We crossed the border two cars and ten people who had no doubt, had become a group that would route some tests to demonstrate their unity. You were one and that was to say goodbye weeks later in Nampula, without the singular hinder anyone. "We got the hardest", I thought as we headed to Maputo.

A militiaman of not more than 15 years we anxiously look, the submachine gun over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from his lips, not knowing what to do. We stared in silence, tense, waiting for something, I do not know which. In these cases, as always, is the most absurd coincidence that breaks the ice, when your phone rings Barca anthem.

Glued to the walls are wooden benches with straw mats, and very close to the fire bed inn owners. Calendars, images of Shiva and Durga, a small family altar full of incense, rice, vermilion powder, and flower petals.

Little Italy is a haven of tranquility just meters from the boisterous bustle of Chinatown. Its quiet streets, few decades ago a meeting place for bosses and bullies, invite a route mafia memory of Little Italy New York.