By E.C. PHILLIPS

In early October, just when the mangos were beginning to ripen, I arrived at Ilha de Mocambique. This is the humid time of year, shortly before Cholera season, when the Jacaranda are in full bloom. I had been in many coastal villages in Mozambique and was expecting a similar atmosphere to the islands I had previously visited.

Ilha de Mocambique astonished me;  the haunting beauty of the Island was captivating in the way a work of music from another era can be. Time’s passing was tangible when regarding this relic of the colonial world.  

  Driving through the darkened streets at dusk, the power of history could be felt on  Ilha de Mocambique. Walking along a dirt street, eroding mansions seemed illuminated by an internal strength of character. In one great old palace, huge chandeliers glimmered through the wizened trees that lined the road, the light reflecting in grand patterns on the ceiling of the estate.

The island’s unpaved alleys running amongst seventeenth and eighteenth century Portuguese villas, evoked romantic images of Europe fifty years ago. This was the untouched continental village that I had searched for when backpacking through Italy, Spain, Ireland and Switzerland. The life of this little fishing town carried on as it had for centuries; there was not a tourist in sight and in the evening, houses were still candlelit.