When in Mozambique....

We had just finished setting up camp when we saw the fishing boats come in. I had pitched my tent on a grassy patch under a bunch of trees; enough to ensure shade throughout the whole day. - A late sleep in, plus an afternoon nap. Perfect. Inhassoro was a lazy town, and as they say: When in Rome...

We left our stuff scattered around the camp site without even a second though and walked onto the beach to see if we could buy a fish or two for dinner. We had decided that tonight we were going to braai. On the menu was garlic breads and fish. The day had started with a trip to the market. Whole garlics, fresh lemons and onions, butter, salt, warm baguettes from the bakery. With our new Mozambiquian bargaining skills we had picked it all up for a steal and a smile.

The fishermen on the beach were carrying a few big fish and their spear guns. Not a massive haul and not for sale. Unsuccessful, we turned round and headed back to the camp site. A beautiful grassy plot about 3km from the town center. Thats when we noticed the action up ahead on the beach.

Two lines of guys pulling the long ropes of fishing nets out the ocean. The system was genius. Two Dhows go out and drop a net about 3km off shore. One dhow returns with the ends of the 3km ropes. On the shore, each line is pulled by three sets of two men. Each set will take a big wooden stick, fasten it to the rope and pull the stick up the beach. Like a conveyor belt, when a set reaches the end of the line, they detach it and move back to the front, and like this, the net slowly moves closer to shore. The second dhow stays at sea to man the net.

We walked up to them and offered our help. We weren't looking for free fish or even a 'Mozambique expereince'. Rather, we just wanted to help work. It was like building the table at Lucio's house. You can sit in the hammock, read and buy your dinner. But then you are the foreigners who sit in the hammocks and buy dinner. Or you can get involved, pull your weight and do something memorable. And as they say, when in Rome...

The fishermen happily accepted our help. They grabbed us some sticks and welcomed us in. The kids hanging around laughing at the sight of us sweating and grunting as we joined the ranks of locals pulling the net on shore.

The sun was hot and the work was hard. For those at home wanted a 6-pack and ripped biceps, forget gym. Become a fisherman. Our rest day had become a day of labour. The kids laughter had long subsided and we grew tired alongside the guys, grunting war cry rythms as we watched the dhow in the distance slowly move towards the shore.

Hours later the whole village was on the beach to coordinate the arrival of the net. See this was no wholesale operation. This was dinner. I was hit by the sudden realisation that i was taking part in a netting haul - the process which indiscriminately rapes the oceans, killing everthing in its path. Yet this makeshift fishing net and man pulled line system was not exactly the global enterprise, catching tons of fish each day. Yet the irony and conflict of the situation was not ignored.

The sun was already on its way down and it was deep into magic hour when the net finally reached the beach. Mamas and kids were all out to stake their claim and do their part in the system to earn their share. Nets needed maintenance, fish needed cleaning.

The nets flapped, flopped and hissed as the catch finally revieled itself. A big catch, maybe hundreds of small fish of different sorts. But I was pleasently surprised by how small the catch actually looked. When the fish finally settled and died and those with the biggest fight in them had gasped their last attempt at sipping in water, the fish sat silent with eyes and mounts open - dead and ready for eating. Just the way you find them at Pick n Pay.

Hords of men lunged at the fish; grabbing and arguing over the biggest ones. The children ran around the sides picking up those that had fallen out of the net, threading pieces of reed through the gills and collecting a line of fish to take home or sell. Women held packets and breast milked babies, waiting to be given their share. I saw a woman pcik up a deadly poisonous puffer fish with her bare hands and put it in her bucket.

Through the chaos there was laughter and chatting and structure. Every now and again one fisherman would through a praw our way to chuck in our bucket. "Does everything get eaten?" I asked. "Yes" he laughed. "Nothing gets thrown back or wasted?". He laughed even harder. "Nothing".

This was not wholesale operation, and this was probably illegal and immoral in most first world countries. But this was not most first world countries, and this was not I&J. This was dinner. Dinner for a small village on the coast of Mozambique.

Down the pecking order they went and people moved up the beach with their buckets full. Now it was out turn. They took our bucket and loaded in about 20 small fish, telling us the names of the three species (each one had both fins and scales). :)

We thanked them graciously and in Siswati, which always causes great commotion and laughter - and returned home to get our braai on. Home made garlic bread with fresh garlic. Fresh fish covered in lemon and garlic butter and salt. A few dosh-ms. We were the only people in the cmap site so we invited to security guard to come eat with us.

As we sat licking our fingers, stuffed from dinner and exhausted from the days haul - we listen to the waves crashing 20 meters away and felt the cool sea breeze on our faces. Nugs sat back, still in his speedo and sighed. "Jusis, everyone else in the world should be kicking themselves for not being here right now".