worynjay Jane Flowers is the author of two fiction novels and a number of marketing ebooks.Her books and articles are sometimes produced under the pen-name of Woryn jay. She is an accredited journalist with the Australian news Agency and holds a Diploma in Media Studies from the Australian College of Journalism. Jane works from home as a freelancer, author and Webmaster. She was born and raised in Africa, and now lives in New Zealand View all articles | Contact author

In The Midst of Poverty borne out of war - A treasure Trove

Onshore gales had long ago stripped the grass from the sides of the rickety structure. A huge tarpaulin with AID USA stamped on it made do as a roof. It was lashed down with twine made from the local raffia palms.

Through the dim recesses, Emanuel led me, stumbling over demonic sculptures and weird walking sticks, to the back wall. Hundreds of paintings lined the walls. Some of them were finely sprinkled with windblown beach sand, but it did not matter.

In the midst of poverty borne out of war in Mozambique, I had stumbled across a treasure trove of art. African art, in old traditional style, modern art, and art typically depicting an inherited colonial past. Oil paints, acrylics and fabrics hung all around me. I was in a world all a-jumble with a colourful blend of ethnic and Portuguese influence.

Emanuel was vague about the whereabouts of the artist. "He is my Father," he said proudly. Later in the day, he changed his story and wrung his hands together as we bargained over prices. "The artists are in Maputo. There are many of them and they charge a lot of money." This was probably more like the truth. Vague signatures adorned the pictures and batiks. They were definitely not all done by the same artist.

Mozambique does not have many resources on hand. Considering it took me two days to find petrol for the van, I was astonished to come across such a wide medium of paintings. Emanuel led me out the back. A small boy, squatting amongst a bevy of craftsmen creating intricately carved tables, was patiently grinding blue pigment and mixing it with dusty oil.

"We make our own paint. Sometimes we go and buy it in South Africa. A Lot of artists just use the old methods and make dye." He waved vaguely in the direction of his art gallery." We sell art supplies. Do you want some?"

Toward sunset, I tore myself away, loaded up with pictures, a paintbrush I had no need of, a wonderful wall hanging and a carved souvenir mug. As I carefully crated my small piece of Africa, I wished I could find all the artists, fly them home with me and buy a gallery. We all have dreams. It's ok to dream. Every day, my precious paintings remind me of this.