Mozambique

Maputo caught me off guard. I'd flown in expecting a sleepy capital, but crossing that suspension bridge into the city felt like a proper arrival — concrete towers framing the sky, yellow railings catching the morning light, the Indian Ocean haze somewhere behind me. The city has this particular quality where colonial-era grandeur and crumbling modernity sit side by side without much apology. The railway station alone was worth the detour: all deep green and white plasterwork, so ornate it felt slightly out of place, the kind of building you'd expect in Lisbon, not here.

The street art around the fish market was one of those moments I didn't plan for. A huge mural painted across a bare wall — bright purple and sky blue, fishing boats, the sea. I stopped the car just to look at it properly. The craft markets had the same kind of energy: dark ebony sculptures piled high, each one more detailed than the last, and shops with painted figurines that felt more like art galleries than souvenir stops.

The food I had in Maputo was genuinely good — grilled prawns on skewers, fried snacks with cold dipping sauce at a candlelit table, samosas with green salad. Nothing was fussy. Evenings were warm and slow, the kind where you sit outside with a glass of red and listen to the city settle. I'd come back.