Perched on a tiny stool in a roofless shelter, I’m having my face painted with semi-transparent muciro paste. The Kimwani woman in charge of proceedings dabs my forehead, nose and cheeks while a young assistant makes more paste by grinding a piece of ximbuti wood against a wet stone.

Beside us, a trio of young Kimwani girls watch, fascinated. Their own faces, painted earlier, have dried to a spooky, chalky white. They look as if they’re about to undergo some obscure village ritual, but the truth is far simpler – muciro is a favourite local beauty treatment, prized by the women of northern Mozambique for its moisturising effects. “You could say that this is the village spa,” says community officer Eliseu Rodrigues, my guide.

Eliseu is showing me around Namba, a village of stick-and-stone, its makuti-thatched huts scattered under slender palm trees on the Mozambican island of Matemo. Six hundred people live here, making it one of the larger settlements in this part of the Cabo Delgado province. While I enjoy my facial, women wrapped in colourful cotton capulanas carry bundles of branches along the sandy street or chat in the shade, their babies on their backs. A couple of young men buzz past on shiny new motorbikes, a telling indication of the islanders’ recent change in fortunes. “Before the resort was built on Matemo, things were pretty tough. There’s not enough fresh water for farming,” says Eliseu. “But now, people have jobs for the first time in their lives.”

Ilha de Matemo lies in the southern stretch of the Archipélago das Quirimbas, a string of perfect tropical islands in one of the remotest parts of the African Indian Ocean. Well over 2000km north of Maputo and little known for decades, the Quirimbas have just begun to crop up on ‘hot new destination’ lists for well-heeled travellers. Inspiring the interest is a fresh sprinkling of lodges – no more than one per island – which offer a beguiling blend of back-to-nature escapism and fuss-free luxury to those of whom a long journey, and high prices, are no deterrent. These lodges spell good news for the locals: if the hoteliers’ pledges hold true, benefits such as employment, training, trading opportunities and much-needed cash for community development should continue for years to come.

You have to be fairly wealthy to holiday in the Quirimbas, but it’s not a place for petulant B-listers with exacting demands and trolleyloads of luggage. The definition of luxury varies considerably between lodges: some include air conditioning, free laundry, unlimited drinking water and electricity; some don’t. Quite a few of the staff are so new to hospitality that they’re still working on their language skills and may answer unexpected requests with blank confusion. What’s more, the small planes which fly guests across from the mainland city of Pemba have strict luggage limits. For open-minded eco-tourists, though, the Quirimbas are heaven on earth, and the rough-edged newness of everything just adds to the charm. When you’re surrounded by breathtaking natural attractions – bird-rich mangrove channels, sun-dappled palm groves, spectacular coral reefs and dazzling beaches washed by vivid turquoise waters – minor inconveniences dwindle away to nothing.

Gratifyingly, though hardly surprisingly, the Quirimbas have inspired a number of imaginative eco-initiatives. For now, the concept of conservation in Cabo Delgado is, like the concept of luxury tourism, rather new; it was only in 2002 that the province’s first protected area, the Quilalea Marine Sanctuary, was created. The World Wildlife Fund, which backed the move, had noted its unique combination of habitats and its extreme vulnerability to over fishing. Once the fishermen had been persuaded to work elsewhere, the marine life flourished. Such was the sanctuary’s success that it was soon extended to form the 750,000ha Quirimbas National Park.

Matemo lies within the park and, little by little, the islanders are beginning to appreciate the value of this. Their lives depend on their relationship with the ocean – even their language, Kimwani, means ‘of the sea’ – and they’re highly sensitive to changes in the fish population. For park residents, fishing is still allowed, but only by sustainable, traditional methods. As Eliseu and I continue our tour, we meet a boat builder working away at his latest project, a fishing dhow made from hand-hewn mangrove wood, pieced together using simple tools. Lateen-rigged dhows such as this are becoming rarer in Kenya and Tanzania, but here in Cabo Delgado they still ply the coast just as they have for generations, their sharkfin-shaped sails billowing against indigo skies.

Further on, we’re approached by a man with a weatherbeaten face and an expectant look. He produces two beautiful crimson starfish and a conch shell as big as a coconut. When he holds the goods up for me to inspect, Eliseu seems reluctant to cause a scene, but then he breaks into Kimwani, explaining that the shell was once home to a living thing. The fisherman gives a “well, obviously” shrug. “That shell is part of the island ecosystem,” says Eliseu. “If you remove one element, others will die. Before long the tourists will stop coming, because there’ll be nothing left to see.” At this, the message seems to hit home, and the fisherman slopes off.

Louis Korb, manager of Matemo Island Resort, admits that for some of the islanders, the building of the lodge, which opened close to the village in 2004, was a culture shock. “We’ve had to work hard to rectify some of the damage done in the early days, when instead of being sensitive to cultural issues, we just threw money around,” he explains. Sudden exposure to television, alcohol and sunbathing western tourists turned the islanders’ world view on its head, causing tension between young workers earning their first ever wage and their devoutly Muslim families. “Now, we’re clawing back the old values,” says Louis, “by investing in things the whole community needs: mosques, a Hajj pilgrimage fund, school renovations, vegetable gardens, desalinated water, medical services…”

The tourists who make the journey to Mozambique have had to adjust their expectations too. Understandably enough, some have concerns about travelling to an African country that’s still recovering from civil war – and whose national flag bears the silhouette of an AK-47 machine gun. But after 15 years of peace, the mood in Mozambique is progressive and optimistic, and the government is backing its commitment to tourism and conservation with hard cash.

Near Matemo, but on the mainland, another lodge with a strong community commitment is soon to celebrate its third year in business. My partner and I make the short crossing to Guludo Beach Lodge by sea. It’s an exhilaratingly choppy ride; we hang on tight as the boat slams into the waves and are grateful to wade the last few metres onto Guludo’s long, lovely palm-fringed arc of a beach. The lodge, set up by young British fair trade tourism pioneers Amy Carter and Neal Allcock, is a low-key, low-impact operation that takes environmental concerns and social responsibility extremely seriously and hopes its guests will, too. Where other lodges pay lip service to eco-friendliness, this place delivers, with a host of charming features such as hand-filled gourds of water by the basins – tip the spout, and water trickles out – and showerheads made from coconut shells. Power comes from photovoltaic arrays, water for washing is heated by the sun, and dehydrating ‘eco-loos’ produce compost for fertiliser. In style, it’s a classic coastal hideaway, its well-shaded, timber-framed structures designed by award-winning British architects and constructed using local techniques, materials and labour.

Carter and Allcock were determined to get the relationship between the lodge and the nearby village right from the start. At the core of their operation is a charitable fund which channels money and skills into improving living conditions for Guludo’s rural community, providing fresh water and schooling and tackling malaria and malnutrition. Every booking at the lodge automatically includes a donation.

As a guest here, you feel immersed in the Mozambican bush – after sunset, the lodge is plunged into darkness and you’re urged to watch out for snakes – while nearby, there’s a stunning marine environment to explore. Walk along the beach an hour or two after it’s been washed by the tide and the only marks on the sand will be your own and the pawprints of scampering monkeys. “One of the things that makes northern Mozambique special,” says marine biologist and scuba instructor Lee Munson, who run’s Guludo’s immaculate dive centre, “is that you could see dolphins and whales in the morning, then head back to land and see elephants that afternoon.”

The hub of the Quirimbas National Park is an island with an atmosphere quite unlike anywhere else on the continent. Ilheu do Ibo may contain echoes of Ilha do Moçambique and old colonial Guinea-Bissau, but nowhere has quite the same mix of tropical languor and splendid, spacious, crumbling elegance. The island’s abundant fresh water was useful to the medieval traders carrying gold, ivory and spices between East Africa and Asia, but Ibo’s glory days began in the 16th Century, when Portuguese slavers controlled the coast. Their grimy trade brought prosperity, and by the late 18th Century Vila do Ibo was a grand provincial capital defended by stocky little forts.

Ibo’s fall began a hundred years ago when Port Amelia, now Pemba, took over as capital. A century of neglect has turned the old town into a picturesque ruin of collapsed roofs, rusty balconies and crumbling masonry overrun by an invasion of strangler figs. It’s now earmarked for World Heritage status, and is fascinating to explore on foot.

On a bright morning made fresh by unexpected rain, cheerful schoolchildren smile as they file into town along paths lined with lush grass and wild basil. The islanders abandoned the colonial houses of Vila do Ibo long ago in favour of low-maintenance huts on the outskirts, but the church, hospital and school are still in use, and the forts have found a new purpose as workshops for silversmiths, who melt down old coins to make delicate filigree jewellery. The plaza, shaded by spreading almond trees, is tidy; a man is whitewashing its border-stones as we pass. We visit the disused customs house and, on ducking into a back room, find it lined with old import and export documents in thick, dusty files; an archivist’s dream.

The islanders hope that in time many of the old buildings will be restored. Ibo Island Lodge, newly created out of a row of 19th-Century seafront mansions, sets a fine precedent. It’s a hotel with a wonderfully quiet, relaxed atmosphere and the kind of staff who have the knack of knowing exactly what you’d like, and offering it, just before you think of it yourself.

Co-owner Fiona Record describes her delight at stumbling across Ibo with her husband Kevin in the early 1990s. “We arrived by dhow, at night, with phosphorescence bouncing off the water. The harbour buildings were reflected in the sea like a lost city. Part of Ibo’s charm was that it had fallen into decline, and guarded its secrets. We made a commitment there and then to get involved in its future in some way.”
A good deal of hard work later, they and their team have a worthy result: the lodge is a powerhouse of community projects, and a beautiful place to stay. Decorated with handmade furniture softened with cool neutral and pastel-coloured cushions, the mood is elegantly colonial, with gracious nods towards India, Ibo’s old trading partner. Lunch is served in an oasis of a garden, sundowners are sipped on a glorious west-facing roof terrace, and lazy days are spent strolling around town, birdwatching or just idling.

On the tiny island of Medjumbe, further north, your choices are delightfully simple. If you like the view from your hammock to include blue sky, sparkling sea, white sand and nothing else, this is the place. Divers are well served here – Medjumbe Island Lodge has access to superb coral reefs – and for the adventurous, there are little-known regions to explore. “One of our dive sites is named after a couple who stayed here recently, and helped us discover it,” says Medjumbe’s South African scuba instructor, Lindy Chazen.

Northern Mozambique is tipped as one of the most exciting new diving destinations in the world. Fifteen metres below the glossy ocean surface, I see at once what all the fuss is about. We’re diving a site called Sambi Sambi and it’s as busy as a crossroads on a crowded commuter route. Clouds of goatfish and snappers surround us, brightly striped clownfish bob around supple anenomes, and a guineafowl moray pokes its spotted head out of a crevice. It’s all I can do to stop myself grinning so widely that my mask floods with water.

Non-divers can enjoy the marine landscape, too, by snorkelling or just strolling along the sandy shore, patrolled by perky little crabs. Dolphins sometimes cruise nearby; last year, guests had an unforgettably poignant encounter when all hands had to rush to rescue a pod trapped by an unusually low tide.

We don’t see dolphins at Medjumbe, but at our final stop, Vamizi Island Lodge, there’s a manta ray in the welcome party. We’re approaching by boat when the captain spots it feeding close to the surface, barely ten metres away. Swimming with a manta is an opportunity too good to resist, so we pull on our masks and slide straight in. The mighty ray doesn’t stay long enough for a formal exchange of greetings but it’s a thrilling few moments.

Our stay at Vamizi turns out to be a catalogue of wonderful surprises. Founded by travel expert Christopher Cox and wildlife vet Julie Garnier, this inspirational lodge represents the first phase in an ambitious conservation-through-tourism scheme, the Maluane Project. After Vamizi, three more lodges will follow. Wisely, the Maluane team are taking a slowly-slowly approach, commissioning ecological surveys, consulting alternative technology experts and engaging in extensive discussions with local communities before committing to a plan.

As in the Quirimbas National Park further south, the islanders in this northern reach of the archipelago are beginning to value the concept of wildlife conservation. “The Kimwani call coral ‘coloured stones’ and they really couldn’t understand why tourists would travel vast distances just to see them,” says Christopher. “But then we invited some Australian marine biologists to talk about marine sanctuaries and explain that the older fish get, the more babies they have. That amused them no end; they got the message.” Using funds raised from guests and private donors, the Maluane team is devising new initiatives all the time. Ongoing projects include a thorough survey of the area’s marine habitat and careful monitoring of its itinerant turtle population that, before Maluane intervened, was in danger of being wiped out.

Guests at Vamizi sleep in timber beach houses built far enough from the sea to be of no concern to nesting turtles, and far enough apart to give the illusion of total exclusivity. There are no swimming pools, and they’re not missed – instead, you just saunter down to the beach with its wraparound views of impossibly blue water, as clear and calm as a bath. The biggest treat at Vamizi is the luxury of space – each house has a huge marble shower, a vast sitting room and a simply gigantic muslin-draped four-poster. Sea breezes blow gently through the hand-carved wooden screens serving as walls, windows and doors. We leave ours open and are visited by friendly bats.

At sunset, we gather with our fellow guests – most of them wearing shiny new wedding rings and blissed-out smiles – in the lounge. It’s open-sided, softly lit and decorated with Zanzibari carvings and interesting books. Snuggling into a squishy sofa to nibble on tuna sashimi we feel utterly at home, as if staying with childhood friends who are lucky enough to be rather well off. Later, we all dine under the stars at lantern-lit tables set out on the sand.

While the lodge is lovely, the underwater landscape is outstanding. Swimming through sunlit coral gardens, we encounter dozens of fish, from tiny gobies to ponderous-looking wrasses. Pausing to inspect the pristine coral more closely we spot dainty little harlequin shrimps and neon-striped nudibranchs. As we relax after a particularly superb dive, my partner, who has dived many of the best sites in the Pacific, tells me the variety and sheer abundance of species here outclasses the Great Barrier Reef. To add to our exhilaration, the next time we surface, we find the boat crew fizzing with excitement – they’ve just spotted a whale, the first of the season.

Lounging in a dhow in the late afternoon, we realise we’ve been utterly seduced by the island’s magic. But the greatest pleasure comes from knowing that our presence is, we hope, helping to conserve this remarkable place.