THE  ALLURING  MOZAMBIQUE  ISLAND

The whole point of traveling through northern Mozambique instead of the come-hither beaches down by the capitol of Maputo to the south is the siren call of Mozambique Island.  Like some ghostly castle in England or France, this place stands sentinel over time off this country’s Indian Ocean coastline near a major port called Nicala.  It is about three quarters of the way upcountry on the way toward the Tanzania border.

In the south end of the island (connected to the mainland by a three kilometer single-lane causeway) is the reed village – macuti town -- home to local workers and the decided poor-end of this island of 12,000.  The north end is home to stone colonial architecture and most of the tourist magnet that draws so many here from throughout the continent.

Mozambique Island is not for everybody.  But for the history, culture, customs and architecture fan it is a must see.  The island served as Mozambique’s first capitol in the early 16^th century after being discovered by the famous Portugese explorer Vasco de Gama in 1498.  It had the first European building in the southern hemisphere of Africa at the tiny Icapela Baluarde Church.  Immediately next door, is the massive Portugese star-shaped military compound of Fortaleza Sao Sebastiao, home to 2000 garrisoned soldiers and the colonial governor in the early days of Portugal’s rule over Mozambique.

The fort is abandoned today, yet its huge rooftop serves as a water collection matrix for the island (only 3 kilometers long by 500 meters wide), where fresh water is in very short supply.  It is about a 75 minutes leisurely walk around the island, partially on dirt in Macuti Town, and on patterned cobblestones in Stone Town.  The journey is mindful of visiting Old Havana in Cuba – the former colonial splendor of massive stone and coral buildings in a plethora of pastel colors is evident, and yet the charm of the journey is in its decay ... like witnessing a frozen slice of history as it slowly melts back into the earth.

Nearby are the Palace and Church of Sao Paolo, home of the island’s ruling governor after his residential stint at the Fortress (and now a museum displaying primarily very well restored Portugese, Indian and African furniture).  One piece, from Gao across the Indian Ocean, is exquisitely carved from a single block of ironwood.  The sculptor, after taking years to craft his masterpiece, had his hand cut off by The Governor to ensure that he might never again make a similar piece for another nobleman.

Adjacent are the small but fascinating Museum of Sacred Art and Maritime Museum.  A dozen gold pieces taken from Portugese Man-O-War shipwrecks is displayed on one of the nautical museum’s walls.  It has the worst security I’ve ever seen to safeguard its preservation.   A blind man with wooden legs could remove them and make his getaway within five minutes.  All three museums are easily visited within an hour.

Two days are spent here, just lapping up the atmosphere of what used to be the grandest of the grand colonial assignment stations -- enjoying the sun and heat, drowning in beer and caipirhinas, touring, investigating the local markets, traipsing out to the end of several piers along the island’s north shore, and dining well.

Authentic homegrown Mozambican food is a feature of the island’s Sara’s Restaurant, a location that is recommended from as much as 120 miles distant.  I ask about local fare, and then dine on camarao frito (friend shrimp), salad, xima (pronounced “shima”, a flour and water paste flavored with peri-peri sauce) and caracata – a doughy cake made from cataba root flour).  It is satisfying and moderately filling, but by no means as inspiring as good Mediterranean Italian seafood pasta or Spanish tapas.

Also on the island, I get additional chances to observe the nature of African behavior.  Despite making fun of or acting derisively toward other Africans, members of a tribal affiliation can be wonderfully collaborative with each other.  You see this endlessly in cooperative attempts at loading packages on  a mini-bus or trailer, pushing a vehicle to jump start it after stalling, or making a sale with many attendant “testimonials” to the truthfulness and reliability of this or that product and service or vendor.

Yet the average black African remains without much sense of personal efficacy … that they individually can or will make a difference.  They are very beholden to following the strongman, the tyrant, the bully – as if so doing removes any necessity for responsibility on their part, following being the easier path toward survival.  They accept things being slow, inefficient, corrupt, mismanaged, broken down and just plain wrong quite easily, from all appearances.  They have quite a sense of humor about it.  But they accept.

This is why you see despots being the rule in Africa.  There is little education on a mass scale.  There is often not much of a middle class.  There is little initiative or entrepreneurial sense on the Yankee model.  I believe the educational vacuum breeds a lack of discernment and contributes to stoic acceptance of the strong man winning out … what can I do? Campaign promises are made, only to be forgotten.  Large impressions are made with showy displays of delivering to and for his people.  But the strong man (and increasingly, democratically elected strong women) do NOT deliver to their people.  They just accumulate more wealth, homes, cash, diamonds, cars, and entourages for themselves.

Civilization began in Africa.  But I believe it grew when man began migrating tens of thousands of years ago.  Away from the absolute rule and reach of the strong man.  The bully.  The law of the jungle. To escape dominance, a lack of choices, and the rule of The Chief.  Using that sense of collaboration so evident even today, I can speculate that democracy took its first nascent steps in Africa as well when some intrepid souls dared to think that what they thought, said, and did mattered also and then took their first steps north to a new way of life.