The Deserted Island

The Deserted Island

September, 2013

Walking through the streets of Isla de Mozambique feels like walking through a museum that hasn’t been curated or cared for in years. The houses look like they should be beginning to crumble yet they stand defiant, proud and strong in the face of years of neglect. Hugging the island are beaches, graced by white sand, unspoiled and ungroomed, and blue water, warmed by the sun. Connecting one end, where you can find the grandiose abandoned houses of the Portuguese, to the other, where most of the Mozambicans live in shacks with tin roofs, are dirt roads flanked by concrete sidewalks, varying in quality and the number of potholes. There are a few modern fixtures, including a nightclub and a cell phone store, but most of the island seems to be from a different era.

Isla de Mozambique was originally an island held a Bantu tribe. In 900 AD it was occupied first by Arabs, looking to set up trading posts and then by Portuguese, for whom it was a key trading post en route to India. Following a prosperous period marked by economic expansion and architectural development, including the building of mighty fortresses that remain today, Isla fell into decline in the 17^th century. But as the demand for slaves across the world grew in the second half of the 18^th century, so did Isla’s economy. When the capital of Mozambique, a colony at the time, was shifted to Maputo (where it remains today) the economy again slowed down. But what truly brought Isla down to its knees was the sudden evacuation of Portuguese, many of whom identified themselves as Mozambican at the time, at the time of independence. In 1975, FRELIMO, in what Wikipedia has coined “an act of vengeance”, ordered all Portuguese to evacuate the country within 24 hours with only 20 kgs (44lbs) of belongings. Houses were locked up and abandoned and many seem to remain untouched from that day.

To me though, Isla de Mozambique was a soft bed at the end of a long journey, a cold drink after a rough day or a refreshing dip in the ocean after toiling in the sun. It was, in a word, paradise. I wake up early, when the sun wasn’t yet too hot, and go sit on the roof of the hostel and read a book with my coffee and cigarettes. The sun kisses my bare arms and legs and my eyes begin to get heavy and the words in my books turn to cloudy drops of ink and eventually and inevitably, I doze off. 

In my sleep, I find myself walking through Isla in its many high points. The houses, splendid in their size and architectural design, tower above me, not like NYC skyscrapers in their steel casings and sharp corners, but more kind and soft. The hustle and bustle of the streets is full of energy and vibrancy. The parks are teeming with children, holding hands, skipping and singing, as kids can only do in dreams. I walk along the carefully manicured streets and under the shadowy protection of trees but the further I get away from the houses, the more the scenery changes. Suddenly, I find myself at the tip of the island where the fortresses are. They seem to be flexing their muscles with their high walls and circling guards but I’m not the threat. They face outwards at the sea, keeping an eye out for intruders. I turn and slowly wander away from the fortresses and the stone houses and the transformation is immediately obvious. No longer is the street teaming with Portuguese dressed in elegant summer clothes bristling with excitement at the debutante ball tomorrow, but instead its crowded with Mozambican men carrying recently caught fish, kids playing with homemade toys and women headed in the opposite direction, on their way to work in the houses of the rich. Where the houses were once stone, they are now straw. It isn’t a depressing scene per se but there is a tangible difference from earlier.

When I eventually rouse myself from sleep, it’s time to explore the depths of the island and to go for a swim in the Indian Ocean. The heat has gotten intense now but the weather is dry and there’s a light breeze. This isn’t the NYC heat that makes your clothes cling to you and your hair stick to your forehead within minutes. Instead it’s a pleasant heat. Granted, it’s the winter here and I can’t imagine how hot it gets in the summer but for now, its bearable and even enjoyable.

The first few days, the streets were usually pretty empty, save for a few kids fooling around and some stray dogs. The dogs were particular fun to watch. They had their block that they guarded so that if you wandered onto it, you would immediately be surrounded by barking dogs. But they kept their distance and never got close enough to feel properly threatening. All bark and no bite.

The best walk was to the old fortresses. I only saw the outside of the fort and didn’t venture inside but there was still enough to see and take in. It seems the fortresses from my daydream have aged quite a bit, albeit very well. Restoration efforts are being undertaken to preserve this UNESCO World Heritage Site and you can begin to see the patchwork on the outer parts. Indeed here more so than anywhere else, the restoration efforts seem to not be disturbing the beauty of the original architecture. In fact, one amazing thing about Isla is that in all of its years of development and decay, the same building techniques, the same materials and the same principles were unwavering stuck to, giving the island a sense of unity through time.

Finally I reach the dock, strip down to my bathing suit, carefully climb down the stairs and dive in.
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