Another journey begins with an early morning walk down to the embarkation beach in Angoche. Boat owners ply their trade from this particular point, acting as ferries to the islands taking all manner of goods and also a wide variety of passengers. On the “dock” a few vendors will sell you some bread for your journey or offer you a cup of hot dark liquid euphemistically described as coffee. Also available are an assortment of small fish and prawns, heaped in small piles on some sacking. A policeman wanders through the crowd, keeping a somewhat disinterested eye on proceedings and hopeful owners approach us asking where we want to go.

Our boat has been pre-arranged by Xavier, an unusually tall Koti man of about 25 years who often wears a Muslim hat on top of a wide grin. For him Portuguese is a second language and when I try to communicate often a look of bewilderment and hopelessness crosses his face as he furtively searches for others who may be able to comprehend my mutterings. The arrangement was to depart at 6.30am but at 7.00am Xavier briefly appears and announces he needs to go and fetch something quickly before we can leave. Our captain hovers around, bringing his boat closer in and comes in search of his passengers. Our group swells and is joined by a large cake with white and blue icing, protected with an embroidered tablecloth.

Whilst waiting for the return of Xavier we are kept amused by the jostling of boats and passengers and an incident which evokes a chorus of shouts from the assembled crowd. One of the larger boats appears almost ready to depart, trying to obtain a few final passengers. The large triangular shaped sail made from many pieces of tired cloth sourced from a range of fabrics has been unfurled and the boat jockeys in the slight winds. Unfortunately one of the smaller adjacent boats has not unfurled its sail and the main spa makes a hole right through the adjoining boat’s sail. This generates a lot of shouted advice and gesticulation which quickly results in a small hole becoming a very large tear. Eventually the two boats are disengaged from each other and the sail is dropped so repairs can be effected. The owner goes to work with needle and thread whilst the passengers remain in the boat and after about 30 minutes they are ready to depart.

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Meanwhile Xavier has returned with what looks like a few saucepans so we are able to climb a short ladder in to the boat. The cake is carefully positioned on the lap of one of the young ladies and we slowly make our way out towards Nyaluki. The winds are slight so a long pole is used for punting and an oar is roped to a peg for some purchase, with Xavier having to stand in order to get the blade entering the water. At one point we run aground on a sand bar but manage to work our way off. Eventually we land on the island where a small stream emerges from between some mango trees. So our party disembarks and paddles up this rather dirty black stream clutching skirts, cake, saucepans and flip-flops. After a 5 minute waddle we cut through between the coconut palms and arrive in the village at about 10.00am. 

In between a small group of huts a temporary shelter made from timber and palm leaves has been erected. This comprises about 17 poles supporting a framework carrying a mixture of roofing materials which includes palm leaves, a large bright green tarpaulin and a floor mat. We are seated on a similar selection of materials and patiently wait for proceeding to commence. By this time I wonder if the reader has established that the event we are attending is a wedding of 8 couples of various ages from 23 years up to something over 40 (too rude to ask for precise numbers). All the brides are attired in bright fabrics called capalanas whilst the grooms are trying to look suitably cool in more western attire such as jeans, football shirts and even a pair of white corduroy trousers accompanied by black suede shoes. It’s decided that those to be betrothed will form a small procession so they assemble a few metres away and accompanied by singing do the African version of American line dancing and move under the “pergola”. They are seated at the front of the assembly on a range of timber benches and white plastic chairs which seem to be almost as ubiquitous around the world as coca-cola. The cake is given pride of place in front of the prospective partners still covered with the table cloth which is now taking on a blue hue as the colour from the icing perspires into the covering, after all it is now about 11.30 and the temperature is in the high twenties.

From my experience of previous African weddings I am concerned that we could be here an extremely long time. A succession of speakers addresses the couples and the crowd and the master of ceremonies comes over and asks if I will “bring a word of encouragement”. Is this to say to the men “don’t worry, it’s not a life sentence” or to the ladies “don’t worry, you’ll also look wrinkled when you get old”? But no ……on a more serious note it is an opportunity for me to try and communicate what God wants to say to these folk as they make their public commitments to each other. A number of them have been partners for awhile, but have come to a place where they want to dedicate themselves uniquely to each other, and in front of God, an extremely counter-cultural view of such relationships in this society.

 So each little ceremony starts with each couple and two friends weaving their hands together to hold a bible in front of them whilst they make their vows to each other and receive prayer. The cake is then cut and the groom feeds his new wife with a mouthful of cake, and to shrieks of joy and laughter wipes her mouth and face clean with a small cloth. This favour is then reciprocated and to more loud shrieks they give each other a kiss and then stand in front of everyone with lovely grins on their faces whilst people come forward and throw money on a capalana which has been laid at their feet. This is all supplemented with lots of singing, smiles and laughter. The 8 mini services go quite quickly so at about 2.30pm the new couples and honoured guests are invited into a nearby shack. We all sit on the floor with our backs against the walls made from a lattice of sticks. This allows some breeze to filter through and the grass roof keeps off the sun, so it’s really quite pleasant inside. One of the men starts opening some fresh coconuts so we each have a refreshing drink of what I would describe as a clear isotonic pick-me-up and then attack the white flesh with available implements (I use my pen-knife). Lunch is served from aluminium saucepans, accompanied by many large washing-up bowls full to overflowing with rice on to plastic or enamel plates and most of us are given a dessert spoon, otherwise it means using your hands to scoop up the rice and a bean, onion, potato and chicken sauce (ingredients listed in order of quantity). We finish off our coconuts with the dessert spoons, and are then all given a piece of the wedding cake which tastes really good. Finally we assemble outside for a group photo and then make out way back towards the stream.

The tide has now come in so the stream has been consumed by the sea. Numerous mangroves project through the seawater and our 7m long boat has returned and been punted into the shallows so that again with the help of a small ladder we can make our way on board. We punt and paddle our way back to open water, but before the mainsail can be unfurled it gets caught in one of the afore mentioned mangroves. We can hear tearing fabric and note that what can be seen of the sail resembles a colander. Our captain seeks to extricate us from the tree which has now entangled the sail and some of the associated sheets (nautical term for rope just to keep land-lubbers confused). He shins himself out on the bow sprit (pointy bit of stick at the front) and nearly manages to fall in, but by breaking off a few branches frees us from the clutches of the somewhat innocuous and unhealthy looking tree. Our return journey as usual is much faster with wind and tide in our favour so we land back in Angoche at about 5.00pm, and make our way home via the bread shop picking up some white rolls for our tea.

It’s been another very African day, and what a privilege to be a part of these people’s lives with a chance on this occasion to share in their joy. As we sail back towards Angoche I realise again what a beautiful place this is and that I need to take time again to soak in the wonder of our time in this remote location. I reflect that just a few islands north of us people pay $500 per night to stay in an exclusive boutique hotel, but probably will never get the opportunity to become friends with these lovely Koti people.