Sand and Crystals from Tengue: Memories of My Childhood with My Father

The Early Years and the Dump Truck

In the early 1970s, as Angola was on the brink of change, I spent unforgettable moments with my father, memories that remain vivid to this day. Alongside running our store, he owned a blue Austin truck with a hydraulic dump bed—a camioneta vasculante, as he called it in his accent from Beira Alta. With this rugged truck, he supplied essential materials to construction companies, hauling gravel, rocks, sand, bricks, and even wood for the local bakeries’ ovens.

During school vacations, my brother and I had the special role of being “Dad’s navigators,” joining him on his rounds. We would travel with him to the local ceramics or to the Keve River, where we collected coarse sand for heavy construction work. But what thrilled us the most was the trip to a sanzala called Tengue.

Tengue: Land of the Special Sand

The sand from Tengue was unlike any other, reserved for the finest stucco finishes. Located near a lake that connected to the Keve River, Tengue was a place of wonder for us. Here, we saw the simplicity and dedication of the men who worked alongside my father, tirelessly filling the truck.

One particular day stands out—a memory of adventure and panic when my brother and I, intrigued by a dugout canoe used by the local men, decided to climb aboard.

The Canoe and the Terror of the Lake

I remember the moment vividly: as soon as we climbed into that narrow canoe, we felt it begin to sway. Before long, it flipped completely, sending us into the lake! Suddenly, the calm waters seemed menacing, for we knew that this lake was home to crocodiles and hippos lurking just beneath the surface.

We frantically struggled to flip the canoe back, our hands shaking as we fought to balance it against the gentle but unsteady ripples. After a few desperate attempts, we managed to right it, only to face the next challenge—scrambling back inside.

With our hearts racing, we clung to the canoe’s sides, slipping each time we tried to climb up. But with sheer willpower (and perhaps a bit of luck), we finally made it back on board, soaked and utterly relieved.

Loading Sand and the Song of the Men

Once back on solid ground, it was a relief to return to the work of loading the truck’s dump bed. Arriving at Tengue, my father and the men of the sanzala would line up, ready to load the truck with their precious sand. With shovels in hand, we would work side-by-side, moving to the rhythm of a native song they sang. Their voices blended with the steady scrape of shovels, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and resilience.

Though I was just a boy, I felt my presence was appreciated. Each shovel of sand I threw into the truck seemed to encourage the men, as if my youthful energy pushed them to work faster, driven by the rhythm of the song and the spirit of shared labor.

Crystals as Rewards

At the end of each day, there was always a reward. One of the men would hand me a large crystal as a token of thanks. I accepted each one with pride, treasuring these crystals as symbols of gratitude and shared effort. Even now, at 65, I can still see the gleam of those crystals in my mind, each one holding a memory of a day spent beside my father.

The Precious Sand of Tengue

The sand from Tengue was special and required careful processing. The men washed it, removing the clay with running water, shovels, and hoes. It was hard work, and my father made sure to compensate the men fairly, though he only earned a modest profit when selling the refined sand to construction companies. Many of these men would visit our store for essentials, further cementing their connection to our family.

Our store became a gathering place, where the community came together and where relationships grew stronger. These men of Tengue weren’t just workers; they were part of a tight-knit community bound by mutual respect and shared purpose.

Memories that Stand the Test of Time

Today, the moments I spent alongside my father and the men of Tengue remain etched in my heart. Those days taught me lessons of respect, collaboration, and gratitude, shaping my character in ways I still hold dear. Through their efforts, I learned the value of shared labor, of creating something together, and finding joy in simple exchanges.

Each crystal I kept from those times shines in my memory as a reminder of who I was and the world in which I grew up. They are fragments of a blessed childhood spent in the company of my father, his blue Austin truck, and the men of the sanzala of Tengue—united by the glimmer of sand and the enduring strength of human connection.