This article won a Guardian Newspaper Travel Award a few years back. This is an abridged version. To see the original you can go to The Guardian and type in my name, Donal Conlon. The Prize was a trip to the fjords of Norway: strange contrast. The article, describing the trip was published by the newspaper and is also on this site, entitled ‘Among the Barbarians’.
Mozambique wears a shy smile once again. After 450 years of colonization, a brutal war for independence that finished in 1975, the establishment of a Marxist state, and a savage 16-year civil war (US V Russia) that left almost a million dead and five million displaced, peace since 1992 has lifted it slowly to its feet, or at least to its knees. However, growth is extremely unequal and poverty stubborn, but life pushes forward.
There’s a kind of natural justice here: the pleasure of being alive often shines strongest among the poorest who struggle hardest. In Mozambique, as in much of Africa, an occasion to celebrate is quickly seized upon in everyday life. And when money is scarce, many head to the cheapest place to celebrate — the beach.
The Indian Ocean laps 2,500 miles of coastline from Tanzania to South Africa, with countless beaches, many still wild and empty. In Maputo, the capital, the beach draws crowds. Some walk long distances to reach it, unable to afford the minibus fare. They don’t come to swim — few can — or to sunbathe — few need to. They come to play, to flirt, to celebrate.
Children – and at times, adults cartwheel at the water’s edge. Boys kick footballs, laughing and howling. I am often called to join in: “Come and play!” Tiny crabs are scooped from the sand. Teenagers dance in ankle-deep surf, moving to car stereos or their own singing.
Some come for business. Women and children grill fish or chicken over charcoal, serving it with xima, a cornmeal porridge. For about a dollar, you can fill your stomach with fingers and laughter. Vendors sell oranges, peanuts, soft drinks, clothes, and objects I can’t name. Young men offer nail painting services, trampolines, puppet shows.
The beach is also Mozambique’s great meeting place. Few can afford discos or bars. Here, girls parade with mobile phones, first generation, in hand, macho boys show off muscular types of prowess. Evangelical churches hold baptisms and exorcisms. When a devil is chased from a body, there’s shouting, rolling in the sand, vigorous dunking in the waves.
It is the most democratic of institutions: everyone belongs. Dress code is as varied as the country itself: street clothes, swimwear, underclothes, suits, religious robes. Toilets are informal — squats in the sand. After dark, you watch for robbers and weave between amorous couples.
Further down, at the fishing village, business rules. Women wade out to meet returning boats, baskets in hand. The small fish, magumba, is pulled straight from the nets. Some buy to feed their families, others to sell at the market.
Sometimes, I take a book and sit under a coconut tree. I am seldom left alone for long. Somebody might ask what I’m reading. A girl might flutter her false lashes and I might ask. “Would you like a drink?” “Of course.” ” Maybe a ride back to town?” “Of course.”
Pleasure, prayer, business, romance, exorcism, survival — the beach is all of these at once. There are few dull moments on Maputo’s sands.
I no longer live in Mozambique; I miss it.