On the shores of southern Mozambique, three special resorts provide access to a rich marine environment — and the chance of a brighter future for the people who call the region home.
I watched the land closely from the air. The chocolate-brown earth of South Africa, bare and threaded with rivers that turned quicksilver in the morning sun, gave way to grassland in Mozambique. Perfectly round lagoons appeared, their barren circumference suggesting brackish water. That hint of salinity was a prelude to the sea, but no preparation for what came next.
The plane tilted and the sun burst through the windows, sending ovals of solid gold over the cabin walls. I looked down at the islands of the Bazaruto Archipelago and the sea between them, a low tide streaming out in 20 tantalizing shades of blue. The sprawling expanse of a sandbar had pushed through the shallows. My first thought was of a sculpture in sand, reminiscent of those works of early Cubism — Picasso’s “Tête de Femme (Fernande),” perhaps — in which all the facets of a face are seen at once, myriad planes collapsed into a single visage. The sea seemed almost to act like shadow, highlighting and deepening the lines of that piercing countenance.
“I simply think that water is the image of time,” wrote the poet Joseph Brodsky in “Watermark,” his meditation on Venice. My first glimpse of the Bazaruto Archipelago evoked that sense so many cultures have of the sea as a metaphor for divinity — now in the Spirit of God moving upon the face of the waters in Genesis, now in Vishnu floating on a cosmic sea. Water represents that sensation of stillness, movement, and simultaneity that offers a glimpse of the divine.
The Bazaruto Archipelago is a chain of five islands in southern Mozambique, on the edge of the Indian Ocean. It is located at the junction of two wildlife “corridors,” utilized by species such as humpback whales and blacktip and hammerhead sharks as they migrate along the eastern coast of Africa. The region boasts many variable weather systems that contribute to an extraordinary diversity of habitats, ranging from sand flats and mangrove swamps to freshwater lakes.
I was alone, by the sea. This was not luxury I had to think myself into. It emanated from the place itself, and I felt it in every fiber of my being.
The archipelago is beautiful beyond conception, but it was not beauty alone that I found so affecting that morning. A feeling of fragility had come to me during the pandemic. I was emerging from months of isolation. My first attempt to visit had failed in November of last year: Omicron struck, and Mozambique was one of the African countries hobbled by COVID-related travel restrictions.
The trip had to be canceled, but naturally I got sick anyway, sitting in upstate New York. It had been a long, bitter winter that had made me almost fearful of travel. Dropping south from JFK on a 15-hour United flight to Johannesburg, sailing into the Southern Hemisphere, I found myself balancing the thrill of being out in the world again with a new sense of precariousness. The enthralling spectacle of the archipelago was edged with sadness. I was reminded of the fear that almost kept me from leaving home. If ever proof were needed of how wonderful the world is, there it was in that translucent expanse of sea and sand beneath me, the image of both ephemeral and enduring beauty.
Mozambique sits like a slumped Y in the southeastern quadrant of Africa, its tail in South Africa, and its horns facing north to Tanzania, Malawi, and Zimbabwe. The Zambezi River runs along its slender waist, separating a predominantly Muslim, Swahili-speaking north from a Bantu Christian south. A coastline of about 1,500 miles gazes out at the Indian Ocean, a geography that, throughout history, has often made the south of the Arabian Peninsula and the western coast of India feel as much a part of Mozambique’s story as the continent of Africa itself. The sea has long drawn Arab traders to these shores, beginning in the 10th century, and it was the sea that drew Vasco da Gama in 1498, marking the beginning of the Portuguese presence in Mozambique, which continued unevenly for nearly 500 years, fueled by greed for gold, ivory, and, as was often the case in Africa, people to enslave.
Vilankulo, a coastal town of some 25,000 people, serves as the gateway to the Bazaruto Archipelago. Once I had cleared the immigrations at its diminutive airport, I was welcomed by Mario De Figueiredo, a bush pilot with a bright-red helicopter. Ferrying me between the mainland and Benguerra Island, De Figueiredo pointed out villages with circular houses made of local madjeka (thatch) and caniço (reed). I saw unpaved roads of sand among a rich, glossy vegetation of palms and fruit-laden trees, dunes, and clear-water lakes.
De Figueiredo’s upbringing coincided with the final years of Portuguese rule in Mozambique. It took the fall of dictator Antonio Salazar in 1968 for Portugal to begin to relinquish parts of Africa. In less than a year, three nations achieved independence — Guinea-Bissau in 1974 and Angola and Mozambique in 1975 — the latter at the hands of a Marxist-led freedom movement known as Frelimo. Describing the precariousness of that moment in his 1992 book “A Complicated War,” writer William Finnegan stated, “The illiteracy rate was over 90 percent. There were fewer than a thousand Black high school graduates in all of Mozambique.”
De Figueiredo left the country in 1974 at the age of 14, moving to Portugal as part of a mass exodus of Africans of European descent. Scarcely two years of peace ensued before the newly independent nation plunged into a 15-year civil war. It is hard to exaggerate how utterly wretched that conflict was, resulting in a million deaths and 4.5 million internally displaced persons. This poorest of countries was pitted with land mines and had a brutalized population of dislocados (dislocated peoples), mutilados (amputees), and bandidos armados (armed bandits).
Frelimo’s goal was to establish Africa’s first Black Marxist state in Mozambique and positioned itself as the first serious defiance of colonial authority in southern Africa. Neighboring apartheid regimes were deeply concerned about such a state on their borders, especially one that provided refuge to Nelson Mandela’s African National Congress. Consequently, Mozambique became embroiled in a hideous proxy war, one of the last great theaters of the Cold War. China and the Soviet Union supported the government against insurgents initially backed by Southern Rhodesia and later, following its transition to Zimbabwe in 1980, South Africa. It wasn’t until the end of the Cold War and the demise of apartheid that Mozambique could finally know a measure of peace.
That night at andBeyond Benguerra Island, the stars were upside down. The sky that James Joyce described as a “heaventree of humid nightblue fruit” revealed constellations — the Southern Cross, Hydra, and Carina — visible only south of the equator. I joined Michael Turek, the photographer for this article, and a handful of other guests by a fire on the beach before dinner, listening to De Figueiredo’s stories. Having been driven out of his homeland as a teenager, he longed to return. Twenty-four years later, amidst a midlife crisis, he came back to southern Africa, eventually training to be a pilot.
There were rumors of trouble up north again, prompting one of andBeyond’s resorts, near Vamizi, to close. When I asked De Figueiredo about the situation, he said, “It’s about money.” The discovery of rubies, gold, and natural gas was threatening Mozambique’s hard-won peace, yet here on the beach, in a country twice the size of California, the danger felt abstract and far away.
In the terrazzo-floored bar, a recording of André Marie Tala, that musical genius from Cameroon, was playing, evoking a heartbreaking optimism often associated with the early days of independence in the postcolonial world.
In Mozambique, I rediscovered my love of the sea. On the morning I met Tessa Hempson, principal scientist and program manager at the conservation organization Oceans Without Borders, I was still brimming with excitement after my first dive in 15 years. Having remembered the magical arts of equalizing, breathing, and achieving neutral buoyancy, I drifted over the seafloor, gazing at the coiled cerebral matter of brain coral and at orange harlequin fish darting in and out of stubby-fingered digitate coral. Leathery sea anemones, with their many tendrils, fanned beneath me, showcasing their striking purple interiors.
Farther along, chocolate dip damselfish were attending a strictly monochrome party. They flitted about in white tie and tails, up and over the gnarled basin of a plate coral, adhering to the rules of their fraternity. To scuba dive is to be the worst kind of gate-crasher — ill-attired, intrusive, full of a sense of entitlement. The sea creatures are icy in their disdain, even to ask you to leave is to acknowledge your bad manners.
Hempson, who describes herself as a “bush kid,” having grown up surrounded by wildlife, informed me she had spent her morning rolling hammerhead sharks onto their backs. I had heard that turning the creatures over lulled them into docility, but thought it was just folklore. Hempson confirmed the truth: “What is that called?” I asked. “A tonic state,” she replied, “like gin and tonic.” Once she has the sharks purring beneath her, she installs telemetric devices in their bellies.
Tracking apex predators, monitoring beach erosion, and recording soundscapes of the sea to capture everything from anthropogenic noise to whale song are integral parts of Hempson’s daily fieldwork. However, a more challenging aspect of her role involves instilling a love of the sea among local communities, who derive their protein from it, as well as wealthy patrons vacationing at resorts.
For Hempson, a lodge like andBeyond plays a critical role. On a human level, she explained, the resort is a pioneer on the island, contributing significantly to local infrastructure, including school and community center construction. Its innovative Hippo Water Rollers — plastic containers with handles — have simplified access to clean water. The company provides skills training and engages the community in conservation efforts and education.
On the environmental front, andBeyond, with its long lease in the archipelago, serves not merely as a jump-off point for Hempson’s fieldwork but has the potential to drive impact-driven luxury travel, which could influence policy at the highest levels. “To change behavior,” she noted, “you have to reach people on an emotional level.” Hempson’s work, conducted alongside the Africa Foundation, embodies what the United Nations terms “intersectoral collaboration,” crucial for sustainable development goals.
When I told Hempson I had seen a dugong that morning, its smooth, bowed body catching the sun, her enthusiasm was palpable. “That’s unbelievable,” she exclaimed. “It’s hard to explain to people how precious that is.” Before coming to Bazaruto, Hempson had only seen three dugongs, previously considered practically extinct, until about 50 of the creatures reappeared in the archipelago. “We did not think there were so many left on the entire African coast, let alone in one area.”
Kisawa! The name had acquired a certain allure long before I arrived at the spectacular new resort. Its cachet was such that guests at andBeyond’s Dhow Bar mentioned it in an awed hush. A Bulgarian lawyer spoke reverently of its vast 1,600-square-foot villas, wistfully dismissing the necessity for such opulence. A South African builder, discussing Bitcoin over beers, remarked to his wife regarding its $5,000-a-night price tag, “We can’t afford it, baby. We’re working-class!” The legendary status of Kisawa — which means “unbreakable” in Tswa, the island’s language — made my transfer there feel like moving to the Ritz.
Meanwhile, the island of Benguerra grew increasingly magical, reminiscent of Caliban’s isle, “full of noises, sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.” I was driven to Kisawa by the bandanna-clad Q (short for Querino) Lucas Huo, the marine, activities, and community liaison manager at the resort. Along the way, he paused to point out herds of sunis, antelopes no larger than whippets, gracefully moving through the shrubbery and glancing coyly in our direction. We passed trees heavy with macuacua and massala (monkey orange), from which islanders brew a local beer. Q made me sample the fruit, which tasted like an Asian mangosteen, pitted and wonderfully tart.
As Kisawa’s villas came into view, a low, bruised sky began to rain. “A blessing,” Q said. The villas, with long roofs crafted from serried madjeka, framed by a sea that fell back for acres in inviting bands of blue.
Describing Kisawa in tourist terminology would include mention of the butler assigned to each bungalow, the private pools, and the corridor of rooms divided by grand sliding doors draped in local matting, or esteira. I would discuss the long turmeric-colored sofas and the furniture sourced from across Africa, including redwood and rattan chairs from Cameroon, and bulb-shaped baskets from Nigeria. I could also highlight chef Joseph Moubayed and his skillful blending of flavors from his Lebanon, Senegal, and France backgrounds, creating dishes that left me guessing about their origins. Each evening at Kisawa held an enchanting atmosphere, as I drove through winding roads with shimmering sea views, illuminated pathways leading to glowing restaurants where Moubayed crafted fish pastels and curried lamb shank.
In the terrazzo-floored bar, with its porthole windows and beamed ceilings, the beautiful music of André Marie Tala played, evoking a poignant optimism reminiscent of the early postcolonial independence days.
To ask a new hotel to embody the nostalgic mood of the past is akin to asking a new house to feel lived-in. Yet Kisawa manages it effortlessly, encapsulating the chic appeal of the place. The resort was initiated by a key figure in London society: Nina Flohr, the VistaJet heiress, now the Princess of Greece and Denmark following her marriage to the youngest son of King Constantine. Flohr’s hands-on approach is visible throughout the resort, impacting Moubayed’s menus and decorative touches such as the thoughtfully curated record player and vinyl collection found in my room.
Flohr also oversees the Bazaruto Center for Scientific Studies, the marine research facility that Kisawa founded and continues to support. “Nina seeded it and pushed it,” said Mario Lebrato, the station manager and chief scientist at the BCSS, describing the archipelago as a marine “crossroads” and a migration hotspot for a variety of animals. The BCSS fosters conservation through data gathering, available to Mozambique’s Ministry of the Sea and local research initiatives. “We treat it as research,” Lebrato explained, holding a hydrophone he had used to record ocean soundscapes, “but it has conservation value.”
My experiences at Kisawa have already solidified their place as some of the happiest moments in my life. There was the day after a long dive during which I had seen blacktip reef sharks circling menacingly over the coral, sending a chill through the seafloor. Loggerhead turtles swam up into shafts of light filled with plankton. Later, enjoying a lavish bathroom the size of my apartment, filled with marine light, I felt the presence of dunes draped in purple morning glories. I was alone by the sea. This luxury was not something I had to think myself into; it radiated from the place itself, deeply resonating within me.
Mozambique is the only country to have a modern weapon on its flag. The sight of that AK-47 framed against a yellow star on a red background, outside a government office in Vilankulo, was a stark reminder of the terrible violence its people have endured. On my first full day in Mozambique, I spoke with Isac Paulo Nhamirre, a muscular man exuding the restrained demeanor of a soldier. He described his role as a liaison between hotels and resorts, the local community, and the government. He recounted being forced to join the army at 18 while on a lunch break, just as the war had begun.
“You stand up, you follow us,” they commanded. He vividly remembers them handing him documents to sign, stopping at his home to inform his parents he was joining the military. “That I wasn’t going back,” he recalled. “That this beautiful moment” — he had been in eighth grade, as the war forced him into school late — “was over.” Nhamirre, now 37, later served in Burundi. “It wasn’t a good place to be,” he reflected, recounting tales of child soldiers aged 12 and 13 who had been brainwashed into killing without a second thought. “It was horrible.”
At Sussurro, a boutique hotel on the mainland overlooking Govuro lagoon, around 55 miles north of Vilankulo, I dedicated my last morning discussing life with men who experienced the war. Sussurro embodies a spartan beauty — no Wi-Fi, no air-conditioning — with mosquito nets and long afternoons filled with reading. I had requested Nick Taylor, the hotel’s Zimbabwean manager, to facilitate a conversation with veterans of the war, driven by a desire to not lose sight of the lived experiences surrounding me amidst such captivating natural beauty. When he inquired about my writing’s theme, I realized that “fragility” was at the core.
This week in Mozambique had felt like a surfacing, restoration of curiosity and wonder.
The fragility of peace, both in Mozambique and globally, has been highlighted by the ongoing situation in Ukraine, which has taught us to appreciate it anew. Concurrently, there is environmental fragility, a delicate balance in the sea that individuals like Hempson and Lebrato fight hard to preserve. None of this would have registered with me had a different kind of fragility, linked to our lifestyle, not been shattered by the pandemic. We had assumed the momentum of modern life was irreversible, yet it proved more fragile than we ever realized.
The tide had retreated. In the space between ebb and flow lies a window of opportunity, enabling travel along the beach from Sussurro to Vilankulo airport. Soon, we were racing over the wet sand in a blue Mazda pickup truck. The sea lay to my left, an embankment of red earth to my right, punctuated by frayed palms, fishing nets, and weathered boat remnants.
The sea reminds us of our fundamental need to breathe. The dugong can remain submerged for a time, but its mammalian nature compels it eventually to surface for air. This week in Mozambique had represented a surfacing of curiosity and wonder. Its absence ill-taught me the value of continuous exploration and adventure — of sloughing off the pandemic’s fears and reclaiming my breath.
Where to Stay
andBeyond Benguerra Island: Situated inside Bazaruto Archipelago National Park, honeymoon-perfect villas await—but the real attractions are the wildlife experts, scuba-diving adventures, and dhow sailing.
Kisawa: This resort on Benguerra Island showcases award-winning design, constructed using sustainable materials like woven native grasses. Each bungalow sits on its own private acre, has its own pool, and includes a butler.
Sussurro: This boutique property, having opened in 2021 on the mainland’s Nhamabue Peninsula, operates on renewable energy while supporting local fishing and farming communities.
