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I have been to Vilanculos a couple of times before. Although I have never spent more than half an hour here before being driven from the airport to a small harbour, and then roaring off to one of the islands in the Bazaruto Archipelago in a high-powered motorboat.

We decided to spend a few days in Vilanculos this time. An internet search revealed Luke’s Place as the best fit in terms of budget, online reviews and the relaxed atmosphere created by its hosts. Our hostess, Linda collected us from a tiny airport devoid of customs officials. Her greeting included a friendly hug for each of us. This was a sign of things to come.

It was twenty-seven degrees and sunny. “Winter” here appears to be short for temperate and without humidity, although the wind gets up in the afternoons to encourage the kite surfers. The municipality has opted mainly for dirt roads in this town. Perhaps this was a pragmatic decision to avoid the pitfalls of potholes.

The roads are not designed for high- speed motoring.

Pedestrians and stray dogs wander into the streets unexpectedly. This lackadaisical interpretation of the street code is not as perilous as it may seem though as motorists drive carefully and without hurry. Time is not of the essence in Vilanculos. There is very little of the parade ground insistence on urgency and punctuality that one experiences in the developed world.

For example, one would not expect a local duelist to arrive for his appointment promptly at dawn. He is likely to wander up around an hour later, having spent time along the way chatting with fellow villagers or perhaps sleeping off the night before under a palm tree.

I noticed a carpenter laid out on his workbench like a cadaver at ten o’clock on a Monday morning while I strolled on the beach. He was fast asleep. It must have been a tiring weekend.

I have digressed. Back to the village.

The houses next to the road are constructed of sunburned grey wood or unpainted breeze block and thatched with greying jekkah reeds. The thatch hangs off the edge of the rooves like a new romantic hairstyle. Gardens are sand pits
dotted intermittently with palm trees and not so much an afterthought as never considered.

I didn’t see any signs for horticulture experts or nurseries. I didn’t notice many of the usual Southern African brands on the high street either. Entrepreneurs sowed wax print, cut hair or cooked food in small shops with fronts devoid of garish commercial signage. People on the streets appeared happy and relaxed. There was a preponderance of leaning and many hands were draped on the shoulders of friends.

Arriving at Luke’s Place is discovering an Oasis after the monotony of beach sand and grey breeze block.

Although Luke was nowhere to be found, his place had been acquired by Linda and Louis some time back. A plantation of palm trees waved and swished above a verdant lawn edged by ordered flower beds in which sub-tropical plants span the palette from burgundy and purples to shades of green. An azure swimming pool sits next to a comfortable braai area.  Brightly coloured dhows are moored in the bay which sparkles beyond the hedge.

We were billeted in two comfortable wooden rooms thatched with fresh jekkah. They sported the ubiquitous village hairstyle. I am not sure if the style is Balinese or local – I have never been to Bali. The rooms are set comfortably apart from the main house which is a handsome white double story with large wooden windows and provides a pleasing backdrop.

All the typical self-catering amenities were provided and there was more room than one usually finds in quarters that combine sleeping, cooking, eating, and living. However, it was when I climbed between the curtains of a mosquito net and settled onto one of the comfortable beds that the true quality of this accommodation was revealed.

The view past the pages of my book through open French doors was of green grass and palm trees, beach and then sea with the odd triangular dhow sail easing past. The soundtrack was the somnolent swishing of the trade winds through the palms above that should be recorded and sold immediately to applications for insomniacs in colder more stressful places.

I imagine that playing the role of host in self-catering accommodation must be a difficult one given how different we all are, and the uncomfortableness associated with people you don’t know suddenly living within close proximity of you. Dealing with a pair of ravenous honeymooners, for example, must be entirely different to parents with young children or retired baby boomers.

Linda executes this game with the finesse of a bridge master with a tricky hand of trumps. We were treated like her prodigal family. She drove us to the shop to buy supplies. A fishmonger was summoned to the house and soon we were knee-deep in fresh fish, prawns the size of a baby’s arm, and a crayfish.

Dito shimmied up the palm trees to cut down some coconuts, cooked up some motapa or puttered off to the baker to get us pau for lunch. The braai was lit by five pm each evening and ice and water were replenished regularly.

We returned from the village market or the beach to spotless rooms and crisply made beds. Linda even offered for us to use her car to drive to a beach bar on the other side of town. When we refused, she drove us herself. It was important to her that we got to watch the Springboks down the Wallabies at Loftus Versveldt.

One doesn’t need to stay on one of the islands in the archipelago to snorkel, fish or scuba. These are just as easily accessed from Vilanculos itself. We were introduced to a Kiwi called Kerry from Sailaway and the next morning we were climbing aboard a large purple dhow headed for Margaruque.

I was initially concerned by the prospect of placing the lives of my three kids under ten in the hands of skipper Alphonso. I was also alarmed to find a fire burning in a sandbox in the middle of the boat on which a bubbling teapot was perched. However, this anxiety soon wore off as we were piloted through the dark blue channels of the sea towards the island with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit in our hands while Miguel the cook sliced onions, garlic and peppers for the base of a calamari curry.

The kids trailed sticks in the water and lent into the new experience while we discussed the benefits of authentic travel over the gleaming white two-engine beasts that roared past us or the helicopters that thundered periodically overhead.

All of them taking part in a race that doesn’t exist here.