Ten Feet Deep

A typical day in Chibuene

Yesterday afternoon, I stood on the warm white sands of the south beach of Chibuene, gazing up at thousands of years of history. This history presents itself on the beach cliffside in the form of a shell midden, a solid wall of shucked oyster shells built up ten feet deep over decades and decades of fishing communities working and living on the seaside.

This shell midden was discovered to be of great historical import fairly recently, and in the 1970s an archeological team came to investigate what treasures there might be hidden in this heap of shells.

This part of the Mozambican coast has in fact been a large port of trade since the 7th century, a time when traders from Arab countries came to exchange such things as silks, pottery, and beads. There was also, further in the future, a bustling trade out of Mozambique of ivory and slaves. The archeologists found evidence of trade from all time periods, from glass beads and pottery shards to bits of gold and even, remarkably, an ancient Roman sword.

Legacies from this trading history can be seen daily in the dhows – the traditional sailing boats – and the baobab trees dotting the coast, the fruits of which provide nearly three times as much vitamin C as oranges and were used to prevent scurvy on the long sea voyages. These trees fruit only once a year and their flowers open at night, have a life cycle of a single day, and are pollinated by bats.

One of the coastal baobabs, featuring Jay and Tsano (the dog).

Dhows at sunrise.

Now, the beach is mainly used for fishing and enjoyment, and I walk nearly every day through the clear warm water with the dogs in tow.

Sometimes, the sea and the sky blur together into one big blue haze. Here, Wolf sprints to the horizon.

Reba by a small sailing vessel of questionable seaworthiness.

Yesterday was of interest not only because of my usual contemplation of historical beach sightings, but also because of a rare show put on that night.

The subject of the show came up as I was sitting today with Mandy, Jay’s mother, and Rachel, his sister-in-law, in the new house that Rachel and Jay’s brother Paul have just finished renovating. The house is sparkling, with brand new paintings, hardwood details on the furniture, and freshly sewn couch covers and pillows in preparation for some horse clients coming to stay. As we were sitting on the pristine couch, Mandy turned to us and said,

“Last night we heard drums, such loud drumming, late at night. Pat and I were lying in bed in the darkness when the drumbeats began. I got such a fright because that’s how the war vets used to arrive, with the drums. I said, ‘Pat, listen! It’s like the war vets!’”

Mandy and Pat, Jay’s parents, moved to Mozambique with 104 horses when their farm was taken in Zimbabwe in the early 2000s. This is a story of displacement shared by many Zimbabweans who live in Vilankulo, and Rachel and I nodded as Mandy explained her initial reaction to the drumbeats.

“No,” Pat had replied, “that’s a religious group. They’re drumming on the beach.”

“Pat, why on earth would a religious group be drumming on the beach in the darkness so late at night?! And besides, it’s high tide! They’d have nowhere dry to stand.” Mandy had been incredulous, she told us. We couldn’t help but laugh - it did sound a little ridiculous.

“Actually,” I said, “that was your neighbor. He invited us all over last night for a traditional dance show for his sister, who is flying back to South Africa today.”

“Oh! How wonderful! Pat and I just couldn’t agree on what it could be, and now you’ve solved it.”

Jay and I had been with Paul, Rachel, and their daughters the night before when we heard the drumming and walked next door to see what was going on. I had filmed a bit of the show, and showed Mandy the footage.

It’s rather dark and grainy, but here are the traditional dancers preparing to play musical chairs.

We were watching the loud video together, and it was the sound of slightly tinny recorded drumming which conveniently covered up the heaving of little Charlie the Yorkshire Terrier vomiting onto the brand-new navy-blue couch. We were all glued to the screen and only noticed the disaster when Rachel’s younger daughter G said bluntly:

“Charlie vomited.”

The phone went flying as Mandy called frantically for Sidalia to come with a rag before the sad pile soaked into the cloth but, with the commotion of Charlie whimpering, G enthusiastically re-enacting the vomiting, Rachel and I expressing horror, and the continued drumbeats from the discarded phone, there was a translational error and a wet rag full of bleach was accidentally applied to the dark fabric.

As I watched what had been a peaceful afternoon just moments before descend into mild chaos, I reflected that this had indeed been a typical day in Chibuene.