The Magic of Mozambique

I had never tasted a mango until I met Armando Flor Mabutana. Well, certainly none quite as tasty as those we greedily devoured that hot December day.

The 72-year old mango king of Macaneta sat us sun-kissed travellers down on a couch of two boxes and a wooden plank. A bowl filled with the fleshy fruit quickly appeared before us. Yellow juices dribbled down our chins as Armando's mango supply went into steady decline. After the long dusty walk in the midday sun, we relaxed in the warm hospitality and took in the rural simplicity surrounding us.

Recent heavy rains had transformed the coastal lowland into a lush green oasis. Pear trees hung heavy with fruit. Pigs snuffled noisily in the dust at our feet. Scrawny chickens scavenged for mango skins. And Armando's many grandchildren cautiously advanced to examine the strange white visitors. 'So this is the real Mozambique, the Mozambique of old,' I thought to myself. A time long before the invasion of civil war and scuba tanks. A time when man lived off the land and the sea and worried about nothing. A time long gone. Except for Macaneta.

Armando is one of those peaceful simple souls. Apart from four years in the 40's when he worked as a painter in South Africa, all his life he has toiled and lived and loved on Ponta de Macaneta. 'I was born here, this is my home,' he said proudly, showing us the thatched huts he shares with his wife, three daughters and 12 grandchildren. 'I know everyone who lives here, I know everything about Macaneta.' Armando's toothy smile broadened into a grin as we admired his home-made catapult. 'This 'fesga' I made myself two years ago. I use it to shoot 'pomba' and 'rolla' which we cook on the fire. The big birds always taste good,' he beamed in his best broken English.