Island and Dreams – The Room

           

After leaving the island, we stayed for a while with our grandma, yet my mother wasn’t happy and quickly found a place for us. I don’t know why she rented such big house just for the three of us, but she seemed to be friend of the lady owner.

 

The house had 14 big rooms downstairs and 18 upstairs. From all that space, we really occupied a little more than ten rooms: entry, study, 1 living, 2 kitchens, 2 rooms, 2 between rooms, 1 playground and 1 bathroom.

 

At that time I was eight years old. I cannot remember if our problems in the house started at once or if it was something that gradually grew inside the building.

 

I can see my sister and I in the room between our bedroom and my mother’s bedroom, both in warm pyjamas, waiting for her to come downstairs with a torch in her hand and reassuring words like: the bathtub tap wasn’t tightly closed and the drops were beating on the metal and the plop-plop echoing all over the empty rooms; or it was the fact that we had left the playground window open and in the middle of the night it started to beat due to the wind.

 

The wakening with strange noises during the night started to happen with such frequency that one day our mother reached a decision:

 

“OK! Enough of it! You two, young ladies, come sleeping with me!” I think that she was also a little scared with the noises inside and outside the house and conceived the idea of closing very well all doors and windows of her room, and this way get security and leave noises, troubles and menaces out.

 

No need to say that we were very glad with the idea of sleeping in the same bed with my mother. It looked safe and funny. My mother’s room was near the main entrance of the house, and was the only one downstairs with a wood floor. Due to a series of aspects, it was also the only one in the house with a cozy feeling in it.

 

Since we left the island my bad dreams seemed to have vanished for good, but the second night after moving to my mother bed they returned in full strength

 

This time the dream was always the same. I was sleeping at my mother right side and my sister on the left. Suddenly a noise inside the room waked me up. The subsequent nights the noise was always of different nature and coming from different places of the room: a metallic noise in front of me, something sliding on the wood floor at a far corner…

 

The first time I opened my eyes due to the noise, I wasn’t scared at all. I could feel my mother very close and that reassured me. Then I saw him. It was the figure of a man without a definite form or face constantly walking on my direction, very slowly. So slowly that he didn’t move at all, but never stopped the walking motion towards me. The only thing I could clearly see in his hand was a metal object of some kind, sometimes flashing in the dark. It looked like a blade or a knife, but almost one year later I would recognize the object of my nightmare as the edge of a domestic iron.

 

This dream repeated every single night that I slept in that room. I was afraid that he would hurt my mother or sister, but in my mind I knew that he was there for me and I adopted a few defensive measures: I never slept with my back to the right, and to achieve it I had to put something hard in the space near, in order that I wouldn’t be able to turn without waking. I remember to suffer a lot because I was always sleeping on the same side and there were nights that I couldn’t sleep at all. I had a very light sleep and if I woke up and saw him, I usually opted for sleeping seated with my back protected by the pillow.

 

My mother saw me a few times in this position, seated with my arms on a defensive manner, and concluded that my sleeping problems were back with a twist: the terror was now silent, but I was showing signs of sleepwalking.

 

There were a couple of reasons to move from that house, besides my sleeping pattern, but my mother could also have remembered the words of the doctor about the necessity of “changing ambiance” in such situations. I think that she wasn’t feeling safe living in that place too.

 

The day we were leaving, the big front door of the house was wide open to move our furniture. One curious old lady that was passing by with her market basket, stopped near the door, looked around and little by little went inside. After a while, she approached the place where my mother and I stood and asked with a gesture:

 

“Did you sleep in that room?”

 

“Yes, we have been sleeping there”, answered my mother.

 

“Why?”, insisted the old lady.

 

“Why not? Is there a problem with it?”, my mother wanted to know.

 

“Well, I was working in this house long time ago, when the old owner family still lived here. The room that you used to sleep in was the place where they put the dead before the burial. Bad choice! Bad choice!”

 

After that she went away with her small old lady steps, leaving us to deal with such disturbing information.

Islands and Dreams – The Walk

 

Eight years went by since the systematic nightmares about the man with the blade in his hand. I have spent most of these years in a special place where everything was scheduled, prepared in advance and calculated to the minimum detail. In that place only peace and good feelings where possible. I was studying in one of the existing schools for the elite.

 

I cannot say that between periods of nightmares I didn’t had dreams at all. That would be impossible, because everybody dreams regularly, agreeable or less agreeable dreams. But there is a clear line between a normal dream activity and the crises I had, some during almost a year, with ups and downs.

 

At fourteen I was back home. I had a couple of worries with exams, but nothing special. Our life was really nice. We lived in a garage party neighborhood. Every weekend one of us organized a nice party at the garage. Garage decoration was a must and the parties could last for two days, while our parent’s car slept outside in the cold nights or under the harsh sun. Usually the girls brought the food, the boys the drinks and the music, while the garage owner offered the place, the sangria or the punch. Good friendship, dancing, first kisses and first boyfriends were the high point of our teen meetings. For my mother and for us, we were living in the best town and neighborhood, and meeting the perfect people.

 

When our life seemed so well, my nightmares started again. This time it happened like this: every night I dreamed that I was at a different location, it could be doing a written exam, at a friends house or any other place, the result was the same. Suddenly I felt restless and was assaulted by the need of walking away from where I was.

 

I didn’t report these dreams to my mother because I didn’t felt very oppressed by them, and if I was talking or screaming during the sleep she would know because she liked to read and watch TV until late, and during that period she used to check to see how we were doing. At that time our father wasn’t yet living with us, he had his businesses and traveled a lot.

 

One night my mother was awake by a noise. It was dawn and she decided to go to the kitchen for water. When she was returning from the kitchen, at the far end of the corridor she saw the street door opening and I entering with my arms raised straight in front of me. She let me pass and saw me enter in my room and go back to my bed as if I was doing a daily routine. She was astonished.

 

My mother decided to investigate what was happening. It was a really friendly family neighborhood and my mother paid with others neighbors to a “guarda nocturno”, a man they could trust to keep the street safe during the night. She called him and after a couple of questions, she was informed that for two nights I was sleepwalking around the neighborhood in the state my mother saw me.

 

He told my mother that he used to follow me, in case I decided to go far from the area, but usually I returned after walking around half an hour. He also explained that he was decided to talk with my mother if he saw me come out for the third night.

 

My mother took a couple of precautions with the doors and windows, and started to close my room door. After those measures, my sleepwalking resumed to seat, walk to the closed door and return to my bed. A short walk, indeed!

 

Why was I sleepwalking after so many years? Was some bad thing about to happen?

 

Some months passed and our perfect life was shattered with disturbing news. My father appeared one day and said the words that we never expected to hear from someone said to be a millionaire: “I have lost everything. I’m back to my paid job and you have to come with me, because I cannot maintain four of even two houses right now.”

 

I remember how sad it was to say goodbye to my friends and the place where we spent the best years of my teens. My mother, particularly, took it badly. I remember that she crushed a couple of expensive Chinese porcelain, as a form of protesting against the unexpected change of plans.

 

We still waited a couple of months for papers and a few arrangements, but when I was seventeen we started our journey to Zambezia.

Islands and Dreams – The Comeback

 

I was recently reading about sleep problems and learned that during childhood they are frequent and normal. I think that it is my case, because my last sleep disturbance happened when I was sixteen and it was an exception.

 

Since then I had a few occasions when I woke up with a bad sensation, a couple of tears during my sleep and the usual nightmare from time to time, nothing that left me worried or with the strange feeling of risk.

 

But some weeks ago I had a powerful dream, during which I could talk with a dead man that said words and revealed incredible things and his opinions on a particular subject. It was only a dream, I thought. I didn’t felt scared, oppressed or even unhappy. On the contrary, I was happy when I dreamed and the dream was somehow useful to make me see a few things under a new perspective.

 

Then came the second dream. This had already all the characteristics of a nightmare. The terror scenery, the fact that I cried while sleeping and the oppression that remained even after the awakening.

 

The third dream happened recently and left me worried, because it started to look like terror. I was inside a big room that looked like a living with lots of books. The focus of the room was a desk where an old lady sat very peacefully doing her things. In front of her there was a balcony with books, where I could see a fat young man hiding and spying on the lady. I could feel that his intentions towards the old lady were the worst possible and I tried to alert her about the danger.

 

I didn’t knew what I was doing inside that house or what my role was in all that was happening, but I really felt compelled to help the lady. Unfortunately, she seemed incapable of seeing or hearing me, despite all my efforts. At a moment, she stood and went to her right where I could see a kitchen. She walked pass me without showing signs of recognizing my presence.

 

I was at the kitchen door when I saw the young man come down the stairs and walk straight to the kitchen in her pursuit. He didn’t show signs of noticing my presence too. When I saw him so near and felt how bad his intentions were, I stepped inside the kitchen decided to do my best to alert the innocent lady.

 

I just remember the pain I felt for her fate and my efforts to tell her about his criminal mind. At that point I was woke by Tó, very surprised with my disconnected cries for help. All the symptoms of terror were there.

 

It was the first time that Paul saw me like this, so I had to explain to him why I was in such deep affliction. Is this a simple nightmare, as people have from time to time? Why did the nightmares returned to me now? Is something bad supposed to happen?

 

Despite the fact that the three dreams are different, is there a common pattern between them? Yes, there is and it is not a good one. Could all this dreaming correspond to what the doctor once said about the necessity of “changing the ambience”?

 

Changing the ambience it is not necessary travel. It means something has to change in my life, in my heart, in my days… It is changing what is wrong and is causing the disturbance. The crescendo is clear. I have to stop it. A change of ambiance is required very soon.

 

At least two of my recent dreams proved to have something to do with reality. I am worried with the third dream. If you are an old lady living with a fat and vicious young fellow, please take care of yourself and avoid any kind of risk because it looks really bad all the hate he is feeling for you.

“Festa”

 

  

“Festa” was a photo exhibition organized in Maputo during several weeks and presented in different parts of the town, covering almost twenty names of professional photographers.

 

After doing a couple of things we had to do, we decided to go for a second round of photography. One of the reasons of going out was the fantastic weather and the trees blossoming all around.

 

Our first visit was paid to Portuguese Rui Paulo da Cruz, showing a good number of works under the title “The Seven Colors of Silence”. Very well presented, for me the big appeal of Da Cruz is the fact that he mixes poetry with image, as he does in the following portrait:

 

Adriana

I almost like the tears that you make me

cry, but I prefer the smiles

that you make me smile, and else

I like the light that you bring to me, when

you do.

 

After some pleasant moments at Instituto Camões, we went strait to the Mozambican Photographers Association where black and white photos from José Cabral could be seen. The exhibition lacked the organization and presentation of the previous stop and I wasn’t authorized to take a picture, even of the room.

 

“If I told you that I was a journalist, could I do it?” The answer was affirmative, but I decided against my first intention. First of all, I didn’t saw a single thing worth to be photographed and second I had to loose my time and patience explaining myself. When I arrived outside, a beautiful red sun was smiling at me.

 

We also went to the Franco-Mozambican Cultural Centre showing “Children With Cameras”, pictures taken by 12 to 14 years olds. The variety wasn’t remarkable or the presentation of the photos very careful, but you must guess what happened: I liked it! The children vision of the world is always captivating and I found a couple with a special touch.

 

One day before Festa closed, we left home on time to go to the last three exhibitions, but due to organization aspects we could only return to the AMF (Mozambican Photographers Association), showing Tim A. Hetherington during the last week of the event, with the support of the British Council. Once more we witnessed an architecture tendency by the eyes of a photographer: the creole architecture. Good use of colors, very professional vision, but the presentation aspect failed.

 

The critics are not only mine. A lot of people complained about organization aspects and the dispersion that characterized the event. When I write these last words about Festa, trying to remember what will remain with me of all the exhibition rooms that I visited, it is not a picture, it is not a face, it is not a place or a name, but a sentence from a wise and talented man:

 

“I claim for the architects the same status that poets and painters have …”

                                                                                 Pancho Miranda Guedes

Moments

            

 

       

While at TD’s apartment we had to deal with an unexpected problem: noise during the night. A couple of blocks from TD’s building, there are student residences or apartments, and the noise coming from that place goes on and on until the first lights of the day.

                          

All that confusion happens with the background noise of the cars on the street. When the wild students decide to calm down, the street sound prevails and rock us until finally we manage to sleep peacefully during the morning. If we ever move to such a noisy neighbourhood, have sound proof walls and windows is a must!

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Last Thurday night Paul and I went to Vi’ s apartment, the only known person left behind since the boys left to Durban. We had different intentions concerning the internet: for one it was the news, for other the blog.

                 

Due to the usual difficulties with the Mozambican server, we were quickly drawn to the general conversation and found ourselves sitting on cushions around what can perfectly be the “lowest dinner table in the world”, with two other couples teaching at Witts university. With our arrival the conversation changed of subject to Mozambique beauty, from that to nutrition, from nutrition to dreams and from dreams to love.

              

“It is impossible to be creative writing in English”, said a nice fellow sitting in front of me. I know that he is an American, perhaps a French Literature teacher. “English is a trade language. I love you is I love you, there is no other way to say it, except for these three words.”

             

I suspect that he is trying to be provocative. If that is the case, he is successful judging by the ladies reactions, including mine. If we don’t accept his opinion, could we give examples? It is not easy. I see the ladies faces trying to base our disagreement.

               

I remember and quote a couple of lines from African poems that I read from time to time. He admits that there are messages of love in these words without using the three in question, but he stretches that Portuguese (a language that he just started to learn) is far more rich in terms of expressivity than French or English. I have some doubts about his opinion, but suddenly I am involved in another discussion to my right side involving Chinese, English, Portuguese and Brazilian poetry.

                

All the conversation was “washed” with a surprisingly tasteful homemade mint and honey tea and the wonderful smile of the apartments owner. This is the kind of convivence we miss and it is becoming difficult to experience in Mozambique, despite the fact that Tó complained later of a back pain due to the unusual seats.

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TD’s building has a nice garden, cared with love by gardener Thomas. We closed the apartment door where we stayed for a couple of days for the second time, leaving the spare keys inside the fridge. The apartment is in front of the hotel we used to stay and still frequent when we need.

          

The day I arrived and Vi found me looking in dismay at the blank picture we offered months ago to TD with a signed photo showing a beautiful rank of trees, Vi exclaimed with complacence:

            

“TD and his minimalism!”

  

He was near and explained to us:

“My intention was to use my own photographs, but when I have a photo that I really like I always give it to someone as a present!”

        

I think TD’s minimalism is a result of being robbed in the past and of his errant life of musician. I quite like his minimalism and Paul is getting used to it. Despite his naked apartment, TD has a few commodities that I do appreciate: a narrow corridor and a great bubble bathtub with twelve yellow little ducks and a Spiderman!

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Outside is grey and raining. The voice on the local radio jokes about G. W. Bush and famous couples separating. I look at the window in front of me and on my left, and my eyes follow the dance of the raindrops.

          

One by one they do the same movement: they get stronger, they gather momentum and they run straight and without hesitation to the same direction. Just like I shall do.

Highs and Lows

We started Wednesday with a breakfast that is also becoming a Rosebank tradition. After a little of shopping, salad lunch and rest at the “apart” for one part of the group, and DVD “Lost in La Mancha” for the other (about filmmaker Terry Gilliam’s failure to complete “The Man Who Killed Don Quixote”), we met friend and adviser CS at Rosebank Hotel.

         

We had to go to the internet cafe because Vi, the only with internet in the group, is doing exams. After returning to the base, we decided to finish the day with a light dinner and a wicked movie. The high point of Wednesday was the iPod gift from son to mum. A few hours later, while watching the hilarious movie in group, I would lose a ring twice the cost of an iPod. Plans for further action are on hold for next time due to five unexpected gigs in Durban.

    

Thurday was a good day. I went to Sandton shopping centre, where I have swapped breakfast and shopping for some time in front of a computer. After that I took a “suggestion” from someone and went to a restaurant called Tsunami, where some wine and a gift made my afternoon enjoyable. After returning to TD’s place, we talked and danced while he was preparing his things to leave to Durban.

       

Arrived from the airport, where we left the last group of performers, we went to Vi’s apartment with the intention of posting something quit for the first time. Instead, we found ourselves in the middle of a nice chat with Vi and friends. Today it will be a peaceful day, perhaps the only exciting thing in the program is a movie. Saturday we will have another bath of grey: asphalt, trout and sky.

Details of a Journey

 

My Tuesday was like a picture in two colors. The trip was all grey: the asphalt, the trout place, the sky… The mood of the travellers was good, but the weather seemed to affect it in a certain degree.

 

The arrival was all lilac, because we are always greet by the breathtaking sight of the jacarandas on TD’s street. I have the heart of a traveller and because of this I pack bits and peaces of me spread all over that I rush into a suitcase, and reinvent myself each opportunity I have to go away.

 

The first significant words that I saw when I entered in the place where I am right now, were on a billboard: “There are none so blind as those who do not see.” This message left me also a little grey, but I do recognize that I have to see a couple of things about myself.

 

My good mood returned after discovering the boys watching a romantic movie (A Lot Like Love) in one of the three apartments they rent on the same building. After the necessary talk (that imcluded the premier of a new project called Neighbours) and a tradicional Italian dinner, we concluded our journey.

Last Photos

 

 

Before leaving on duty for Durban and later to USA, JP had the opportunity to do a lot of fishing with our German friends. They used to go to same banks and reefs on the north shore of Maputo bay.

 

When the weather was fair, they also ventured to the south, where are situated Inhaca island and Santa Maria channel. Some of the last pictures from these fishing trips show that big game still exists not far from Maputo, moments that JP for sure will miss where he is right now.

 

During the last years, our semi-rigid boat Gemini, Navegador, built in Durban-SA, proved to be a reliable partner. This type of boat is very good for diving and most of the water sports, or just for a boat trip with friends and family. We faced various situations of bad weather, but we always arrived safe at the club. The boat can load up to 12 people, but the best performance is achieved with a crew of three or four, with a 100HP engine.

“Showing Off”

 

 

 

If you are a sport fisherman, one of the most important moments of the fishing activity is the “showing off”. After arriving at the dock and taking from the boat the result of hours of diving or rod fishing, the fish is carefully arranged for exhibition. There is always a camera to capture the moment, particularly if it was an exceptional day.

 

The fishermen pose for the camera, in group or individually, if there is a reason to be proud of the quantity or of a particular fish. For instance: Jo is proud of the groupers he helped to caught, NB shows a barracuda, Di and JP divide the honor of another big catch. Without pictures, who would believe in such abundance?

“Marinheiros”

 

 

 

We call marinheiros to the staff who help in the marina. They do most of the necessary jobs to maintain the place organized, specially the rented boxes. When the boat arrives, they are the ones responsible for the manouvre to take it from the water.

 

After that, they help to clean the boat and all material with running water. One of the favorite jobs is to help emptying the hold when it is full of fish, because they know that some of them will end up in a nice stew at their own houses.

 

From all the marinheiros that helped us with our boat, our favorite was Miguel, a smiling man who had the strange characteristic of speaking currently two languages: Portuguese and German. He learned German when he was working as a butcher in former East Germany, and he is quite good at it. We lost all contact with Miguel when we changed from club Marítimo to Naval, but he still must be there smiling and showing how well he speaks German.