Gangplank Regrets - Mozambique 2006

Another one of my letters home, this time from Mozambique. By now I had been living and working outside of the United Kingdom for several years. 

When I read these letters again, I see a certain level of naivety to my thoughts. It is difficult not to get wrapped up into your current circumstances in life. There is one thing that does seem to be an overriding theme throughout my letters, and that is my perception of not knowing where I fit in.  As I post more of these old correspondence and go through old emails, I realize that the front that I present is actually quite fragile. There have been a number of occasions that I have nonchalantly brushed off some troubling events and have often found escape in some harmful habits and pastimes. 

“It is not too hard to fall and I don’t want to scare her and it is not hard to fall, and I don’t want to lose. It is not too hard to grow old and I just don’t know” Damien Rice “Cannonball” from the album O

Dear All,

 With the delights of modern technology and the inbuilt battery within the computer, I am sat writing this dispatch from a small village on the Indian Ocean. It is a village without electricity, running water and all the amenities that we take for granted in our lives. Yet without these things the children live a life content, playing games with a football made from plastic bags, oxen tow the carts full of produce to the market, and the fishing boats bring in the daily catch of tuna, squid and prawns. Yet, I wonder what they want out of life, what would make them content; do they have ambitions to travel, to see the world outside of their village? Or am I applying the thoughts from a western upbringing? The incongruous influence of the Frelimo party is in evidence, as it is in all of these villages. The local commissar stirs the crowds up at the meetings we hold with the standard chants, and songs. Yet what has this government provided them with? The chanting is slightly Orwellian and seems to be the standard mantra. As if by singing, they will remedy the problems of no school, no medical point, and no running water and a life expectancy of thirty four years of age.

 In comparison, I spent my leave leading a decadent, frivolous time tramping around Cornwall, heading into restaurants, nice bars and pubs. Drinking myself into a stupor, wondering if it isn’t about time I came home. Rounds of golf followed by sailing on yachts, which the guys I work with, would have to live several lifetimes to be able to afford. It is a cliché to speak about culture shock, yet every time I return home I am affected more and more by the lifestyle that is available. I am seeing friends settling down, getting married and getting that mortgage. Each time I come home, it is becoming more difficult to walk down the gangplank and onto the return flight. I was dreading the return to Mozambique, the thought of having to return to Mueda, my home for the last eighteen months, was overwhelming. The time I spent there has seen a great change in me; the isolation had me at times questioning my sanity. The hours spent reflecting on life and what I want out of it became obsessive. I found myself comparing just about everything going on in my life, the question “what if?” often entered my thoughts.

 During my leave I met a fantastic girl, someone I have known for years but have not seen for such a long time. This girl has the most amazing smile and a great outlook on life. We went to a Ball and for me she shined as the most beautiful woman there. The previous week I spent sailing I just could not think of anything else but seeing her. Yet knowing that I was flying back out to Africa, saw me once again bringing down the shutters and fucking up. Three weeks of normality just wasn’t enough. I was desperate to stay for a few more days, show a bit of courage and actually express the feelings that I felt. Yet it is easier to run, it always has been, hopefully it won’t always be this way. It’s just becoming a habit of letting good things go, and then wondering “what if?”

 Here I go again with the poor me attitude, and then I look out into the village and I realise that I am one lucky son of a bitch.

 As always all my love

 David