Where is Maaret?

“Would you like a…beer?” asks the guy in a hushed voice. I’m boiling. It’s about hundred degrees Celsius outside, the red plastic chair feels uncomfortable and I’m about to rip off my burkha in a fit of childish temper tantrum. I look around. The small kebab shop in middle-of-nowhere, Iran, doesn’t seem like the likely place for a secret drinking den. In fact, it and the dusty road dotted with small huts looks like just about anywhere in the Middle East. However, my companion, a burly bloke who’s been talking about beer non-stop, answers enthusiastically for both of us. Tomorrow, I’m getting rid of the burkha. I feel slightly silly wearing it; no modern or fashionable girl in Iran wears one, and as a foreigner, they are slightly bemused by me wearing it. At the border crossing a middle-aged woman pulled my hair covering off, and seemed disappointed not to encounter blond hair; nevertheless, she insisted on a photo of me- the first of many.

The beer arrives, and to the disappointment of my companion, it’s tepid non-alcoholic beer, mango-flavoured. I don’t care; the sweat is now mixed with dust from an earlier sand storm and I’m ready to drink anything.

Women in Esfahan

Tea and cake break

Two girls chilling out at a mosque

Travelling in Iran has helped me understand how animals in zoos must feel. Everything I do is a source of amazement to locals- is she ordering that? What kinds of shoes is she wearing? Do people from Europe like ice-cream too? Really? I am both the paparazzi and the celebrity; I’m endlessly taking photos of doors or kids to the amusement of Iranians, and they constantly ask me to stand in photos with them. I was afraid that I might not be able to visit the amazing mirror-covered mosques of Shiraz as a non-Muslim, but the resourceful women pulled me into the back room and covered me head to toe in a chador, and guided me through the sights, explaining everything enthusiastically in Farsi. The west might have shuts its doors on Iran, but the Iranians are opening all possible doors for me.

Mosque in Esfahan

...and a mosque in Shiraz

I’m painfully aware that two weeks in Iran is nothing. The country is vast with so much to offer that I feel like a child in a sweets store. The itinerary is focused on the south; Esfahan, Shiraz, Persepolis and Yazd, and when I’m asked what my favourite place is, I genuinely cannot answer. In Esfahan we stumble upon a few western tourists, all with a guide on organised trips. I leave my travel buddies to haggle over carpets, and escape to one of the unassuming looking buildings next to Imam Square. Inside, a peaceful and lush courtyard completed with a fountain, goldfish and tortoises awaits, and I sit on a colourful Persian rug and order a spiced cinnamon cake. I have no idea where I am. Maybe at a museum? A palace? It’s hard to care when it’s so relaxing. Even the sellers in the bazaar around Imam Square and it’s majestic blue mosques only make a half-hearted attempt in flogging their goods to me. I’m left completely alone to marvel at the intricate turquoise and yellow walls.

So peaceful

Detail of a wall- so beautiful!

In Shiraz, I encounter a small doze of reality- one of my friends get a mild case of food poisoning, and we need to find an English-speaking doctor from the government-run hospital. When we get refused entry at the palatial foyer, I’m a bit stunned; an armed guard guides us to a small door at the side, covered with a heavy curtain- the women’s entrance, mixed with damp and sweaty smells. A stern woman looks at us disapprovingly, and we get veiled to our fingertips- my friend’s a bit weak so I’m holding up her chador as well as my own. We look like two rubbish bags floating through the hospital corridors. My friend gets a doze of antibiotics and a drip on her arm for the morning, and we escape the formality of the Iranian government back to the streets where girls wear jeans and their scarves bob along at the back of their head, showing highlights and red lipstick.

Being touristy

The one concession we decide to make is to go on a guided tour of Persepolis and Necropolis, mainly so that we are able to get something out of it. As lovely as people are, they sometimes forget that we have no idea what they are saying, and so most things we just agree to by nodding and smiling. Persepolis, though, is somewhat of a let-down; there are only a few bit standing. I had expected some sort of reconstructed pictures of what the place had probably looked like, but none were presented. On the upside, Necropolis, with its massive rock-carved tombs is breathtaking. The sun is merciless and the giant rock face in front of us vibrates in the heat, as the guide, interestingly enough, seems to just read out the notes already in place.

Climbing up to Persepolis

Standing guard in Persepolis

Necropolis, the grand burial ground of dead kings

During our last night in Esfahan, a man invites us to dinner. No one knows who the man is, but he seems to be a friend of the receptionist in our hotel. We vote, and decide to go along. As we are six, he bundles three of us into his car, and three into someone else’s car. We slalom through the traffic and the host pays, worryingly enough, more attention to us than his driving. His house is tucked away on a back street, opulent, but in almost hotel-style in its clinical tidiness- wonderful rugs, paintings and ornate but uncomfortable high-backed chairs. His family, son, daughter and wife, usher us to sit down. We sit on one side of the large living room. They sit in the other. We are given endless bowls of fruit and nuts, halva, sweets and gaz, a sort of nougat with pistachios when the questions begin to flood- which of you are married? Where do you work? How much do you earn? – questions which we are, to say the least, mildly uncomfortable in answering. I reach for an almond and ask where the rest of our friends are.
“Your friends?” our host asks, “Your friends? They are probably dead by now”.
My hand stops halfway between the bowl and my mouth. I look at the two people I’m with and become painfully aware that I a) do not know where I am, b) have no idea who this person is and c) I really didn’t want to die before getting to North Korea. Our host stares at us, silently, before bursting to a hackling laugh. His whole family join in. He slaps his cousin in the back, and says, “Iranian humour, you see”.

Spices at the Bazaar

Chai being served at the bazaar

The non-tourist part of the market. Even got my bum pinched here. Very unusual for Iran!

Yazd is a different world compared to Shiraz and Esfahan. We move from the luscious and green cities to a brown and sandy town, full of narrow, winding roads reminiscent of North Africa, a skyline dominated by wind-catchers, ancient and natural air-conditioning systems. We get lost, but it doesn’t matter; everywhere is beautiful. We give up on the very old guidebook and just flow through the streets. General good mood prevails- people smile at us, we smile at them; they shake our hands and welcome us to Iran. I never thought I’d feel so comfortable being lost in a city where I can’t read the signs or understand anyone.

Windcatchers on top of buildings

Zoroastrian Tower of Silence, where the dead were left so vultures could dispose of the body

Yazd is a centre for Zoroastrianism, the first monotheist religion in the world, and we visit some of the holy sites as well as more mosques and bazaars; it is a very pleasant few days. On the night train to Tehran I chat to a middle-class chap in the next row, and he points at a picture of the Iranian president, “The donkey of Iran”, he declares. A bold statement, and even I look around nervously. “Please tell people in the west that we are very nice people, not terrorists”, he says. His wife and I talk about the scarves and the hijab. Iranian women are feisty things who are keen on hearing my opinion on the scarf. In the restaurant car, I order chicken with rice, a staple dish, and the man answers, 75,000 fish. Fish? Fish. He points at the money. Ah. I draw a picture of a fish, and say, “This- fish. That (pointing at the money)- Money”. It takes a while to sink in. Finally, the man bursts into a laugh. Actually, he’s laughing so hard he has tears in his eyes. He realises he’s just asked me for fish. He tells this to everyone in the restaurant, still laughing, and soon all the tables are laughing. I point at my purse, faking stunned, and show, no fish. The man is in stitches. I offer him 75,000 rials for my dinner, and he waves it away. No need, it’s on us.

Typical dinner

Typical tea break

The day before we cross the border to Turkey we realise we still have, like, shed-loads of money. We’ve spent hardly anything. We sit down for a strawberry beer and contemplate. Unfortunately it’s Friday and most stores are shut. We try to tip the nice boy in the juice bar, but he insists we take our change. We insist back. The store is humming with various coolers and fridges and sports the same ubiquitous red plastic chairs. As we are leaving, he chases us down the street with our change. We cannot get rid of this money, it seems, so we flood a tiny chemists, one of the only shops which is open. We buy just about anything we can- I buy two pairs of socks and a deodorant, because, well, you always need them. One of the other girls buys hairclips. The shopkeeper is an elderly man, who probably didn’t expect six westerns to buy his store empty, but he keeps his cool. I’m the last person to pay, and he insists, no, these are on me. I’m desperate, I want to give him money, and finally he agrees. At the hotel, I leave a tip for the room cleaner and tell my friend to clear out quick before the cleaner realises and tries to give it back. We flee to the street and hail a taxi to the Turkish border.

And of course, just like all good backpackers, we then haggle on the taxi price for ages.

Street Vendor

Scenery from along the way

And so off we went, yet in another tiny, white combi which we spotted waiting on a random street corner in Maputo. We loaded our bags, paid the man and sat cramped in the backseat, watching the street and feeling the morning get hotter and hotter until we started our bumpy ride to the Swazi border.

The minibuses (or combis, if you prefer that) are the single thing that I shall never miss about Africa. My sweaty arm stuck to Rich's- it was impossible to stretch your legs or to sit with your shoulders straight whilst the driver sped down the road, obviously, like every African driver, wanting to break the world record for speed as well as discomfort.

Crossing the border was a breeze; however, after driving down the Swazi side for a few minutes, we got stopped by the border control police. Not unsual in itself, but the items they were looking for was: clothes. The guy looked at my dusty backpack suspiciously, wanting to know what was inside. Usually, in these situations, I have no idea what the correct answer is- I've come across places where they check you for the oddest things, and I always answer wrong. So I said, clothes, thinking it was fairly innocent and normal, and the guy's face became very intent. New clothes? No, not new. You sure? Pretty sure, yes. Hmm. I opened the top of my bag with my old toiletries bag and a manky towel. He moved over to the next person, (possibly because of the towel, deciding it was not worth venturing further inside) who rapidly started unpacking piles of used winter coats from a black binliner, as the border control counted each one. Maybe there's a limit as to how many used winter coats you can bring into Swaziland; it would certainly explain why the man was in a hurry to sell one of the coats to a female passenger just before crossing over.

Market stall in Mbabane

Traditional brooms for sale

Three years ago, I spent a week in Swaziland, because I had a cold and decided to sleep it off there. I remember visiting an orphanage where an acquintance was working; I drove down to a waterfall and did some shopping, but that was pretty much it. This time around, I mainly went along because Rich had never been to Swazi, and I also wanted to do some shopping. I really wanted to like Swaziland- even the name sounds far-flung and exotic. The truth is, though, that it really is not that interesting. Most people come out of curiosity, or to get their passports stamped, or, like me, to shop for crafts.

Masks for sale

Swazi lady statues

Spears

Making baskets

And so we shopped. After a frustrating day of trying to find Manzini market, famous for its cheap prices, we finally found it, and I picked up a few things, but even the market had changed in my mind- it wasn't as big or good as I'd remembered. Interestingly, many of the bracelets had the words "Swazi secret" spelt on them- it's also the name of the tourism advertising campaign. I went for the soapstone carvings instead. After we moved hostels more towards the Ezulwini Valley, we also spotted a huge crafts market along the main road to Mbabane. I got very very excited, and after a day of looking around Mbabane (nothing much there, except more markets) we decided on a day of indulgance- first, I got pizza, and second, I got a proper coffee and a cheesecake, followed by a trip to the markets.

(Cheesecake's a bit of a thing for me. I cannot pass a cheesecake shop without trying one; it's like an addiction. This one, in Mbabane of Swaziland, was, maybe slightly unexceptedly, incredibly good.)

At the hostel that night, I chatted to a few Swazi ladies who worked there, and somewhere along the lines we decided that we should all take part in the tradtional reed dance festival, and try to marry the Swazi king who picks another girl from the bunch each year, and marries her. It's a great honour and a position many girls aspire to. Elaine, the girl working at the hostel, told me how she'd taken part a couple of times in the last few years, but the competition was always fixed- the king would know, or he'd been advised beforehand on who to pick. I asked the girls if they knew how many wives the king had and most of them didn't know, but the guesses ranged between 12 to 100. They were, though, scrutinising the pictures of the most beautiful and prominant princesses, who pretty much made up the gossip column in the local paper. The girls joked that a lot of people were indeed somehow connected to the royal family, perhaps unsurprisingly.

Manzini market

Wall painting in Manzini

We left Swaziland on an identical minibus to the one that we'd arrived on, and as the driver attempted suicide on the narrow roads to South Africa, I looked at the rolling green hills, dotted with houses and cows, and I had a feeling I hadn't seen the best of the country. However, I can't see myself returning for the third time- despite being told that Swaziland is full of secrets, to my disappointment, I never found a single one.

Buses in Africa do not depart on time, even if they have a schedule or a departure time. Except in Mozambique. And except for the first bus of the day in Zambia. Although not with every company. In Namibia, they do depart on time. Except when they're running late. In Malawi, they depart when full, except if the driver wishes to leave early. Sometimes, you can buy tickets in advance (Uganda), sometimes not (Malawi), sometimes only for certain buses (Tanzania), sometimes online (South Africa), sometimes in person only (pretty much everywhere else). In Kenya, you simply get shot at in buses.

On our last morning in Vilankulo, we discovered a new one; a bus didn't leave because it didn't have enough passengers. Usually, this is not a problem in Africa- the bus will simply stand there for whatever time it takes for it to fill up (usually the driver will either be asleep or drinking at a bar) before taking off. However, a nice Chilean guy we'd met stumbled into our hostel in the early hours of the morning; he later told us that he'd gone to the bus station around 2am (a usual time for a Mozambiquean bus to depart) only to be kept waiting and then being told that the bus wouldn't go because there wasn't enough passengers. He ended up hitchhiking to the main road later that day, and since we never heard from him, figured he found some way of getting up north. Or he might still be at the junction, waiting for a bus.

Anything is possible with African buses, and very few things surprise me anymore. Apart from the hugely expensive one in Mozambique, they are also uncomfortable, hot and cramped; you'll always come out with a bad back or a cricked neck, or end up holding a baby or a goat in your lap. It's also a great experience which you cannot have elsewhere- with people sharing their snacks and hawkers going on overdrive when they spot an approaching bus. Taking buses and doing long journeys is a part of every African's life.

Basically, there's always a bus. Or if not a bus, a taxi. If not a taxi, a combi, a matatu, a minibus, a truck, a donkey. You can always get around. And really, there are no absolute rules, and so when we were told that our bus to Maputo would leave "in the morning", it didn't fill us with confidence.

In Mozambique, buses usually depart early, before sunrise. To be on the safe side, Rich walked over to find the bus driver the evening before (we were simply told to "go in town and look for the driver" whilst I, err, had a cider and played pool) to ask what time he'd depart. Apparently, around 3am. So, we set our alarms for 2am, and walked, with the assistance of the night watchman, to the side of the road. The bus was already nearly full, with chaotic people loading bags and kids, and with most passengers looking as if they'd slept in there (including the driver). As the bus filled up fast, it left early, about 20 minutes before it was officially due to leave. Why wait if it's already full?

The basic thinking would be to arrive early, and expect to leave late. If you're lucky, a half an hour's wait will do. Unlucky, and you'll have to come back the next day. Or next week. Really, there are no rules, and I would suggest doing what I do- pick a time and hope for the best.

When travelling, you get used to disappointments: the Eiffel tower is just a big, industrial metal structure, Macchu Pichu is so full of tourists that living your Indiana Jones -moments is pretty useless. London is crowded, an African safari feels more like modern photo-hunting, and almost everywhere else is expensive, overpriced and under-delivering. That's why, every now and again, it's refreshing to come across a place which actually lives up to the expectations and mental images you'd had ever since you were a child.

Mozambique is certainly refreshing, not only because of it's unsual cultural mix, but because it is viewed by most backpackers as off the beaten track, hard to travel through (which it is) and too large to take on. Most people we'd met had concentrated around Maputo and Tofo, which meant that although our hostel in Vilankulo was fairly full, it was only the slightly more independent travellers that had made it that far (no overland bus in sight- yay!). Which, in my mind, always means they have a story to tell.

Girl and a baby

Vilankulos is not a big town. It's certainly bigger than Tofo, and more of an actual town , with banks, big local market with big, burly blokes playing tiny drums with a passion, and little coffee shops and restaurants, all selling pretty much the same variety of chicken, fish and maize. The beach is unusual- rocky and not particularly attractive at high tide, and yet wonderfully colourful during low tide, when the sea retreats several kilometres out, leaving exposed dunes of sand, seashells and little dhow boats with peeling paint.

Vilankulo beach at low tide

Vilankulo beach

Abandoned boat

seashells

Low tide

We met a wonderful bunch of people, all whom arrived from various places- some just starting their trip, some working locally, some just finishing a year-long trip. It was a fantastic mix of people, and we spent happy evenings playing cards, drinking beers and staying cool.

My favourite part, however, was the fishermen and their boats. To me, it made Mozambique look like everything I'd imagined during my Finnish/English confinement. The sun setting behind us, and the little boats coming in, different coloured dots in the horizon; the women, wearing orange, pink, green, yellow, tying their chitenges and laughing, gutting fish, trading in fish, talking about fish. Kids picking crabs, carrying younger siblings and chasing dogs; dogs chasing each other and the birds; and the excitement and chaos which ensued when a boat arrived- the huge, odd-looking fish being gutted, smelling foul, right by the water's edge.

Boats coming in

Boats coming in

Crabs

Man and a boat

Kids on the beach

Waiting for Fishermen

A girl waiting for the boats

Crabbing

I was intrigued by all this, and went down to watch the boats and wave to the kids every day just before sunset. It was calming and peaceful to think that their routine had hardly changed over the years (Except, possibly, for the fact that the fishermen had mobile phones), and that people seemed so happy and content.

Making a traditional dress

Big fish and a little girl

We didn't, in the end, even go on a boat trip to the Bazaruto; we were quite content just being there. If I could dot down my favourite places on a map, Vilankulos would certainly get a pin. Not so much because it's unusual or stunning or affords you with tons of activities, but because it offers that special vibe that everyone chases when they go travelling: it removes you from what you know, and shows you something totally new and different.

There's something about a nice beach place, it doesn't particularly encourage you to do much anything. I'm not a beach person, and cannot understand people who book a two-week holiday to a Greek island or similar; I think I'd die of boredom. However, arriving somewhere peaceful and picturesque whilst backpacking is a bit different; after weeks of moving around nearly every day, manouvering big, awkward tents and unpacking and re-packing your sleeping bag is heavenly, regardless whether or not you're a beachy type. Like for us- after stepping of a hellish bus from Maputo to Tofo, it was a joy to see a silent, peaceful beach, fringed with palm trees, and happy, tanned tourists and locals, who, to my surprise, weren't that hard on the sales side. I think they get enough tourists down there to be able to relax a bit.

Beach at Sunset

Tofo Beach at sunset

On the beach

We spent a few days in Tofo, not really doing much, except for whaleshark snorkelling. I was a bit iffy about it- my meagre funds were quickly evaporating, and I'd done diving/snorkelling trips before. But, in the end, a drunken south african couple convinced me, and I handed in about 35 euros of hard-earned window cleaning cash. And it was pretty cool. I'm slightly scared of water- not massively, but a bit intimidated (far more a flying/in the air -kind of person), and so I put on my mask, took a deep breath and tried to look elegant when I splashed into the sea. I really wanted to give into the panicky feeling; but as I swirled around, there it was, coming up underneath me- a huge, 17-metre whaleshark, looking at me in the eye. It was a slightly surreal moment, as all I heard was my own heart pumping, and I couldn't believe this bulky, big animal floated next to me so silently and smoothly. I swam along him for a bit, close enough to touch, and he didn't seem to mind me at all. Undescribable. Humpback whales, dolphins and more whalesharks. I was a happy girl.

We spent a few more days in Tofo, wandering into the little town, taking pictures of local life, and going out dancing with other backpackers in surprisingly energetic and lively little nightclubs. Fred came along too, and being a popular chap, got bitten by a man in a nightclub. Yes, really. He's receiving intensive care, and we hope to restore him soon.

Fabrics at the market

Woman with sarongs

Making bamboo mats

Tofo Beach

But, alas, as many nice people as we'd met, it was time to move on. We had a vague idea of heading towards the Bazaruto and Vilankulo (Vilanculo? Vilankulos? Who knows!) and staying settled there for a few days. Our short journey (short in the terms of distance travelled...only) started with a walk into town; waiting for a little minibus; bussing it into Inhambane; walking through Inhambane; boarding a rickety little fishing boat across the bay to Maxixe; waiting in a generic coffee shop, eating eggs, eggs and more eggs (and a bit of Rich's dish as well, probably). Then waiting at the side of the road for the big bus which was late, or coming to the other side of town, or coming there but not till later. People sometime gather around me, thinking I, as a foreigner, might know. I don't know! I'm just standing at the side of the road, hoping that eventually a useful mode of transport will arrive! We got on the big bus, but they didn't have a fare for this particular stretch from Maxixe to Vilankulos- so they guestimated, and we paid quite a bit, but got a luxury bus- the first bus either of us had gone on in Africa that wasn't packed full. It was, in fact, surprisingly empty. They left us at a dusty road junction with not much else but a few run-down market stalls, all covered in a shreds of plastic, with a few curious kids and sad-looking goats. We got a lift at the back of a very windy truck down to the town centre of Vilankulo, me holding on to my hair, earrings and bags.

Unloading a truck

A stop between Vilankulo and Inhambane

Five different types of transport later, and yet hardly any physical distance, we'd finally arrived to Vilankulo, our nothern-most destination on the trip. And I was convinced I was going to like it.