“See? And you people come here to protect animals. .”
I didn’t answer. There would be little point in arguing. There would be little use in saying that animals and people can reach ways of living together and even benefiting each other. The countryman would listen with his usual good manners and timeless patience. But deep inside, he would remain fixed in his own sense of righteousness. What we need are examples, practical models that prove how our ideas work. And these models require time. The advisers don’t have time.
The following morning, I awoke with the sun. From the high point where I had put up my tent, one could see water on both sides. Towards the interior, there were the still waters of Maputo Bay, with the island of Inhaca and the wide estuary of the Maputo River. In the opposite direction was the limitless Indian Ocean, with its deeper blue. I made my way to the building where our meeting was being held, when someone informed me that the biodiversity had passed that way in the early morning. “Biodiversity?” I asked. There was laughter by way of a reply. It had been the elephants, a huge herd that had survived the war and poachers. They’ve been there forever, renewing the Futi Corridor that provides their link to neighbouring South Africa. One of the intentions of the Mozambican and South African governments is to protect this ancient route and turn it into one of the focal points for cross-border conservation. The fact that there is nothing in the region is, without doubt, a negative, but it can be turned into the opposite. The low population density, the existence of pristine dune forests of unique vegetation, and the potential for fauna, are all reasons to believe in the future of this place. Some years ago, an internationally known South African scientist, A.E. van Wyk, visited and studied this same region. The South Africans call the area Maputaland. Fascinated by its biological richness, Van Wyk made a proposal that Maputaland should be declared an endemism zone of universal importance. The region’s name began to feature in all the literature relating to biodiversity.
The inhabitants of Matutuíne don’t know the word. But they know perfectly well what biodiversity is. It’s not a conceptual issue. They live on the back of biodiversity. They survive in their little corner, which is so near and yet so remote. We need to create the bridge that will break their historic isolation, but let it be a bridge that both takes and brings in equal measure. And not one of those bridges built to take everything out without giving anything back.
Article published in İndico, April 2004.
As if the Sea Had Another Shore
No one in fact ever travels to an island. Islands exist within us, like a territory we have dreamt of, like a piece of our past that has broken free of time. In me, this insular ghost first appeared when Jonito died and my parents told me he’d gone to an island in the middle of the Chiveve. I was a kid, Jonito was a toad and the Chiveve wasn’t even a real river. How could a little stream like that have enough water to contain an island? But in those days, nothing was real. And Jonito spent my whole childhood, crawling, cautious and sluggish, around that little piece of earth surrounded by dark waters.
This is why it now sounds strange to me that I should be entering into an agreement with Mamudo for him to take me out to the islands tomorrow. I use the term “islands” in the plural, but I shall be lucky if the little sailing dhow gets to any island at all.
I have to confess that it wasn’t easy to reach an agreement. For negotiations to go well, they shouldn’t be easy. At least here, on the coast of Cabo Delgado. The sellers approach as noiselessly as shadows, as if the sand were carpeted to cushion their arrival. In the south of Mozambique, where I come from, they would have accosted me differently:
“I’m selling things.”
And the commercial relationship would have been defined immediately, a non-symmetrical relationship between the person with the product and the one with money. The price is within reach. Any thing above that is considered a tip. Not so here. The approach is more professional from the start. The seller announces himself like this:
“I have a deal for you.”
And we are both on the same side of the table, knowing in advance that there’s going to be a game of verbal give-and-take that will go on for some time. That was how Mamudo approached me. The visit to the “islands” (he kept using the plural) was a complete package. He would provide the boat, he would be the sailor and the steward (serving a meal that he himself would prepare). After agreeing on the price, there was still need for an advance so that he could buy the food. All with the utmost propriety, because as he himself said, everyone in the neighbourhood could vouch for his good name.
The “deal” was completed and a tourist couple who had been listening to the conversation asked whether they could join the expedition. Mamudo then drew up an addendum to the agreement I had already signed.
I went to bed early because our departure the following morning would be at an hour when, according to Mamudo, even the fish would still be sleeping. I dreamt I was some marine creature gliding through those transparent waters, brushing against coral reefs and the dark bellies of dinghies. But in the middle of the night, I was awoken by the noise of a window rattling. A gale was beginning to blow. The fine white sand was being thrown against the wooden walls of my chalet. The beach was gradually invading the floor of my room.
In the morning, it was obvious that the excursion would have to be postponed. When I reached the place at which we were to meet, the tourists were complaining to Mamudo and demanding their money back. But the sailor had already spent the advance the previous day. A second storm was brewing: the tourists’ complaints were getting louder. They were going back to Maputo later that day and didn’t have time to waste. I decided to intervene, placating the foreigners in their excitement. And it worked: at the end of the morning, under a leaden sky, we all sat on Mamudo’s veranda eating the chicken that he had grilled. And there we remained, listening to stories that Mamudo reeled off like the beads on an endless rosary. Each story was a paddle cutting through waters that took us further and further away from the world. At the end, the sailor brought us a basin of warm water to wash our hands. And he said:
“Life is a deal.”
Not a particularly poetic image, but that was his way of romanticizing the miraculous way we had celebrated our encounter. When the tourists took their leave, there was a smile on their faces as if they had, after all, visited an island and its paradise. In the end, the sailor kept his promise: without leaving the beach, he had taken us on a journey to the sea’s far shore.
Article published in İndico, July 2009.
The China Within Us
China was once the smallest country in the world. And the Chinese the smallest human group on the planet. It happened when I was a child. The universe was a back garden in which to play, and all the Chinese fit in just a few streets of my native city. At that time, the Chinese in Beira were not like those today, light-skinned with smooth hair. Many of them were of mixed race, with frizzy hair and brown skin, frequenting the same churches and schools as the Europeans in the colony.
It happened in Maquinino, the district where I was born. I would leave home on my way to the António Enes Primary School and would pass the shop they used to call the “Cantina Chinesa,” to buy exercise books, pencils and the recently arrived Bic pens. There I would join my classmate, the shop owner’s son. This boy, whose name was Ching, was reserved and serious, like an adult who had nothing left to dream.