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(not a monkey?)

Today I saw for the first time in Angoche in the wild, two small monkeys who paused in their business to carefully observe us as we walked along the path to Thamole.  The white hair on their heads and beards makes them look like two prematurely aged old men exchanging views upon the events of the day.  The tide is out and the elevated mud path between mud flats and mango groves gives us a good view of the small crabs which scuttle towards their homes seeking to avoid undue attention during their hectic activities.  It is mid-day and the sun-baked path makes for uncomfortable walking.  After a 20 minute walk we emerge at the boat passenger shelter which provides a suitable sleeping spot for two Koti youths.  Now we were able to see Thamole lying in a low and lazy aspect across a zig-zag of sand flats.  Two small white Ibis drift across the bright blue sky as we seek to negotiate a dignified embarkation onto a small wooden vessel.  Our boatman is muscled like an Olympic sprinter and pushes the boat off with an indolent ease which belies his physical strength.  As his punting pole slides through his hands and I considered how different this is to the River Kennet in Oxford.  The water is deep but the distance is short.  Our boatman gestures towards his cloth purse strung around his neck and we each pay our 2 Meticais (about 5 pence) for the short estuary crossing.  There follows a walk between coconut palms and prickly pear cactus and after another 20 minutes we arrive somewhat hot and sticky at the scattered village.

A Thamole boat bus

Low huts made from mud, sticks and palm foliage provide minimal shelter to a community of 2,500 people.  After resting on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chair in the shade provided by the eaves of one of these huts we find ourselves gradually surrounded by friends.  I love playing simple games with the children, drawing in the sand with a spine from a coconut palm.  They attentively watch every move and imitate each word or action with laughter in their eyes and just rags on their bodies.  Our friend Victor then leads us through the sand with clutches of small children attached to our hands, competing for a suitable finger or thumb to be grasped with glue like determination.  Our house calls require the employment of our limited Koti language and derive disproportionate smiles.  Most homes are small and lurk low, often taking Tower of Pisa attitudes and providing tenuous shelter for sleeping and cooking.  In the hot sun these homes provide a modicum of relief for the typically large families, but in the wind and the rain they must provide little relief from the elements.  A large block primary school squats in the sand providing a base for 12 teachers and hundreds of children.

During a short meeting in what is called “the house of prayer” men, children and mothers group themselves separately singing with gusto but at times limited tuning!  We engage them in a short drama telling the story of an angry king, three well dressed men, an angel and an incredibly hot fire. Our chosen king finds it much easier to smile rather than look furious and his attempts at the latter evoke much amusement.  Our meeting is about to finish but one of the island ladies interrupts, asking for an opportunity to speak.  My heart sinks a little, is this a complaint or another request?  But no, I know the Koti word “kashakurela” means “thank you” and heartfelt gratitude is being expressed for the agricultural project supported by finances from the UK.  Humbled I go over and look into her dark brown eyes, thanking her for the expressed appreciations.

Here's looking at you kids!

Upon our return we decide to walk along the beautiful beach and are surprised by a nimble group of white and pink flamingos, which tip-toe along the foreshore.  Some look like tall well-to-do gentlemen with prominent noses, whilst others look like nervy and unsteady children.

The tide is now in and the narrow estuary has become a wide expanse of choppy water.  Our boatman is just off-loading passengers on the far-side so we lay in the sand, chatting with each other and watching a soft-red sun quickly descend behind the tree-lined horizon. Our boatman collects us from the beach and strings an oar against a small pillar on the side of the boat to provide some purchase.  A young assistant wields a very long pole and we meander back towards Angoche.  It is now a beautiful warm evening and as we walk back along the muddy peninsular path we reflect upon the days experiences.

How grateful we are for the home comforts which we so often take for granted – shelter, food and water.

How much enthusiasm these Koti children have to learn, and how friendly they are toward adults.

How humbled and bemused we are by the inadequacies and inequalities of our world.

How much we want to make a difference by being friends to these people.

How privileged we feel to have been given the opportunity to be a small part of these people’s lives.

How tomorrow will be another day, but what will it bring? More of the same or maybe something different?

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