Tucked in the visa paperwork for my next trip to Africa I have encountered a family French claim their farms in the Ivory Coast. As they protested, mind escaped me in the morning I spent a couple of weeks with the miller
Odeceixe Odeceixe The miller made the war in Africa. Because he had grown up in Africa. He says that in Africa, Portugal had an illusion of wealth, territory and black at your service. Suddenly everything collapsed, got into a couple of stupid wars (which only served to help fall Salazar) and ended up back home, with nothing. Man complains that there now in Angola, Cape Verde and Mozambique, there is nothing left of them, everything is lost.
I own, and she talks moving gears of the mill, so that the roof and turn slightly and take advantage of better wind. Look askance at the small vane in there and pull a rope. The wood creaks and he keeps talking about Africa. The mill was broken almost as much as that of the opposite hill. However, the State was rebuilt, repaired the eucalyptus wood beams and stone grinding. He put a new balance at the entrance, set cheap prices for milling, and put a salary to the miller.
From the top of the hill is the valley of the river Seixas crops. On this hill the miller has some keeper. The sea is close, but it entertains with the transfer of tractors and trailers and trucks. He complains only that Puleva, which is English company now buys all the milk of cows there. paid little, but soon, and returns to them in their supermarkets packaged and expensive. Potatoes are also going to Spain, and tomatoes and most vegetables. Only the corn is left on earth, to feed the cows. And a little to make flour that is ground in his mill. Talk
Africa with a certain melancholy, but it is obvious that he just was always melancholy of this coast of the Algarve and its tiny village.
A country that forces us to leave but not allows us to escape and melancholy born. The miller is not carried away by nostalgia. Ignore the "salt sea of \u200b\u200btears" of Pessoa, so Lusitanian sad, and jump quickly to the gossip of the people who are not lovers, but of wealth created by smuggling.
Shortly after this talk, by coincidences of life, I came across a book by Mia Couto. Mozambique is a white writer. Possibly the best living writer of Mozambique, who writes in a simple and fluent Portuguese, but is extremely Africa. His books speak of the humble life that devastates the war, the small details of African life, magic and legends daily. Tiene una preciosa reflexión sobre los portugueses que llegaron a África, como llegó la familia del molinero de Odeceixe: " El país que tenían los obligó a viajar, pero nunca los dejó partir. A donde quiera que fueran llevaban su tierra. Su nostalgia nacía de estar lejos de sí mismos. Cuando llegaron aquí traían el dolor de todas las despedidas, como si desembarcasen de sus propias vidas. Todo nuevo paisaje les dolía porque era extraño, pero lo amaban como si amasen otro, el que quedó al otro lado del mar .” Supongo que por eso el molinero vive rotundo y feliz, disfrutando de la vista de los huertos y los cáñaverales del río que llevan a la playa.
He complains that the gadgets of mud hanging from the ropes of the sails, and they do in a workshop of the people, have risen outrageously priced. Now cost two euros each. A fortune, he says, because they break often. But the purchase and places.
The gadgets are good for nothing, only for the wind to make noise in them. Just to brighten the life of the miller Africa.
