greeting and update on the Stomers game, we were like family to the boys from Witriver in die Lowveld. 120kg Kobus was doing construction managment for new holiday homes on the point. Jannie and Bizmark did similar work in construction and at a saw mill nearby. They were clealy excited to see white South Africans and invited us for dinner, ordering more beers and offered us a lift out on Thursday, almost without us asking.

"Kom for a lekker kuier tonight" Kobus insisted and despite out existing dinner plans with Lucio, they rocked up a few hours later to fetch us and took us from our campsite to their beachside mansions. There was something familar about the entitled tone they used with Lucio which seemed vaugely familar of a South Africa in which I grew up. Without so many words they were saying; "this is your home but when I am here, I am boss". Lucio smiled politely as his coverted guests were whisked away by Whites in Hilux 4x4s, before we had even started on cheap wine.

Nugs, Jules and myself felt guilty for leaving and caught a moment for a chat before getting to their home. Yes we had left Lucio, but we are dinner and he seemed okay, but we still felt bad. We resolved that it was okay, and we shouldn't harp on it and turn down the unashamed hospitality of our new friends.

That night we braai'd and drank brandy. We got loud, listened to bad music, arm wresteled and had a lekker kif kuier. Some other friends of theirs were over as well and it was a real South African night met die Boere and Souties. They were blown away that we were staying with one of the locals. "Ja the Chinese Kaffir, I've seen him around, Ja he's okay".

I ignored the racist comments, I made no fuss about the white dominant attitude, I enjoyed the laxurious house and expensive brandy on the door step of Mozambiquan poverty. Much like we had smiled at Lucio's drunken ramblings about his riches and ignored his blatant adultary, we ignored the racist banter. We knew it was wrong, but we were guests in both homes and we did not want to upset the currents on the calm beaches of Linge Linge.

Pointe du Linge Linge for me will be remembered as a place of great joy, real sadness and immense conflict.

When one travels (and especially so by bicycle), you put yourself at the mercy of others and you realise that many people are good people, hospitable and kind. Both Lucio and the Afrikaaners opened their homes to us and shared so much, expecting nothing but friendship in return. Knowing that strangers can treat strangers like family brings me joy.

Yet it is also sad because these two neighbours will never know each others hospitality. For Lucio, these are the white foreigners who had colonized his beach with 4x4s, five star hotels and flatscreen TVs. And for the Witriver boys, Lucio will always be the Chinese Kaffir. (And how a grossly obese, unfriendly old white man with Parkinsons disease can be racist is beyond me. Without his Hilux and gun, he is so far down the food chain that he should be trying to make all the friends he can, regardless of their colour or creed).

But Linge Linge is also a place of conflict for me. To enjoy the comfy beds, fun ocean toys, beer on-tap and the important lift out of town; we would have to endure the racism and be seen by the locals to be one of 'those Whites'. But to remain welcome guests of a local fisherman, we would have to sleep in our sandy tents, disassociate ourselves from warm, welcoming South Africans in a foreign land, (Kobus had already taken the day off work and bought a case of beer to take us spear fishing and out on his boat), and walk the 20kms out of town.

In my life in Cape Town race is not a big issue to me. My friends and family can attest to that. Yet I left Linge Linge feeling that one cannot hide from race on a continent where racial agression, segregation and murder has ruled for centuries. History always wins.

The end of Apartehid obviously was not the end of racism in South Africa. The coast of Mozambique is scattered with ex South African whites, (and definately not all the South Africans up here) destined to continue their old way of life, or at least enjoy its perks. And the lawless and poor coast of Mozambique serves as a perfect setting where money and jobs still make you 'die baas'.

However these people are shit ('these people', and certianly not Afrikaaners in general), and i feel sorry for them. Unable to accept the new era in SA, they ran for the borders and live a lonely life on the paradise beaches of Mozambique, clinging to the company of any whites who pass through, unable to overcomes the colour barrier and befriend their black neighbours. In 2011 we should be trying to find life on Mars, fight global warming and end inhumane farming practices, and not still bickering amongst ourselves about the colour of our skin. Its and old discussion and im pretty sure its unresolvable.

So how did we navigate our way through the currents of hospitality and racism? Well that was complex and hard to explain in writing. But what I will say is that we as individuals have the ability to learn from what we see and how we feel, and to base our decisions on that. The important thing is to act properly and realistically and in a manner which lets you respect your face in the mirror.

In the end the three of us fnished Lucios table, got our lift out of town with our morals intact, and left Pointe du Linge Linge with a tan, a deeper understanding of Africa, and knowing we were not visiting Witriver in die Lowveld anytime soon.

However my real conclusion of the whole story is that all people; black, white, brown, yellow, male, female or transgender are all a hellofalot nicer when they are sober than when they are drunk.

ETA: another 2 weeks or so in Moz.