The Indian Ocean is an aromatic, warm, dreamy sea. I know it from where it washes on the shores of Mozambique. It brings strange fruits and husks floating on the tide, foreign creatures from far away lands the other side of the world, and sea flora of the most intriguing varieties. And it is warm; it comes in saturated hues of blue, emerald green, even purple but never the harsh battleship grey of the Atlantic. Of course those days I spent on the shores of Angola I could see the softer side of the Atlantic waters, but it never approaches the mysterious beauty of the Indian: It is of course incongruous to say this, but thinking of it brings to mind sandalwood; Zanzibar bazaars; playful octopus colonies slithering among smooth rocks underfoot; delicate, lazy, waving long strands of bright green seaweed; and of course the white empty, smooth beaches of Bazaruto; the white washed minimal structures of Mozambique Island... forgetting the sharks in Beira or the treacherous undertow in Ponta do Ouro. I made this piece thinking of the oyster sellers in Quelimane. Nothing they owned or used looked anything like this; and yet this is for me the perfect translation of all that happened there, including the marvellous spectacle of watching monkeys fishing for crabs with their tails. Those skinny, fastidious little creatures would perch over the water on rocks and dip their tails in the water quite low near the bottom until a crab grabbed on whereupon it was immediately scooped up and dashed open and gobbled up with smacking of lips and screeching in glorious mirth. Little eyes like burning coals. This is my celebration of warm sea breezes, pale sands, sighing waves, vanilla days in the '50s. The other side of this story is the rising sea levels threatening those beautiful islands, much of the low lying coast (most of Beira is actually more than one metre below sea level. I used to bemoan the fact that so many tourists had discovered those lovely places; now I see that rather than being spoiled and soiled, they will just disappear under the sea. Maybe other marvels will take their place of wonder.
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I have been charting the progress of a piece of work which has taken on the decisions for its own destiny.
I know how this story will end but what happens in the meantime depends on Chris Whitty, Boris Johnson, Sir Patrick Vallance, The WHO, my kiln... and many more. I will just follow the trail and beaver away at this project until it is all over, however many years it takes. And then, BOOM! The Corona Virus C-19 came to my attention at a problematic time, when I had to travel. I had to come and go several times across borders and the flights were al but guaranteed. There were cancelations; Once home I fretted about the next journey, but felt safe; once abroad, I fretted about returning home as quickly as possible for fear of being locked up in a place where I had no support and no health cover. Somehow I managed to do it just in time until the first lockdown happened. Then I sat down to plan my response. The virus was centre stage. Looked gorgeous on TV and starred every evening on the news, glorious in gaudy colours but shrouded in a dark mystery. Many were referring to it in anthropomorphic terms: the virus loves the cold weather; the virus thrives in enclosed spaces; it needs to be washed away thoroughly from surfaces and hands, face and pets... it will be defeated when we have herd immunity... So I latched on to the idea that it grabs hold of cells by spikes and penetrates within, there to multiply and wreak havoc. When I first made it, this afflicted handful of hardened mud, it was a rosy piece with a curving wrap around, nothing much to it. I knew that in time it would become a lot more elaborate but I didn't know, when I glazed it with a soft cream, a hazy jade and an indifferent oatmeal, that the kiln would wildly overfire and endow my hesitant production with a violent countenance, a malicious stare and an aura of fire and brimstone. I like to respect the wishes of the kiln. I proceeded with my plan to furnish the basic form with the news and views, opinion and rage, new variants and new knowledge as time went by. It is possible that some of us are closer to when we emerged from the swamp than others. Or have a clearer connection. I started life in Europe and remember going to the beach as an extension of everyday life, just a slighter longer walk. The great river Tagus was right there at its estuary, mighty, languorous, oily and full of promise. The river beaches were delightful and quiet. But we as a family liked to experience the towering waves of Caparica, its extensive silken sands and dunes and eating sea snails with a toothpick, having to shout over the noise of the breaking Atlantic Ocean.
Children are spectacularly able to express the true joy and fright of facing the perilous sea. There are crabs nipping at your toes; Portuguese Men of War lurking, fluid just near enough to be thrust against your body on the next wave; the hollow of the water suddenly thundering over your head: no wonder there were so many shrieks and gulps of salt water and hysterical laughter and pretending one was not frightened... oh, I remember that thrill. Just along the coast, in Belem, the Portuguese maritime adventure is celebrated in stone. The very pier from which the tiny sail boats left those many centuries ago, full of sailors who were desperate enough or foolish enough to want to go and check if it was really true that the world suddenly finishes and the sea tumbles you into the infinite abyss, the void of nether space... stories so lurid and vivid to make a child's mind fill with wonder and desire to experience adventure such as they did. And then there are the many churches round about, remnants of where the ships and sailors were blessed by the Catholic priest, urging and encouraging them on their way and embarking as well, to spread the gospel and civilise the unbelievers of other lands. It was an innocent time, and a cruel one. This is such a ship. Its pennants wave half submerged, half triumphant, in the mad wind of hope; its chapel enshrines relics and beliefs; its ornate windows shelter cruelties and dishonour, the mission of enslavement and torture, greed and ambition. We pay even today the wage of this crime and yet we also taste the sweet taste of doing something bigger than ourselves. |
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