Sent: Saturday, April 23, 2005 1:37 PM

We Walked to Margaruque

Pre-election found Pat and I and the gorgeous Kate dashing down to Vilanculos to pay wages for the four employees at the cottages we lease and to sort out a bit of horsy business. The Cleggs who were joining us had pressed on ahead but had found themselves locked out on arrival. Not an employee in sight. Eventually Serge the guard arrived with his dog. He is the highest paid member of staff, I must tell you, as this is of course a very demanding job, patrolling the cottages at night, making sure we are all secure. Watching Serge from the window while I was drying the dishes, I was absolutely amazed to see him pull out a wheelbarrow from a nearby shed. He took off his jacket and gently folded it into a pillow for his head. My mouth fell open in utter astonishment as he eased himself into the wheelbarrow, he folded his hands behind his head, stretched out a leg and splayed his toes languidly before settling in for the night. I dropped the dishtowel and stormed outside. Serge! I reprimanded him in my best chilapalapa. "I pay lots of money for you to guard the houses, you must walk round and round and see that there are no tsotis." "You can't sleep in the wheelbarrow it makes me penga. What am I paying you for? I fumed." Serge opened one eye, then sat up and shook his head, as if he could not quite believe I was questioning him. He grinned disarmingly, happily reassuring me that he was definitely watching out for tsotsis, he pointed at his dog curled up next to the wheelbarrow and explained he would be sure to wake up when the dog barked. I walked back to the house exasperated, while everybody else clutched their sides screaming with laughter. A few moment later, I noticed a sudden movement outside the window and locked eyes with Serge, who was now looking at me reproachfully. He lifted a limp hand as if in greeting. He had moved the wheelbarrow, which he was still stretched out in, right outside the kitchen door, to prove to me that he was definitely keeping his eyes on things and his money was well earned, I waved back feebly, what else could I do, I know when I am beaten??. 

The next morning after a quick dip in the ocean and seeing it was Sunday, Janee Clegg decided it would be an absolutely marvellous idea to take a banana boat and set off to Margaruque island for a picnic. In no time at all Bill had found the services of Mr. Mafumi who seemed an enormously jovial but rather loud chap. We arranged to meet on the beach after negotiating a price. We arrived on time, staggering under the weight of cooler boxes and snorkeling equipment to find that the boat was already full of Germans, one clutching a beach umbrella for shade. They appeared as surprised as we were but Mr. Mafumi quickly explained in a stage whisper that he would drop us off at the island and would then take the Germans to their island destination and would pick us up on his return journey. He obviously saw a business opportunity of filling the boat to max capacity. The Germans looked far from pleased with this new arrangement, but we bounded on board anyway, we didn't want to miss out on all the fun. We squeezed ourselves in, packed like sardines and Mr. Mafumi energetically started the engine which spluttered alarmingly into life, I couldn't help noticing that Bill was looking at the engine with some concern. We sped off in high spirits and Mr. Mafumi entertained everybody by shouting loudly and laughing uproariously with the Germans, while consuming an amazing amount of Carling Black Label beer, which were generously handed out by one of the Germans who was called Hardwick, I know I giggled too when he was introduced. After a lengthy delay refueling and then a long negotiation with a dhow owner, who it turned out had to be cajoled into accompanying us, as Mr. Mafumi shared the same concerns as Bill, that the engine might not last the voyage. We finally embarked on our journey. Only one problem though we had to tow the dhow!!.

It appears Mr. Mafumi was not aware of the time and believe me it was slow going towing the dhow, the tide of course was changing rapidly and it wasn't long before we were negotiating our first sandbank. As we were all in jovial moods and had a couple of gin and tonics under our belts, we gladly jumped out and pushed the boat for all we were worth. By the fourth sandbank we were anything but jovial and exhaustion soon set in. By the fifth sandbank Janee's sister Wendy fell out of the boat face down, absolutely spent and I collapsed on top of her shrilling with laughter. The Germans were now consumed with a cold anger, which fortunately was directed at Mr. Mafumi but I felt they didn't like us much either. Mr Mafumi had lost his initial joie de vive and I feared he was feeling the effects of the Carling Black Labels. I sensed a mutiny on the bounty kind of atmosphere amongst the Germans who had paid in advance for their fun in the sun. As the sea changed to one massive sandbank and we could see Margaruque clearly, we made the decision to walk. We disembarked and left Mr. Mafumi in the company of Bill and Jane to navigate their way to deeper channels. The Germans followed realizing their planned activities would not be taking place. I must say it was a strenuous exercise, but we did find giant pansy shells along the way. After what seemed like a 1000 miles or more we met up with Mr. Mafumi again. He now had his head in his hands, his hangover was so severe that he had to be revived with the help of a Grandpa headache powder, that Bill had fortunately brought with him. Finally we reached Margaruqe, we spread out our lunch under the shade of the Cassurina trees even though it was late afternoon and tucked into cold crab and ice cold beers but the Germans refused to join us. Life didn't seem so bad after all.

Our return journey was not without mishap, mainly brought about by Mr. Mafumi's severe hangover and his inability to navigate his boat and the dhow simultaneously, remember we had to tow the dhow back, it was part of the deal and the sea had become wild and choppy. The fear of being crushed to death by the dhow's huge bow was soon forgotten as sea sickness set in and most of us spent the rest of the journey with eyes fixed firmly on the horizon in-between bouts of loud retching and projectile vomiting over the side of the boat. 

Thank you everybody for all the wonderful letters I receive from all over the world. I won't dwell on the disappointment of the elections and the feeling of utter desperation all around. We just have to struggle on and maybe when we least expect it a miracle will happen. 

This letter is dedicated to Debbie Staunton who has tragically lost her daughter. No words can express such terrible grief and its every mother's worst nightmare. Thinking of you so much Debs. 

Mandy Retzlaff
Bvumba
Zimbabwe