Approaching Maratane Refugee Camp, Mozambique

Nampula is cursorily dismissed by my guidebook as “just another Southern African every town,” a description which overlooks its shabby charms and jostling markets. Leaving these, admittedly, rather modest attractions behind, the tarmac morphs into a long dusty, palm-tree bordered road, and the urban sprawl of 1960s-built high rises recedes into open, shrubby savannah. It's just after the rainy season and although shorter than usual (a drought is feared in these parts), the land still looks lusciously lime-coloured. The horizon is dominated by rocky outcrops, the most prominent resembling an old man's face staring up at the sky. Tenacious hawkers give way to determined cyclists balancing 8 foot-long sugar canes that brush the road yet, somehow, don't impede the rider. Villagers, brandishing umbrellas as shields from the searing sun, trudge into town.

Half an hour later, a freshly painted sign says “Centro de Refugiados: 7km.” One or two optimistic vendors try to sell small piles of neatly arranged tomatoes and shallots at the road's edge. The vehicle turns right down a narrow dirt strip, hugged on either side by imposing elephant grass. It's just ten more minutes of bumpy travel to reach the camp entrance. But 'camp' seems like a misnomer. The road widens out, attractively lined with yellow budded acacias and cashew nut trees. This looks like an ordinary, well-kept Mozambican village. A young girl performs cartwheels on the grassy verge and a few boys kick a football around (and it's a proper ball, unlike the one the local lads down the road were using).

The camp is tiny compared to most: fewer than five thousand people reside here. Mozambique is an arduous trek from the main refugee producing countries in Central Africa, but word has slowly spread that life is comparatively good at Maratane: the government has even begun to install electricity here. Hence, it receives a small but steady inflow of new arrivals each month.

2 Months later...

On leaving the camp for the last time, I turned around for a final lingering look at the rocky outline of the old man's face still gazing up at the sky, like an ancient gnarled prophet, behind Maratane.

World Refugee Day was nearly over: only minutes before, I'd been dancing in the dust with friends to the camp's band: The Refugee All Stars' renditions of contagious Congolese tunes. A song by a Mozambican Macua musician played on the radio, but its summery, laid-back melody didn't alter my melancholy mood. Perhaps it was seeing the once vibrant green savannah now burnt bronze by the sun. This did not bode well for the imminent tomato harvest.

Reflecting on my time spent in the camp, I knew I really ought to have learnt more than a smidgen of Swahili. Feelings of guilt also came suddenly: it had been a pleasure to spend time talking to Maratane's residents; but now I was leaving. Meanwhile, most refugees would continue to eke out a meagre existence while they waited with infinite patience for the distant prospect of living a better life overseas.

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