My Mozambique.                                                                                                              

When Vasco da Gamma got lost at sea, he somehow managed to round the tip of Africa. Not knowing where he was, he set foot on South Africa. His presence angered the local tribes and hostility grew, not having found a reliable water source, Da Gamma and his men were sent packing, with their tails between their iron legs...

Instead, he made landfall on the small East African country of Mozambique. Here the people were friendlier and the land fertile and more hospitable. So naturally he stayed, unbeknown to him India was a stone’s throw away from him. The Portuguese would keep this secret closely guarded for over one hundred years.

When the Dutch and English finally broke through the end of the earth, the Portuguese already had a vast monopoly of colonies. Unfortunately, most of their subjects lived in adverse conditions, permanently in an intense state of fear. The Portuguese slave traders would go on to ravage the interior of Mozambique, Zambia and Zimbabwe to mention a few, for centuries to come, sparing no one, showing no mercy.

The Portuguese fought like mad dogs to keep their colonies. In a rapidly advancing era, they were under constant attack as all the major European countries fought tooth and nail for more territory.

Portugal would go on to stay in Mozambique until the mid seventy’s, they would fight to the bitter end. For over 20 years the people of Mozambique suffered, all in the name of freedom.

In 1976, a mother lay on the beach having contractions, hours later and without too much fuss, a pink, slightly overweight boy, screamed, “Life!”  Pedro was born during a time of peace, a time when Mozambique was free from the shackles of the past, a time of unity and prosperity.  His life was idyllic; he grew used to the warm, abundant Indian Ocean, used to the big wide smiles of the people, used to the endless miles of coconut forests and cashew heavy trees.

 But in 1977 the bubble burst, the people of Mozambique were once more, forced to endure more killing and atrocities. It was not until 1992 that finally Frelimo and Renamo would lay down their arms. By this stage Pedro and his family were forced to evacuate, and now sat far away, watching the events on CNN.

Throughout his life, his father eulogized and dreamed of earlier days. He kept a detailed photo catalogue of the glory days, and would often send his son to bed with shark fishing stories and life in the bush as a soldier; these stories would remain carved in his mind for the rest of his life.

It has been seventeen years of peace. This ravaged country has managed to pick itself up, slowly, slowly gathering strength, united at last; the new generations reap the benefits of their fathers’ unrelenting desire to create a better world.  Despite their valiant efforts, most of the population is still suffering the consequences of bloody conflict, disease and devastating natural disasters. However, Mozambicans are a resilient people, they have not come this far to quit now and despite the hardships their smiles still beam bright and their will to survive still burns strong.

The vibrant Capitol, Maputo is alive with culture and art; there is something for every palate. The smokers tooth yellow villa’s of a bygone era, now blend in with the colourful markets, filled with chit chat and over filling with fresh produce.  Maputo’s, easy, Afro- Latin vibe is addictive, the food is extraordinary and the people are genuine and real.

The pearly white beaches of the North are now home to lobster red tourists, sun seekers and water lovers. The warm Indian Ocean and the vast forests of coconut palms still lure people from all over the globe.  The vibrant community of Inhambane continues to thrive, the thatched hut communities filled with children and women who still depend on each other for survival. The cashew trees continue to bear fruit and the piles of mangoes and avocados neatly piled into small pyramids still fill the street vendor’s trolleys.

 In a crowed Dhow Pedro’s smile stretches from one ear to the next, he sits quietly, not quiet blending in, but it’s clear he knows what he is doing; it somehow looks like he belongs. As the Dhow creeps closer to Inhambane, Pedro’s eyes are fixed on the diving board he and his childhood friends spent many lazy balmy afternoons. As he left the Dhow and strolled casually towards his home, he kept looking around as if expecting someone, no one came. Like always, he slowly walked to the end of the promenade, past his old crèche and his grandma’s house finally stopping at his own childhood house.  It all looked and felt the same, it was all so familiar, as if it happened yesterday, the smiles still there, the sleepy balmy atmosphere still lingered and the familiar salty smell filled his nostrils.

15 years later, Pedro sat on the pavement under the tree; life had moved on, Granma was no longer there, he would not hear the sound of his mother’s motorbike coming around the corner, the cries of “Pedro, anda brincar!”, now silent.  Under that tree, he realised how lucky he had been and how proud he was to be a Mozambican.