PERIGO MINAS! EMINA! XIBULUKWA! DZOPHULIKA! ZVIMUSASANDHI!
All of the above, looking much like a strange African alphabet soup (except for the initial Portuguese words meaning "DANGER-MINES!"), spell out immediate and grave danger in several indigenous languages of Mozambique. I tried to detail our brief visit to the former Portuguese colony. We very much want to return there someday.
The beauty of Mozambique masks the reality of its recent history--and the subsequent horrifying danger that lurks beneath a lush, tropical landscape. We drove to Maputo, capital of Mozambique, following a delightful, almost idyllic, five-day mini-vacation that took us to Kruger National Park in South Africa. Kruger, of course, is the largest game park in the world, where tourists from all over can view Africa's wildest animals from the relative comfort of their vehicles.
Upon entering Mozambique, which was no easy task (border complications , meaning visa forms to complete while customs/immigration officials give you their "official" stare). That over, we entered an Africa distinctly different than our experiences in South Africa. The seamless toll road that lay ahead (I'm told it was built by South Africa), exposed a countryside that was a flat, tropical lowland. Svetlana commented that the smell of the air was different than the cool, fresh air of Kruger National Park. But there was more to it than that...
Indeed, the air did smell different. The odor brought back memories of a time when I studied at Ibadan University in Nigeria--many years earlier in my teaching career. It was a flat, moisture-laden smell that seemed to be mixed with what could only be described as burning wood. The smell of burning wood was entirely different than what one would remember from camping as a tourist. No, this was a more distinct odor that came from village fires, some located far off in the distance.
Rural farmers, mostly women dressed in colorful, vibrant clothing, dotted the edges of the highway as we sped along toward Maputo. The shadows lengthened as many of them headed for what appeared to be delapidated shanty houses. Some waited impatiently by the side of the road for a taxi to happen along. We watched as a few villagers darted left or right down winding dirt pathways toward a home beyond the horizon. Some of the images were captured on my Kodak digital camera and will appear on this blog.
We learned that Mozambique is one of the most impoverished nations in the world. The official language is Portuguese, which sort of hints at a colonial history of this vast, beautiful land that indeed will forever be linked to the European country of Portugal. Like other European connections to the African continent, the historical connection to Portugal is one fraught with exploitation, political intrigue, warfare, and great human suffering.
Great Britain's Princess Dianna knew of Mozambique. The ill-fated English heir to the throne knew of the killing fields of this war-ravaged country--she spoke out to the world about the horrific maiming and deaths caused by land-mines in Mozambique. The mines are still there. They rip apart limbs of peasant farmers daily. They kill indiscriminately and without warning.
The rich soil of Mozambique attracted adventuresome exploiters from Portugal who were willing to devise ways and means to take advantage of the native peoples in the production of sugar, cashews, cotton, tea, copra, and other tropical cash crops that to this day support a struggling, poverty-stricken economy. Slavery and forced labor became part of the culture.
As we drove closer to the urban malaise outside Maputo, I began to notice individuals who were missing limbs...mainly a leg, sometimes both legs. I drove further into the city and we came to a halt near a junction of streets that appeared to be a street-vendor fish market. The pungent smell of fresh fish was everywhere. A man nearby supported himself on an old wooden crutch as he attempted to sell freshly filleted fish that were strewn on a wet, smelly canvas beneath his leg.
Immediately behind the fish hawkers was a St. Augustine, Florida-like, stone-block fortress. I learned it had been built by the Portuguese in the early 1700's. It was a magnificent, sturdy stone structure with an inviting cobbled- stone walkway leading to two massive, age-battered wooden doors. They were open and a banner over the entry proclaimed an exhibition featuring information about land-mines in Mozambique. We entered, not knowing our world was about to change.
An entire history of the region is not the purpose of this writing. To get to the point of when and why land-mines ended up in Mozambique would take a small history text. Suffice to say when independence from Portugal came in 1975 the troubles began in earnest. That is not to say the colonial period was not troubling and life-altering to the indigenous peoples--the Portuguese were the earliest slave traders in Africa from Europe. The first slavers of note were Arabs.
Anyway, independence brought a socialist republic and a one-party state resulted. Resistance groups formed and civil war dampened the enlightening possibilities brought about by freedom from Portugal. Power struggles developed between warring factions: enter the Soviet Union, East Germany, and the Cubans. Maybe by now you have figured out where the land-mines came from? Estimates vary, but the usual figure given is hundreds of thousands of civilians lost their lives during the tumultuous 1980's. Oh, I forgot to mention that many of the hundreds of thousands of land-mines came from Czechoslovakia, a former puppet state of the Soviets.
Some of this history was revealed to us while we toured the exhibition area inside the fortress. We met officials who were sponsored by UNICEF. Some were from South Africa, others were native to Mozambique. A media crew was there from a local television station. Bright lighting revealed tables bedecked with various types of land-mines and explosive devices that had been retrieved from the killing fields. It was truly a frightening display of greenish metal that could cause so much terror and destruction as a result of an errant footstep.
What we thought would be a mini-vacation to Mozambique suddenly became a maxi-learning experience for me and my family. We witnessed first-hand the cruelty of land-mines, albeit via posters, photographs of survivors, and the land-mines themselves. And, of course, the memory of seeing people with missing limbs will be with us too. For me and my family, the tropical beauty of Mozambique will forever be linked to the cruel and destructive history of land-mines. We will not soon forget the lessons we learned on that hot, steamy April day in Maputo.
The beauty of Mozambique masks the reality of its recent history--and the subsequent horrifying danger that lurks beneath a lush, tropical landscape. We drove to Maputo, capital of Mozambique, following a delightful, almost idyllic, five-day mini-vacation that took us to Kruger National Park in South Africa. Kruger, of course, is the largest game park in the world, where tourists from all over can view Africa's wildest animals from the relative comfort of their vehicles.
Upon entering Mozambique, which was no easy task (border complications , meaning visa forms to complete while customs/immigration officials give you their "official" stare). That over, we entered an Africa distinctly different than our experiences in South Africa. The seamless toll road that lay ahead (I'm told it was built by South Africa), exposed a countryside that was a flat, tropical lowland. Svetlana commented that the smell of the air was different than the cool, fresh air of Kruger National Park. But there was more to it than that...
Indeed, the air did smell different. The odor brought back memories of a time when I studied at Ibadan University in Nigeria--many years earlier in my teaching career. It was a flat, moisture-laden smell that seemed to be mixed with what could only be described as burning wood. The smell of burning wood was entirely different than what one would remember from camping as a tourist. No, this was a more distinct odor that came from village fires, some located far off in the distance.
Rural farmers, mostly women dressed in colorful, vibrant clothing, dotted the edges of the highway as we sped along toward Maputo. The shadows lengthened as many of them headed for what appeared to be delapidated shanty houses. Some waited impatiently by the side of the road for a taxi to happen along. We watched as a few villagers darted left or right down winding dirt pathways toward a home beyond the horizon. Some of the images were captured on my Kodak digital camera and will appear on this blog.
We learned that Mozambique is one of the most impoverished nations in the world. The official language is Portuguese, which sort of hints at a colonial history of this vast, beautiful land that indeed will forever be linked to the European country of Portugal. Like other European connections to the African continent, the historical connection to Portugal is one fraught with exploitation, political intrigue, warfare, and great human suffering.
Great Britain's Princess Dianna knew of Mozambique. The ill-fated English heir to the throne knew of the killing fields of this war-ravaged country--she spoke out to the world about the horrific maiming and deaths caused by land-mines in Mozambique. The mines are still there. They rip apart limbs of peasant farmers daily. They kill indiscriminately and without warning.
The rich soil of Mozambique attracted adventuresome exploiters from Portugal who were willing to devise ways and means to take advantage of the native peoples in the production of sugar, cashews, cotton, tea, copra, and other tropical cash crops that to this day support a struggling, poverty-stricken economy. Slavery and forced labor became part of the culture.
As we drove closer to the urban malaise outside Maputo, I began to notice individuals who were missing limbs...mainly a leg, sometimes both legs. I drove further into the city and we came to a halt near a junction of streets that appeared to be a street-vendor fish market. The pungent smell of fresh fish was everywhere. A man nearby supported himself on an old wooden crutch as he attempted to sell freshly filleted fish that were strewn on a wet, smelly canvas beneath his leg.
Immediately behind the fish hawkers was a St. Augustine, Florida-like, stone-block fortress. I learned it had been built by the Portuguese in the early 1700's. It was a magnificent, sturdy stone structure with an inviting cobbled- stone walkway leading to two massive, age-battered wooden doors. They were open and a banner over the entry proclaimed an exhibition featuring information about land-mines in Mozambique. We entered, not knowing our world was about to change.
An entire history of the region is not the purpose of this writing. To get to the point of when and why land-mines ended up in Mozambique would take a small history text. Suffice to say when independence from Portugal came in 1975 the troubles began in earnest. That is not to say the colonial period was not troubling and life-altering to the indigenous peoples--the Portuguese were the earliest slave traders in Africa from Europe. The first slavers of note were Arabs.
Anyway, independence brought a socialist republic and a one-party state resulted. Resistance groups formed and civil war dampened the enlightening possibilities brought about by freedom from Portugal. Power struggles developed between warring factions: enter the Soviet Union, East Germany, and the Cubans. Maybe by now you have figured out where the land-mines came from? Estimates vary, but the usual figure given is hundreds of thousands of civilians lost their lives during the tumultuous 1980's. Oh, I forgot to mention that many of the hundreds of thousands of land-mines came from Czechoslovakia, a former puppet state of the Soviets.
Some of this history was revealed to us while we toured the exhibition area inside the fortress. We met officials who were sponsored by UNICEF. Some were from South Africa, others were native to Mozambique. A media crew was there from a local television station. Bright lighting revealed tables bedecked with various types of land-mines and explosive devices that had been retrieved from the killing fields. It was truly a frightening display of greenish metal that could cause so much terror and destruction as a result of an errant footstep.
What we thought would be a mini-vacation to Mozambique suddenly became a maxi-learning experience for me and my family. We witnessed first-hand the cruelty of land-mines, albeit via posters, photographs of survivors, and the land-mines themselves. And, of course, the memory of seeing people with missing limbs will be with us too. For me and my family, the tropical beauty of Mozambique will forever be linked to the cruel and destructive history of land-mines. We will not soon forget the lessons we learned on that hot, steamy April day in Maputo.
posted by JOBURG JOURNAL at 12:42 PM
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