Angola was the cradle which oscillated between the cultural influence of my parents and that of Africa, with its own cultural contours, behaviors and ample sights, a world, in short, that I absorbed as if it was mine. From the Azores my mother carried over that irrepressible swell of a life tied to the mysteries of the sea. Her islander characteristics were noticeable, her angles of philosophical reach, a way of looking at the world from an ample semantic window. She also explored her own space in a strange but welcoming land which received her with its hot temperatures and unbelievable rains, roar of lions, the cynic groan of the hyenas and the buzz of tsetse flies. She settled initially in the South, in far away Salinas, where the brightness of the light was pure and exquisite, and the daily survival a tremendous challenge both economical and physical. My father arrived at the colonial port when he was sixteen, alone, coming from the solitude of a house that lost its foundations with the premature passing of his mother when he was four. He grew up amid olive trees and arduous days, dreaming about another destiny. He grasped at a very early age that the human being, in order to understand his genesis and fight for his most profound ideals, has to take on the challenges imposed by his spirit, cross boundaries and walk towards the vast rivers of dreams.