beira’s crumbling coasts and the ghosts of portuguese traders

the air here feels like a wool blanket someone left in a steamy bathroom-24°C my phone says, but 83% humidity means it’s basically a group hug with the entire indian ocean. i’m sipping sugary coffee outside a cracked colonial-era warehouse when a fisherman mutters ‘this city forgets faster than the tide eats sand.’ dude wasn’t wrong.

beira’s got that postcard decay-peeling mustard-yellow facades, rusted ship skeletons in the harbor, and enough 16th-century portuguese drama to make a history nerd like me vibrate.

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