Medical Update. Two Weeks at Inhassoro in 2003.
Yes, I know I have not given a medical update for the past month. As someone, in fact, Selby Black, wrote in a private message to me, “I presume no news is good news on that front.” And yes, this is true, as it is now ten days since my last severe bout of pain, and I have had every part of my body I can cross, hoping it remains so. I have been on FOD-MAP for a month now, and things have gradually gotten better, although with the introduction of yoghurt over this past weekend I have had serious flatulence, so I will drop it out of my diet once again. My instructions are to gradually bring back those foods outside the low-FODMAP diet, one at a time, and include only those I am tolerant of in my diet. I am still losing weight and am now at the same weight I was in the army some fifty years ago.
We, the royal we, can only presume this whole issue with my stomach is somehow related to the multiple surgeries I have had on my stomach, including the removal of some two metres of intestine. My doctor and gastro-specialist both said last week, after a visit, I do not have to see them until after I see my stomach surgeon in November unless something serious arises before then. Imagine four months without visiting a hospital or clinic; would it not be magic? I have started doing limited walking and even some light gardening. I should, however, say I will probably see my urologist before then to review the efficiency of my ATOM incontinence aid, and hopefully they will adjust it. We are even planning to go with my daughter Storm and her long-time fiancé Duncan to Cascia in September, something I found hard to contemplate a month ago. By November, I will have my 77th birthday; goodness me, I am old. Oh shit!! Pain returned on Wednesday and Thursday, but at least, while very uncomfortable, it was manageable.
“I am sure it is the same for many. I have found that the challenges we face after retirement are among the largest in life. Rozanne, my wife, has shown me how important it is, at this stage of your life, to have someone there to offer support and companionship. Unfortunately, in the selfish pursuits of our earlier lives, we are unaware of this future need.” - Peter McSporran
Getting back to our Mozambique holiday trip in 2003, as I mentioned, after leaving Rio Savane we met up with our friends and neighbours at Inchope, before heading south to Inhassoro and the Bazaruto Archipelago. At that time there was a wary peace between the warring factions in Mozambique, Renamo and Frelimo, but the signs of war were still evident with burnt-out vehicles, both military and civil, along with a warning not to leave the main roads for fear of the thousands of land and antipersonnel mines still in place, many translocated by the recent floods. The roads were also damaged, no less so by the severe floods of 2000, with many still requiring repairs. In fact, they say in the area we were heading for, at its peak, that 100,000 hectares had been inundated by water. We obviously did not encounter the floods, but much of the damage to infrastructure was still evident. Later that day we were to arrive at Inhassoro, our holiday home for the next few weeks. Our accommodation belonged to a syndicate that included our hosts, the Greens, through Roseanne Green’s family, the Reids of Bindura, the Vermaaks, and my brother-in-law, Rob Cary, who by then had cleverly moved to Australia. I think my partner Chris Thorne also had a share, although he rarely went there. Chris was more of a hunter than a fisherman. In recent years, before the land invasions, Inhassoro had become the holiday choice of many Zimbabwean farmers and businessmen, especially those who enjoyed deep-sea fishing and also offered their families wonderful beach holidays with an abundance of seafood, a rare treat in landlocked Zimbabwe. It was also much cheaper than the crowded resorts of South Africa and Mauritius, the most common alternatives. Many of these adventurers had purchased land, and generally, except for the very wealthy, had built rudimentary homes. In fact, since the land invasion, a surprising number of Zimbabweans had made it home, mostly providing services to those with holiday properties. The lodge we were staying at had a similar configuration to most: a central building which included the kitchen, a dining/partying verandah and in this case, three A-frame buildings as sleeping facilities. Rozanne and I, along with Tinks Bezuidenhout, took the upstairs sleeping area in the main building while the Greens, Vermaaks and Whaleys all had their own A-frames. This meant that our times of sleep were governed by when the drinking finished each evening, or rather morning.
On that first trip, despite having beach fishing gear, we did little fishing and instead explored the area, with trips on Phil’s rather small catamaran out to Santa Carolina (Paradise Island), which I had visited previously, way back, from my fishing trip to Mararaque in 1987. We also, one day, hired a dhow, at the romantic request of the female members, to visit the island by sail. It was disconcerting, I must say, when the crew built a fire in the middle of the wooden vessel to cook their midday meal. Mind you, it leaked enough to keep everything in the bilge, including our feet underwater, the fire being built on some bricks above this, as excess was bailed out with old paint cans. In any event, due to poor winds that day, we arrived there just in time to almost start the return journey after the briefest of walks around the island and a short snorkelling session in the fish-abundant coral reefs. Luckily, we had enough beers and cold jugs filled with soapies (lemon barley and vodka) to sustain us throughout the trip.
We had two favourite watering holes in Inhassoro: the Seta Hotel, renowned for its piri-piri chicken, and Johnson’s beach bar, where the best prawns in Mozambique were cooked fresh on the braai. The other favourite spot, which became nearly a daily ritual, was to drive up the forty-odd kilometres of beautiful vacant beach, with only a few local fishermen to be seen, to Bartholomew Diaz (BD) Point, where we would cook prawns and fish purchased on our way and do our usual ritual of drinking and swimming, taking care to check the tide.
You could only use the beach in ebbing tides and for a short while during the rising tide, so the tides very much dictated the time and extent of our visits. At that time, there was one lodge on the other side of the peninsula, unlike now, as there are a number. There were also still mangroves on the point, although in the inner lagoon there remain plenty even today. It was also a source of the largest mud crabs, similar to Rio Savane, which we also purchased and, in doing so, one day caused a rift among the womenfolk. It came about one morning as Wendy Whaley, rather than go with us, for a change would cook a nice meat, I think stew rather than fish, for us that evening. She insisted on doing this despite our pleas for her to join us; from experience in Kariba, it is never good to make firm plans on white Zimbabweans' holidays. I remember many a day the boys left the girls to prepare dinner on the Shenga, our houseboat, while they just went off for a quick drink on Spurwing or at Tiger Bay. Things can change and be forgotten as the day moves on, with the consumption of alcohol being part of the problem. We sure enough, after a heavy day at BD, and the purchase of a whack of mud crabs for dinner, by now forgetting Wendy was cooking supper back at the lodge, stopped at the Seta for an extended beer or two on the way home, arriving to happily inform her we had bought crab for supper and she could save her stew for another day.
Well, that went down like a lead balloon, and although perhaps we men were the cause, some of the stronger women amongst us decided she should not dictate what we ate despite her afternoon slaving over the cooker. It was unfortunate, as Joe and Wendy were leaving the next day, and it left a rather sour note for them to depart. Although reconciliation took place at a later day and the event is now long forgotten by most, I am sure. Tinks was going back with them and Sally Sandeman, who had been spending time with her sister, Jane Crossman, and her girls at their timeshare at the Archipelago Resort in Vilankulos. All was going well in their preparations to leave early the next morning until Tinks remembered she would need her passport at the border and could not, as one does, recall where she had hidden it for safety during her stay. After an hour of all of us vainly searching, and only after stripping all the beds, we found it. She had not just hidden it under the mattress but also under the folds of the sheets. For ourselves, a few days later, we returned home the same way we had come, thinking it would be stupid to present our scrap of paper for the import clearance of our vehicle at any other border post than the one that had issued it. We did the 1,500 kilometre journey home in one day, giving the night stop in Tete a miss. Funnily enough, I ran a goat over with my Land Rover on that trip. The only time I had seen a goat die on the roads of Africa where dead sheep, cattle, cats, pigs and dogs are a common sight. Goats are generally too smart to be run over by a car.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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