I started as a simple desire to retreat from many days of work and decompress by the sea. It was for only two days…no problemo. Yesterday, as I was making my way back to the B&B, I saw a mighty Q400 takeoff on it’s early morning pass through town, only it wasn’t so early. It was 4hrs late. The plane was suppose to return again for the flight to Maputo. Airplane no returno. Again, no problemo, another night in Vilankulos. “There will be airplane tomorrow at 2pm to Maputo…special flight”, the station agent texted back. OK…not so bad. Again, today no airplano. Passengers had been waiting for days to leave. They began to yell at me because they saw my airline badge. No official word from the Airline to anyone in 48hrs. Station agents had no idea what year the plane would come. FUBAR! I called and texted every key person I could to try and get info to the passengers. “Filah de puta”, (Portuguese swear word) I thought to myself. A Mozambique CARE executive was thinking the same thing as we both discovered we would be spending another night in Vilankulos and there were no rooms available in town. His people pulled some strings and found a room with two twin beds. We will share a room tonight and then drive 9hrs to Maputo tomorrow. As it turns out he is a big cheese for CARE in Mozambique. Out of the 6 languages he speaks, English is one of them. Lucky me. My AIDS education begins tomorrow morning at 5am.
Patrick and Mandy Retzlaff lived in Zimbabwe.They farmed and had horses.Their neighbors did the same.In 2001, Mugabe’s policies made them victims of land claim violence.This decimated Zimbabwe’s farming communities.With oftentimes violent means, farms were taken over and destroyed.Pat and Mandy were forced to leave.They saved their horses and many others in the area…over 100 in total.
Their story is one of dedication and perseverance in the face of very challenging situations and countless obstacles.I had a chance to learn about the “Horses of Mozambique” from their son Jon who was visiting from Gorangosa, and from Sara, a horsewoman from London who had volunteered her time and money to be a part.
This is their story from a Christian Science Monitor Article:
Vilanculos, Mozambique
The horse’s name is Viper. Which is enough, really, to make an inexperienced rider a bit nervous.Mandy Retzlaff laughs at the idea and hands over the reins. “Oh, you’ll be fine,” she says, and gives a wink and a smile that can be either reassuring or devilish.Viper snorts. “Just let him know you’re taking charge,” instructs Mandy.
Easy for her to say. This is a woman who, with her husband, ferried 100 horses hundreds of miles through Zimbabwe’s worst political turmoil. And that was after they’d saved the horses from violent land invaders by sneaking into the farms where the horses were stranded. In short, Mandy seems to have a particular knack for taking charge, bucking and kicking notwithstanding.
She and her husband, Pat Retzlaff, were farmers in Zimbabwe when, in 2000, President Robert Mugabe encouraged the violent takeover of white-owned property. They were evicted – from six different farms, actually – and their savings disappeared with their country’s skyrocketing inflation (now estimated at more than 11 million percent).
But after an epic effort to save the farm horses – and themselves – they’re turning the experience into a new livelihood in a new homeland. They saddle up the horses they saved for equestrian-minded tourists visiting this Indian Ocean beach town.
Mandy glares at Viper, who still seems displeased with his clumsy load. She hands a lead to Dhuvai Musekwa, another Zimbabwean who fled, and who recently found work with the Retzlaffs’ Mozambique Horse Safaris. He keeps Viper in line during the walk along Vilanculos’ palm-tree lined beach and saves money to send to his wife and child in Zimbabwe.“Don’t be afraid,” he says to the rider. “You get used to horse quickly.”
It’s hard for Pat Retzlaff to find words to explain why he needed to take the horses.For him it was obvious, something that stretches back to his great-grandfather’s work with Olympic horses in Germany, before Hitler’s rise to power forced the family to flee to East Africa and a life of farming and riding. (A photograph of his ancestors with their prize-winning horses is one of the Pat’s only remaining possessions from Zimbabwe – he found it in a field after their house had been looted.)
“We’re animal lovers,” he says softly, and then glances at his wife’s challenging expression. “Well, Mandy not so much,” he adds, with a barely hidden smile. “I’m an animal lover. I’ve ridden all my life; I have a degree in animal sciences. And once you’ve owned a horse and have looked after it – well, it’s worse [to lose] than a pet, worse than a dog.”
“Pat has dedicated his life to these horses,” Mandy says. “They’ve become such a part of the family. It’s unimaginable that they wouldn’t eat.” She sighs. “We must be absolutely mad.”
When the land takeovers started in 2000, most white-owned Zimbabwean farms had at least three or four horses. As farmers fled threats of violence against them and their workers, many shot their horses, not wanting to leave them to starvation or abuse. Vets also traveled around the country, putting the animals down in a wave of mercy killings.
Although humane societies and horse rescue groups found homes in England and South Africa for many thoroughbred and racing horses, the farm animals seemed forgotten.
But when the Retzlaffs were given four hours to leave the farm that they’d lived on for decades, they decided to take their horses, as well their neighbor’s, when they fled. They grazed the animals on other farms, in back yards, even a private school’s cricket grounds. Soon, other farmers were bringing them horses, or telling them where to find animals to rescue.
“What Mandy and Pat have done is phenomenal,” says Moyra Charters, another former Zimbabwean farmer. “They couldn’t just walk away.”
Pat says he would go to farms that had been invaded and – sometimes stealthily at night, with the guidance of other former landowners – take the horses, which were often seen as useless by the new residents. (Most invaded farms went to Mugabe cronies rather than experienced black farm workers.) Almost all the horses he took had been corralled for days without food or water, he says. One that he saved had a spear in its side. Another had a hoof chopped off.
As the family tried to figure out what to do next, Pat spoke with an acquaintance who was developing property along the Mozambican coast and suggested Retzlaff bring the horses for riding safaris and beach walks. There was no existing horse culture in Mozambique, so there was a business niche to be filled. Moreover, the move would mean living on the breathtaking coast where they’d both vacationed as children.
“And really,” Pat says, “We had nothing else to do.”
• • •
It took three years to move the horses into Mozambique. Every time they went to the border, if they had even a single bale of hay for the horses to eat, they’d be turned back for trying to bring agricultural produce out of the country. But eventually, they managed to cross into Mozambique with the remnants of their old life – a bag of clothes, an album of family photos collected from friends, and their animals: farm dogs and more than 100 horses.
But the developer who’d suggested the move wasn’t yet ready for the horses. So the Retzlaffs set up shop not far from the border in a Mozambican town called Chimoio, where dozens of Zimbabwean farmers were starting to grow paprika and tobacco. They started a riding school. But when the Chimoio agricultural schemes started to flop, and most of the Zimbabweans moved on, the Retzlaffs knew that they needed to move as well.
So the Retzlaffs moved again, into a hurricane-damaged house behind a patch of mangrove and palms near Vilanculos. “I showed up here with 10 horses and not a penny in my pocket,” Pat says.
“And then we had the cyclone,” he says of cyclone Favio that hit the coast of Mozambique in early 2007 and all but ended tourism for months. The Retzlaffs say their neighbors helped them survive. Then, three months later, they had their first horse safari customer.
• • •
It is 6:30 a.m., and the sun is already strong across the Indian Ocean. The Retzlaffs, two volunteers from the United Kingdom, and a handful of Zimbabwean workers are getting the horses ready for a ride.It’s not simple: Horses need to be fed, groomed, and saddled before carrying tourists.
There’s nowhere to buy reins, bits, or saddle cinches in Mozambique, so Pat has fixed or made everything himself. In the evening, the Retzlaffs graze the horses and cut grass for them to eat. There’s no horse feed in Mozambique (and no cobbling or horse veterinary services).
After their slow start, they now have regular bookings. But it’s still hand-to-mouth.
“I used to have a wardrobe and shoes that I used to change into every day,” Mandy says, adjusting a pile of stirrups hanging from a wall. “Now I am bathing in a plastic bucket. But I guess you could have a much worse life. To wake up each morning and look at that bay,” she says, keeps her going.
Sometimes they worry about the future: with three grown children working elsewhere, the Retzlaffs worry that there’s no one to take over in the future.
“We’re here all the time for them,” Mandy says of the horses. “But you know, you get exceptionally fond of them. They’re family.
By Stephanie Hanes | Correspondent / September 11, 2008 edition
Christian Science Monitor
Donations and information can be found at:
http://www.mozambiquehorsesafari.com/
or
http://www.mandyretzlaff.com/
Andrew and his family headed for home on Feb. 10. I had several days off so I headed back to the Vilankulo to spend more time around the shallow waters of the Bazarutto Archipelago. Some good fish, snorkling, and hanging out sailing Dhows. It's like I just removed the fork from my eye. One of the two LAM Q400's has been down for a maintenance issue so they canceled my flight back to Maputo this afternoon. I just might have to hang here for a while. Bummer! More to come...
Phil or Andrew:“It shows on the chart there is suppose to be a VOR at the airfield.”
Local pilot:“It’s not there.”
P or A:You mean it’s out of service?”
Local pilot:“Yes Captain, it’s gone.VOR stolen.”
P or A:“Stolen?Who would steal a Navaid?”
Local Pilot:“Rebels.”
P or A:“Oh…yea, Rebels.How long has it been gone?”
Local Pilot:“Nine years.”
P or A:“But your chart is dated…nevermind.”
Aeroporto Ops After Official Sunset
P or A:“Looks like the Aeroporto lost power again. (Absolute darkness, terminal, runways, taxiways, only Southern Cross visible).
Agent:“We board now Captain?”
P or A:Will passengers be able to find the plane?I can’t see anything.Let’s wait until the lights come on.”
Agent:“We send passengers now with flashlight.”
P or A:“Great…we will proceed with shadow puppet operations until we can go.”
FO:“I get clearance now Captain.”
P or A:“Check their radios first, see if they even work.Also, ask if they have generator back up for runway lights.”
FO:“When should I ask Captain?”
P or A:“Now.”
FO:“I ask now Captain?”
P or A:“Yes, that would be nice.”
FO:“Their radio works.They say no lighting.I think OK we should go.”
P or A:“In our books at home it says we can’t depart at night without runway lights.There are reasons for this…like staying on the runway.What is your Co. policy here?”
FO:“I think it says same thing but OK go no problem.”
Under a grass roof and cinder walls a young girl is crying.A dirt stained pink dress clings to her soaked skin.It is raining so hard it’s like thunder.
A river of water flows through the muddy floor from the rain.Outside the wall, wide trenches in the earth are being cut from these brown torrents.
Across the street guards sit by the gate of a large three story home.Razor wire lines the upper edge of the wall.A light is on in an upstairs bedroom.Two kids are throwing pillows at each other and their mother is laughing.In the garden, red and white flowers are bent over as if in prayer to the falling water.
Inside myself I know which is more comfortable but I always seem to struggle for its meaning.
In the city there’s a new mall.Inside are small shops of design, electronics, clothing, and neon. The air is cool the moment you enter through the large glass doors.Most of the stores have no patrons.They are empty except for the single person on a stool who waits all day for a customer.
Outside the mall on the sidewalk people try to sell anything they have.Empty coke bottles, rims and tires, and a window wash.The expensive cars pass through the confused maze of commerce, their windows rolled up tight and eyes locked forward to the protective gate of the mall parking area.Inside the gates you will not be approached.
Many days when I arrive at the Aeroporto I am met by a teenage boy as soon as I step out of the van.He is deaf and his left leg drags and swings from a physical handicap.His eyes never seem to focus on anything.When his hands are outstretched, hoping for an offer of meticals, I can see his contorted wrist and curled fingers.He seems to find me when I go to work and often when I return.I wonder where he sleeps.Do people give him enough money to eat?
I watch people push him away so he doesn’t interfere with Aeroporto business.Being pushed doesn’t seem to bother him.One afternoon he stared at me from outside the glass window of the airline office.I stared back at him and considered the difference between our lives. I concluded that by some weird chance I’m on this side of the wall and he’s on the other, like the unpredictability of lightning…it just goes where it goes.
It would seem that the these two worlds, the people who have and the one’s that don’t, are like warring neighbors that share a common wall or co-actors in a strange play, one never strays too far from the other. Seemingly these opposites need each other to exist.It makes me wonder if without poverty would there be prosperity, or without ignorance would there be people who dedicate their lives to help others learn, and without apathy would there be any need to care.
I have yet to be called by my first name since I arrived. I'm always addressed as "Captain. Captain...Captain...Captain." On occasion I'm called Captain Phil. It's pronounced as "Captain Feel." That may work here in Mozambique but I'll have to lose it before returning home. Back home "Captain Feel" means...well...one could only guess. So I will study my documents when I come home to help me remember my first name. I don't want my head turning when I hear someone say "Feel".
Captain Feel's inflight announcement: "Thank you for flying L-M Moz----que. I hope this flight has provided you the gift of contemplation."
