MOZAMBIQUE

The heat was oppressive as we tried to compete for a bit of shade in front of the small and slowly but dignified decaying airport in Maputo that morning in May 1994. Only a slight and humid breeze carrying a hint of the Indian Ocean not far away, rustled ever so lightly in the depressed palm trees lining the car park

The doors to the arrivals terminal were locked from the inside by a heavy chain and padlock, so I and every one else were confined to battle for shade on the pavement outside.

It was a motley crowd. Taxi-drivers, boys selling cashew nuts and soft-drinks, bearers and many others waiting for their guests, tourists, bosses, boyfriends, girlfiends, husbands, wives, families.

European families with newly washed and combed blond-haired children, jumping up and down, unable to contain their excitement at the prospect of presents from grandparents.

Finally an elderly man with an enormous bunch of keys and plenty of time walked sedately towards the door inside the terminal and, having finally identified the right key, opened the doors.

The arriving passengers from the Air France from Paris, started to come through the doors. Young volunteers with dread-locks, baggy shorts and slippers. Portuguese who looked like Portuguese anywhere, furrowed, short and stout, the men wearing short-sleeved, checkered shirts and the wives in flower-patterned dresses. Business-men who had travelled 24 hours wearing the same sweaty shirt and suit, staggered through the doors into the stifling heat, completely unprepared for the ensuing battle with taxi-drivers and bearers trying to get hold of the poor guy’s suitcase and carry it off to one of the old Peugeot taxis, inevitably painted in bright colours but otherwise held together by gaffatape, wire and paper-clips.

The lucky ones were rescued by one of the uniformed hotel-chauffeurs who could lead them dazed and confused towards one of the air-conditioned shuttle-buses.

I also waited, full of excitement – and some apprehension. Two months had passed since I had said good-bye to my wife, Jona and our five-month old son, Hjalmar on a freezing morning at Karup Airport in Denmark.

I remember sitting with Hjalmar on my lap and I remember the feeling of impending separation, hanging over our forced conversation like an icy, unbearably heavy weight on my chest. The knowledge that I was about to leave my little family was like I imagine must be the last companion of the condemned man, taking his final steps to the gallows.

We had had some wonderful months together since Hjalmar came into our lives on a sunny day in September 1993. We stayed in my parents‘ small cottage in the countryside by Sallingsund and just enjoyed being together, just the three of us, during the first weeks of Hjalmar’s life. I was writing job-applications and occasionally had to take the train somewhere for interviews, but mostly we just enjoyed being by ourselves.

I still see Jona, wearing the green jumper, I had given her for her birthday sitting by the kitchen table, just quietly reading her book with Hjalmar on her lap.

I remember Hjalmar one