We plunged further up the east coast in a tired and mud-splattered Mitsubishi Pajero, hurtling along a Mozambican road. The surface of the dusty road resembled that of the moon, the vast and numerous potholes being similar in size to craters. Red dust and stones billowed out in the wake of the no longer white 4x4 as it travelled over the ragged terrain. The straight road seemed to fade into the shimmering, heated blur of the horizon. Thick greenery of towering palm trees on either side engulfed the road like the bread of a sandwich engulfs a thin smearing of butter.
I was mesmerised by the surroundings as I stared through the Pajero’s dust stained passenger window. The green flew by in a seamless blur until it was interrupted by a village. We passed through ruins of previously magnificent buildings which were now splattered with decaying signage from the world’s economic superpowers. Coca-Cola, Colgate and telecommunications advertising littered the decomposing remains of these once mighty works of architecture. Colonialism replaced by globalisation.Soon the town passed and the resumption of unending green began once again, flowing over the hills into the foreseeable distance.
Then something broke the stream of vegetation. A child was selling something at the roadside. The car pulled over and the dust subsided. I got out. As I approached, the boy delightfully ran up with a bag of cashews. The boy was wearing running shorts, a dirty, hole-filled t-shirt and an excited yet pleading grin. “70 meticais”, he stated with glee. After doing a quick mental monetary conversion I handed over the money to him with an “Obrigado”. The boy didn’t respond, his English no better than my Portuguese, yet his smile said it all.
His bright white teeth displayed with joy against his darker skin. Poverty meant nothing. Money was merely necessary to exist. He appeared to be as happy a person as I’ve seen in all my life. As we drove away his joyous smile remained, permanently etched in my mind.
