On my very first trip to Mozambique, I decided it was the last place I would ever want to live. This was a strange reaction considering the fact that we were there to contemplate doing just that. My parents accompanied my husband and me on a weekend trip to Maputo, Mozambique’s capital, to scout out the land. My husband had been offered a position as project manager for a Christian medical organization based in Maputo, but first we had to decide if we felt we could handle living there financially and otherwise. I did my best to be open to the possibility, but the pot-holed highway that jarred us through strange, new territory was only the first of many factors that seemed intent on dissuading me.
We made this trip in January, 1993, just months after Mozambique signed the Peace Accord ending over two decades of civil war. Around one million people were killed and 1.7 million fled the country during those years of terror and turmoil. What remained was “an impoverished and traumatized population, scores of former fighters with dim prospects and growing income disparities,” all of which fuelled the illegal arms trade and bred widespread banditry (Faltas and Wolf 7, 12). As we crossed the border from South Africa to Mozambique, we were welcomed by war-weary soldiers with plenty of time to conduct exhaustive vehicle searches and, if need be, find even a trumped up infraction so they could exact a bribe. When we finally made it past the soldiers, we drove the EN1, one of Mozambique’s main national highways, through countryside long since deserted by anything living or friendly. All that remained on the scrubby land’s profile were vacant, bullet-pocked farm houses and burned, rusting vehicles--the remains of violent ambushes--abandoned in awkward positions along the highway. Overgrown thorn bushes encroached on the crumbling asphalt reclaiming territory long lost. Clusters of yawning pot holes and trenches dug across the highway forced us to a slow crawl for the entire 120 kilometre stretch between the South African border and Maputo. Ignorant tourists we were, inching along at a snail’s pace on an abandoned stretch of highway like wounded prey primed for the taking. We learned later that armed ambushes were still common on that road.
Maputo itself was in a very sad state of disrepair. Abandoned shells of vehicles, then referred to as “The Queens of the City,” lined the city’s streets. Buildings blackened by mildew begged for a fresh coat of paint and broken windows requested new replacements as well. Huge rats scurried back and forth between the dark shadows of buildings stealing any possible morsels left by beggars. The stench of sprawling piles of rotting garbage and raw sewage flowing in the streets was both repulsive and inescapable. Add to that bleak scenario the constant threat of dangerous diseases like malaria, cholera and typhoid, coupled with inadequate health services, and this place certainly did not beckon me to “come hither.” Our children were 4 and 6 years old at the time, and the prayer “Lord, please say you don’t want us to come here!” ran relentlessly through my mind.
Over the next few months a series of amazing things fell into place, and we decided, after much consideration, that Mozambique was where God wanted us to be. And Maputo, the city I so loathed, became my home. At that time the entire country lay in ruins, and the fear of deadly landmines scattered helter-skelter across the land kept peasants and agriculturalists safely away. There were countless weapons caches after the war; in fact, according to a joint report done by World Vision and the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC), there were an estimated six million AK-47’s in circulation in 1995. Many combatants were reticent to hand in their weapons partly because they were considered a “life insurance policy” in case the peace process failed. Gun trafficking and armed assaults hit an all-time high (Faltas and Wolf 10, 11). Armed bandits and ambushes along the country’s main access routes were the order of the day. On one occasion, our friends narrowly escaped tragedy during an ambush along the EN1 when the bandits’ AK-47 jammed—an extremely rare occurrence. But despite all this there was a terrific influx of people, both foreign aid workers and returning refugees.
We travelled to South Africa every month on that very highway with our two young children to shop for groceries and do business. We drove a single cab pick-up back then, and the kids rode in bucket seats in the back canopy. At the beginning of each trip, we would warn them that should they ever hear gunfire at any point during the trip they were to drop from their seats and lie flat on the floor. (As I write this, I shake my head in wonder at what brave-hearted fools we were. But we were not alone. Many others, like us, also ran the gauntlet out of necessity with the blissful certainty that nothing would happen to them. And for the most part, nothing did.) As the traffic picked up on the main highways, so did the rate at which pot holes widened and deepened making the entire trip an exhausting, nerve racking experience.
Mozambique’s landscape started to change dramatically as police investigations located scores of weapons caches and as demining activity got underway. Initially, refugee resettlement was held in check due to uncertainty of the exact location of thousands of landmines scattered nationwide. With assistance from expatriate demining organizations, however, “the Mozambique National Demining Institute reported that in 2001 nearly two million square meters of land were cleared and 2,727 landmines were destroyed, permitting significant economic development and allowing refugees to resettle on safe land”(Kindig). As demining activity progressed, Mozambique’s countryside began to boast a more traditional African appearance as grass huts dotted the shrubby landscape once again. The country’s main highways, which had been focal points of countless ambushes, eventually became safer as UN soldiers were deployed to protect main entry and exit routes. The icing on the cake was when many of these highways, marred beyond recognition by years of abuse and neglect, underwent restoration as millions of aid dollars poured in. Sadly, some road reconstructions were poorly done with the end result being that those roads deteriorated again very quickly. That was just fine with the pot holes—it made reclaiming their territory that much easier.
After two years in Maputo our family moved further north, into the bush actually, where things were even more difficult. There were a few times, when circumstances were particularly difficult, that I considered packing up and leaving. But those feelings usually only lasted a day or two, just enough time to readjust my perspective. In time, our family adapted to Mozambique, fell in love with its people and called it home.
Today, fifteen years after the cease-fire, with a growing economy and several free and fair national elections under its belt, Mozambique looks drastically different than it did in 1993. Within the cities, many buildings have been delightfully renovated, and those “Queens of the City” have long since been towed away and disposed of. New luxurious housing complexes even give some sections of Maputo a slightly sophisticated air. Outside city limits, the nation’s highways are lined with patches of cleared land as people move into demined areas and plant crops of pineapple, cassava and spindly maize. The unruly bush has been cut back and subdued. The potholes, however, have stood the test of time. Despite repeated road work projects funded by nations working together to help improve Mozambique’s highways, the potholes have defiantly regrouped and resurfaced time and time again.
We have changed over the years, too. Our children have grown up and are now pursuing their own destinies in Canada. My husband and I, somewhat older now, are referred to as “Father” and “Mother” by both the young and old Mozambicans that we serve—many of them ex-combatants. The most important change for me is that though there are still many challenges to living here I, like the pot holes, am determined to stay. This is where I am supposed to be.
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