This cover photo is the Post Office on Ilha De Mozambique. Now how do I know that? you ask; there are no signs nor logos. There is however a slotted red box on the street in front of the building that says “Correios” – mail.  Once I step inside, the clerk immediately pulls out a packet of postcards of the island – yes, just what I’ve been looking for. With his two or three words of English and some sign language I gather that the Big Man will have to return before I can even see any stamps (“stamp” is easy to pantomime, by the way). The next day the Big Man is still not available and I’m forced to leave the cards with the clerk after paying for the postage – he assured me that he would post them. Yet what I really wanted was to see the stamps – are they beautiful birds? Flowers? Shells? Guess that will have to wait until the next PO assuming I can find one.

Ilha (pronounced E-la) is a sun-bleached town of crumbling architecture reminiscent of Zanzibar. The 15th through 19th century Portuguese stronghold, the buildings were constructed using stone shipped all the way from Europe as well as local land coral. Hard to imagine why European stone was needed but much of what the early colonizers did stretches the imagination. The ramparts of the old fort are lined with cannons. Many, many cannons, some date stamped with 1539 on them. There is a Jardim de Memória (memorial garden) at the slave trading warehouse which does little to explain those horrors, real and unfathomable. The garden is more a tribute to the conglomeration of peoples that slavery created on Ilha and in Moz, a by-product of centuries of evil.

The enormous Governors Palace is well-preserved and sparkling clean, the many wood-planked floors shine without a speck of dust. In fact the entire island is remarkably tidy. The streets are neatly laid with pavers and are swept every morning. The people are polite if somewhat solemn; the island vibe is minimal here. Of course there are hustlers, their efforts easy to dispel although it would be nice to help each and every young man trying to make a living selling shell necklaces. There are just way too many young men, and even more small children. Good luck to them, they will need it.

Hydroplaning along the road in a vicious downpour, we travel south to Quelimani, past the endless parade of people who are walking, riding bikes, and piled on motorcycles. Mozambique is not giving up her real self easily. The language barrier is part of it and the north is not really on the tourist route unless you fly into Pemba to dive. We’ve been told that the biggest natural gas deposit in the world has been discovered near here and a ruby mine has opened, inspiring a “ruby rush” in the interior. But local life on the road is as slow-paced as it is everywhere we’ve been. We’ll keep going and see some more of it. We like what we’ve experienced so far.