Impossible... yet so beautiful

Definitions of paradise are subjective. It can be found in a variety of forms, dictated by personal preference and circum­stance; a quaint Parisian cafe, a jungle island without roads, or simply a clean hotel room after a gruelling journey.

Approaching Tofu, I can smell the sand as it blows in

Often, the first image that springs to mind is the classic combination of palm trees, white sand and turquoise ocean. Mozambique has almost 2,500 kilometres of unblemished coastline, but before making blissful assumptions, remember that finding paradise requires investment. And on the eastern coast of Africa this means something entirely different from money.

Mozambique’s brutal history reveals itself immediately, a solemn machine gun emblazoned on the national flag, alongside a farmer’s hoe, indicating the people’s struggle.

It flies soberly as the bus rattles past. The bus claims its limits are 32 seated and 45 standing. By departure we’re pushing 100 people, the engine groaning at gentle inclines, enormous palm tree plantations laughing at our progress.

Every kilometre brings a handful of additional passengers, each bending and squeezing their frames into the crowd. Then 50 or so schoolchildren get on.

“Are the buses like this in your country?” one asks. Erm no, but they also don’t service women with baskets of fruit balanced on their heads and babies strapped to their backs with towels. They’re all running towards us from straw huts, and I’m happy exchanging a twisted back and numb left arm for the views.

Approaching Tofu, I can smell the sand as it blows in and invades the town, following each street corner before piling against white washed walls. Croaking, stumbling and sinking into the mush, the bus wheels practically disappear from view as we reach a standstill.

The female driver starts digging, 50 people begin pushing and a monumental roar of victory is followed by a manic scramble to reclaim a position.

Following the sand, I dawdle onto the beach, admiring a traditional wooden dhow sailing towards the horizon. Where is the horizon? The contrast between ocean and sky blurs, while behind me luxuriant palm trees are unsuccessfully tasked with keeping the beach out of town. Yes, this is the kind of paradise that can monopolise clichés.

John, 62, has lived through 27 years of war. For 11 years, a brutal liberation was fought against the Portuguese, the colonial power only withdrawing after littering the land with landmines and destruction.

Freedom brought a Communist Party, civil war and half the world providing arms as the last dregs of the global ideological Cold War was played out.

Over one million civilians died during the 16-year war between the Marxist Frelimo and anti-Communist Renamo.

John’s serene guesthouse and bar is his reward, a gentle retirement where he can reclaim the youth he never had. My room is Marylyn Munroe, Elvis lives next door and live Woodstock recordings add sound to the black and white 1960s decoration.

Whale sharks and manta rays regularly swim past and dinner time includes fresh oysters and tempestuous chillies (Mozambique is the home of peri peri).

“Most people I know left a long time ago, but now I’m glad I stuck it out,” he says. If half a lifetime of war is the investment, each barefoot step through the sand feels just that little bit more special.

The Portuguese influence lives in the language, Latin cafes, and laidback atmosphere. In nearby Inhambane, their architecture has survived; faded wood, haphazard ceilings and sporadically broken windows creating a faded charm.

A 200-year-old Catholic cathedral has aged benevolently, bakeries perfume the boulevards and bottles of silky Lautentina Preta beer fill empty afternoons. The lack of town bustle is disconcerting, but Africa is never far away; ripe avocados, stacks of wooden baskets and clothes donated from Europe, taking me on an atmospheric journey through the central market.

Moving north, I’m one of 28 passengers… in a 16-seater minivan. Bags of coconuts have been squashed under my feet, the conductor hangs out of the open sliding door, a squawking chicken gives me an unnecessary glare, and through the window I admire a countryside seemingly built on sand.

Vilanculos is as equally rewarding as Tofu; Indian Ocean warm as I splash around, palm trees stretching skyward and a diverse collection of green shades challenging the sand.

Thirty or so kilometres offshore, the succession of sandbanks that comprise the Bazzaruto Archipelago is a Unesco World Heritage site.

Between the sand is the Indian Ocean’s largest marine reserve and one of the banks was owned by the Frelimo President and hosted Bob Dylan among other left-leaning musicians during the wars.

The largest, Bazzaruto, runs alongside a two-mile tropical reef where white-tip reef sharks, curious crabs and a tropical assortment fill my vision.

Snorkelling is followed by a barbecued fish lunch, sand dune climbing and a wade through stupendous lagoons.

I’m sat in the warm water, surrounded by a circle of fine yellow, and I’m convinced that perhaps Mozambique isn’t just built on sand, perhaps the country is sand. Not the inhospitable desert type, but the friendly inviting stuff that spawns a beaming smile whenever you sink your feet in. Sand moves, changes and remembers the past. Yet anything so beautiful can only be optimistic about the future.

However, reaching Bazzaruto was preceded by a lurching sail through ocean swells and belligerent sun. Soaked by salty spray, obnoxiously sea sick, skin-red raw, I was cursing the sluggishness of the traditional wooden dhow.

The craft relies on sail power to take on the might of the Indian Ocean. It’s uncomfortable, frustrating, and that only makes me appreciate the destination more.

In our increasingly accessible world, the postcard definition of paradise is no longer hard to find. That can make the challenges of travelling in Mozambique advantageous.

The knowledge that it was hard work, and excessive time and energy had to be invested, only accentuates the ascetic beauty.

And as the sunburn reaches blistering levels, a distinctive set of fins dip, rise and dip again. Momentarily, the ocean is still and my physical battering recedes. The challenge of travelling in Mozambique not only emphasises the paradise, it is a living part of it.

How else could you explain sailing a wooden boat alongside a virgin coastline as a pod of dolphins swim past?