That foreign feeling

I've never felt as different, as alien, as foreign, as much of an outsider as I did on that beach in Mozambique. It was early January, mid summer, and it had been a sweaty, bug infested night in our tiny mustard-yellow tent. I untangled myself from the sarong that served as towel, sheet and skirt, picked up my camera and went to watch the sun rise over Vilankulo.

Like most of the eastern African coastline, Vilankulo is staggeringly beautiful. It's every island cliché right in front of you. Crystalline waters, palms tree, never-ending beaches punctuated by nothing but dhows, straw huts and peri-peri prawn sellers.

I wandered along the shoreline towards the mangroves, passing fishermen, children, the odd tourist, none of whom took any notice of me, until I approached a larger group. About 20 women were sitting or squatting in a circle, cleaning and gutting buckets of tuna. The strip of beach they were working on was narrow, passing them without broaching their circle would be difficult. I thought about turning back, but the light over the mangroves presented a Kodak moment too perfect to pass up, so I smiled at the group and walked towards them.

Their lively banter hushed as I neared them. The group fell silent, knives and leaking fish guts paused in mid air, 20 expectant faces examining mine. I didn't know what they wanted. I know two words of Portuguese and less of Swahili. No one said anything. A younger woman picked up the infant in her lap and walked over to me. She said nothing, she just put the child in my arms and sat back down. I looked at the child, looked back at women. Still no one spoke, perhaps they knew there was no point using words. My mind whirled. Was the child sick? Did it have Aids? Was that its mother? Did it need help? Did she? What would they do if I left with it?

I still don't know. I never will. What is do know is this: this girl from Cape Town knows far less about her own continent that she thought she did.

That's why I travel.