Narrative 1

“What about land mines?”

It hadn’t even entered my mind until that moment. The heat of the day and the attraction of a swim in the cool Indian Ocean waters had given a simple focus. A focus that was abruptly lost as we all froze on the spot. Sweat traced my forehead, now with more of a story than simply cooling me from the heat.

We had travelled for hours to get here. Firstly catching a dhow boat from the small Mozambique town of Inhambane. These dhow boats have a crew of two; the captain (I assume) who looked like he knew a great deal about the art of sailing, and his assistant. I am not sure of the appointment process in hiring an assistant, but they should include a scenario where they need to empty a full bath using an empty soup can. For the three hours we slowly moved towards our destination, this assistant continuously collected water from the bottom of the leaky boat and emptied it into the ocean. I began to calculate how long it would take for us to sink if this guy decided to strike and, due to a union directive, insist that no one takes over his role for fear of being a strike breaker.

To be fair, the dhow we found ourselves on seemed the best of a bad bunch. We actually passed a few other boats who had two assistants, both bailing out water at a far faster rate and with a real look of urgency compared to our bailer. The boat did not have much of a chance to travel quickly anyway, as there was very little wind. In reflecting when we finally made it to the peninsular we were hoping to stay at for a week, it was an impressive feat of sailing for the captain and bailer to get us there at all.

Reaching shore was a relief. The wooden benches on the sides of the dhow provided little comfort. Unfortunately comfort was still a little way away. Our final destination was a camp ground of sorts, and a young local was happy to take us there. Trying to keep up with him as he skipped around palm trees with the tropical heat trying to suffocate you and your heavy pack seemingly ridiculing you each step was no easy task, but we finally made it to a clearing. A clearing that included a hammock, a simple drop toilet and fresh water. Luxury.    

What was luxurious was the ocean, a mere 200 meters away. We quickly set up camp and then, bathers on, towels over our shoulders, we began to skip through the bush, with the blue/green shining oasis beckoning us.

“What about land mines?”

Of course it had to Em who thought of this. My beautiful and intelligent girlfriend (and now wife) was and is one to consider all possibilities. And the possibility of stepping on one of the thousands of landmines left over from years of civil war was a decent possibility to consider. Dave and Lyn, a couple from Sydney who we met in South Africa and had been travelling with for a couple of weeks froze. A followed their lead, or they followed mine?

And there we stood, shit scared to take one step more. What were we thinking? All along the road from the capital Maputo we had seen signs, indicating landmine areas. We couldn’t keep count of the number of people we had seen who had lost a limb, and here we were, tramping through dense bush in the middle of Mozambique as if we were on our way to Bondi.

“Surely there aren’t any unexploded mines here?” Which was half a statement, half a question.

“How do you know?” Em replied.

I didn’t know. At all.

So we stood there for what seemed like an hour but was no doubt only several minutes. We contemplated retracing our footsteps and then finding the owner of the camp clearing to seek clarification. It was suggested that may have been an idea we could have utilised somewhat earlier.

And then he came. An old man, who, from my viewpoint, with my frozen legs feeling like blocks of cement, seemed to be skipping his way towards the beach. He passed us quickly, with no change to his expression. Perhaps he thought that standing frozen 100 metres from the beach was a strange white man custom? Or, in finding our behaviour bizarre, he took the wise option which we are all want to take, that of ignoring and moving on quickly.

If he was a little concerned by our behaviour, we did not help relieve his anxiety as we decided the best course of action was to follow the local’s footsteps towards the beach. Followed we did, footstep by footstep. I am positive he moved more and more quickly, and I can’t blame him. He probably thought he was about to be attacked by the frozen white people.

Breaking through to the shore provided relief. Both from the humidity of the forest and from the fear of losing a leg. The water was as refreshing as I expected. The man whose path we had shadowed had moved further up the beach, most likely for his own safety, and we were left to enjoy what was to become a paradise.  

The Narratives of life- to be continued...