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The Dhow of Mozambique
by Willow King
Excerpts:
One year’s accumulations crammed into the rucksack, passport well oiled, quinine buzzing in the ears reducing the malaria to a hallucinatory memory, I leave Zimbabwe, where I’ve been living and working, and head for Mozambique, a vision of the sea holding my hand. . .
. . . . . . I buy some fresh crabs, sura and a few puros and head for Jordão’s -- a friend I met on my last pass through town. Jordão and his wife Amalia are home, cooking by candlelight. Together we eat, drink and smoke. We talk about the coast, the tides, the war and memories as the children sneak in and out of the house, giggling wildly. Jordão tells me of an Englishman who is running sailing trips to the archipelago of islands off the coast, a nice man who speaks no Portuguese and seems in a bit over his head.All night I dream of my grandfather’s sailboat, him yelling commands and me frantically turning cranks and gathering up wet fallen sails. In the morning, we go to see John the Englishman. . .
