Four essential spoils at Anantara Bazaruto:
- The sunken bar where you sit immersed in water as your caipirinha’s mixed from scratch. It’s proper
- The hill-top spa with forever views of the dhow-spotted ocean
- A post-snorkelling spicy chicken prego roll at Club Naval; the tastiest bad-boy bar none
- Breakfast treats of mini doughnuts and teeny almond croissants to go with your coffee
A long weekend at Anantara Bazaruto, Mozambique
Words and photographs Tess Paterson
Friday
So you’ve dropped off the kids with grandma, Ubered to the Gautrain and ensconced yourselves in the Slow Lounge at OR Tambo. Halfway through a seared tuna wrap, it’s time to board your flight to Vilancoulos. An hour later, the world below has shifted from east-rand scariness to a jaw-dropping kaleidoscope of aquamarine sea and pale, tide-washed sand. The tin rooves of several thousand houses blink and flash in the sun, and then you’re taxiing towards the airport.
Then the penny drops: you’re in the Peter Stuyvesant ad that you loved as a teenager
Our driver Macamo is waiting at the carousel. Like a bouncer at Fashion Week he whisks us out of the building and into a big black 4×4. En route to the harbour there’s a glimpse of a primary school, a new clinic and a bustling central market.
But it’s only when you get to the beach, roll up your boyfriend jeans and walk into the Indian Ocean, that the penny drops. You’re in the Peter Stuyvesant ad that you loved as a teenager. This luxury resort on Bazaruto Island is just 45 minutes away by powerboat; ahead lies a weekend in nirvana.
Saturday
Today’s main event is a snorkelling trip to Paradise Island, an uninhabited dot on the map between Bazaruto and Vilancoulos. Just off-shore, skipper Alberto Massane drops the anchor and seven of us flop off the stern. Massane cautions that the sea is ‘chopper.’ We soon get what he means because despite my Herculean fin-action the boat’s doing an alarming disappearing act as the waves gain momentum.
Our fellow snorkeler is an irrepressible sun-worshipping Norwegian who’s clearly relishing these warm southern waters. “I dive all the time for my restaurant near Bergen,” he says cheerfully, amid a host of risqué jokes and Nordic affability. He’s been fortunate to venture to countless tropical islands around the globe, declaring Paradise to be one of the most beautiful he’s ever seen.
In Mozambique’s pre-war heyday, this island was known as Santa Carolina. A party palace of a hotel was built here in 1962, now a crumbling concrete ruin shaded by melancholy pines. I discover when I get home that a lady in my yoga class remembers it well. “I was sent to Santa Carolina as a nurse in 1968,” she says. “I was fresh off the boat from Ireland and I met a gorgeous Frenchman! A lot of families would come to the island for fishing holidays. It was absolutely idyllic.” After a sublime lunch on the beach (tuna, landed earlier by the Scandinavian) we head back in the glimmering dusk.
Sunday
What the world doesn’t need is an off-piste journalist galloping headlong into the dunes like some demented Velvet Brown
We’re up at seven for a horse-ride. A bit like kite surfing or truffle hunting, the idea of cantering along an unspoilt beach has a cool, edgy allure. Secretly though, I’m hoping for a horse that’s a bit of a plodder. What the world doesn’t need is an off-piste journalist galloping headlong into the dunes, all flailing stirrups and mane-grabbing like some demented Velvet Brown. The lovely trainer Arnaldo soon allays my fears and pops me onto Manuel.
Stretched out like a bolt of blue silk, the Indian Ocean rolls away to Madagascar
Intractable is perhaps the politest word for my steed, who stops for a grass snackwich every 30 seconds or so. Getting from the stables to the beach takes as long as the actual ride, despite Arnaldo’s cheery imprecations to ‘pull the reigns and kick!’ I desist from overdoing this as the speech bubble above Manuel’s head reads ‘just try that, amateur, and we’ll see how you handle a full-on sprint.’ So we bring up the rear, ambling at a dignified pace along the gilded sand. Stretched out like a bolt of blue silk, the Indian Ocean rolls away to Madagascar.
After breakfast it’s off to a sun-lounger for a few hours of sweet blow-all. Clouds and palm trees are mirrored in the rim flow pool, the air is a balm, the caipirinhas frosted to perfection. At sunset it’s a short drive to the dunes, a spectacular ridge that runs down the island’s eastern side. Our guide James Murrime deftly waxes the boards, and in that pearlescent light we whoop down the steep slope in a mix of terror and glee.
Monday
Wake up, get horribly tangled in the artfully draped mozzie net and stumble off for a last swim. Pondering on a travel piece I wrote years ago, I remember an editor suggesting that I tone it down. In this pristine setting though, it’s hard not to wax a little lyrical. The people are genuinely friendly, the shallows truly turquoise, and the palms, well, frondy. It’s a place to be energizer-bunny busy, or marvel at a million stars with your feet in the ocean. Either way, it feels like we’ve been away for a week. Paradise does that.
This story was originally published in Wanted Magazine.