Life as a Minefield

Finally had some time to explore the environs. My friend and now colleague, James Pfieffer, is visiting and we decided to head out to a nearby dam and the lake that was created behind it. Passing over the dam, we came over a ridge and the expanse of calm blue waters stretched out in front of us, beaconing. We arrived in the heat of mid-day and had to remind ourselves that a swim might not be worth the consequences. It wasn't nearly hot enough to risk the twin dangers of crocodiles and schistosomiasis. Schisto is a tiny parasite that infests most of the lakes and rivers around here. It enters through the skin, then migrates through the lungs before finally settling in the host's veins, the microscopic worm then lays eggs which migrate into the bladder and pass eventually back into another river or lake to start the cycle again. The disease is endemic here, and can cause heart failure and liver disease, but mostly manifests as hematuria--more commonly known as "peeing blood." In some communities here, up to 25% of the population has schisto in their urine.

So no swim. Instead we opted for a hike along the edge of the lake with Pablo and Ana Judith, a Colombian couple working with us. We started off on the dusty red-earth road but soon found a well traveled path veering off towards the lake shore. We trekked on, passing clusters of huts with women baking bread, men fishing out of canoes, families doing their washing in the lake. James was teaching us a little Shona along the way, and everyone we passed seemed amused and pleased to see this troop of "brancos" practicing our Shona greetings.

As we walked, we noticed brilliant scarlet-tipped stakes marking some paths veering off to the left, with the same stakes randomly scattered through the fields on either side. Occasionally a whole stump or tree trunk was splashed with the fresh, blood-red paint. We considered walking down one of these well-demarcated trails, but something about the crimson shade seemed ominous. Then it dawned on us - a minefield. We didn't quite believe it could be possible, after all, the paths and the fields were woven through hamlets where families lived and cooked and fished and farmed. The next villager we met confirmed our fears. During the Mozambican civil war, mines were laid in three sweeping swaths across the road and neighboring lands in order to protect the dam. An international organization had recently gotten around to marking and clearing the minefields. He seemed to take this all in stride, explaining that the locals stayed on the well traveled paths and roads and that no one had been injured by a mine in several years. In the context of crocodiles, schistosomiasis, malaria, HIV, poverty, floods and droughts, a minefield may be one of the more managable perils. We took the widest path we could find, farthest from the threatening cairns, and safely made our way back to the main road.