On the road to Mussoril, in Cabo Delgado, the dirt path stretches endlessly ahead. Now and then, we pass someone walking, with no idea where they come from or where they’re going. Eventually, we stop at a thatched hut where two elderly women are cooking yam over an open fire for lunch.
Eventually, we stop at a thatched hut where two elderly women are cooking yam over an open fire for lunch.We don’t share a common language, but we received their consent to take photographs and for Francisco Leal to record sound.
We didn’t stay long.
As we left, thanking them with gestures, there remained a bittersweet feeling—how easily, perhaps carelessly, we sometimes appropriate others.
I couldn’t write down their names, nor the exact location of this brief encounter. And I understood little to nothing about these women’s daily lives. Even now, I don’t know how I could have, given the circumstances.
I’m not sure which of us felt more awkward. And I can’t help but wonder how we would react if the situation were reversed.