They sailed into paradise. Their captors were children.

Our pace is fast, frantic, bordering on panic. Once again, we meet up with the evacuees from the hospital and fall into step behind two stretcher-bearers carrying a man who’s had his lower right leg amputated. With one hand he struggles to cling to the narrow stretcher, no wider than two interlocked palm leaves, while with the other he holds a comb, a bar of soap and a small tin box to his chest. In the jostling, they repeatedly fall from his grip. I retrieve them, restoring them to his hollow chest and weak grasp. His eyes stare blindly upwards, and only his thin fingers move as he presses his meagre possessions to his body.

Although we are retreating fast, the sound of shooting and exploding mortars stays with us. A volley of shots close to our left makes some break into a panicked run. Bullets are cracking overhead. There is no doubt this is more serious than the first attack, and yet Sandy and I feel inexplicably calm. After days of boredom, melancholic thoughts and even longing for death, life suddenly seems rich and to be savoured.

The path we follow descends into a shallow river valley. It emerges from the forest and crosses a sandy 200-metre-wide floodplain that leads to the shallow river. It’s an obvious place for an ambush, and Patricio urges us to move faster. Tammy and Seth are doing well, running continually and keeping up with us. Our feet drag in the soft sand, and our breathing comes in panting gasps, but survival instincts have taken over, and our bodies keep moving, desperate to reach the shelter of the forest on the far side of the river.

Looking back, we see an odd collection of humanity scrabbling across the brilliant white sand behind us. Clanking children burdened with pots and pans, some pushing bicycles and others carrying chairs. Women struggle beneath large bundles tied up in sheets. One little girl even stumbles along, carrying a steaming pot of what must have been her family’s breakfast porridge on her head. Despite the danger, Sandy and I exchange smiles as taller people help themselves to handfuls of porridge as they overtake the little girl; a literal fast-food takeaway.

Gunfire from the direction of the camp drives us onward. The shooting is so intense and sustained that it’s no longer possible to make out individual shots and the sound comes to us distorted in an angry swishing as it filters through the trees. The river is impossible to cross, the water hidden behind an impenetrable green wall of reeds and banana trees. Although exhausted, everyone keeps running, following the river for a kilometre, until we reach a point where a path has broken through the wall of reeds. The water is clear and knee-deep.

On the opposite bank I become aware that the trees growing in the lush grass through which we are wading are laid out in a widely spaced grid. Coconut palms alternate with a mixture of citrus trees: lemons, oranges and tangerines. In the midst of the grid, dominating this long-neglected orchard, a huge baobab grows. It’s the first baobab I’ve ever seen, and I’m drawn to it, unable to resist the urge to run my hand over its plump, metallic bark. The act of veneration, of touching this ancient survivor, is curiously reassuring, as if I’m connecting with my guardian angel.

Loud thuds in the distance and shots from nearby on the opposite bank of the river remind me it’s no time for philosophic contemplation. God willing, we hope, like the tree, to add many more years to our lives.

Beyond the orchard the path swings to the right, away from the river, and begins to ascend a shallow side valley. At 8.30 am we stop midway up this valley. By then we must have walked and run about six kilometres. Bundles are eased off heads and shoulders and placed in the shade of a grove of mimosa trees. No one speaks, but everyone sits facing the camp from where continuous shooting can still be heard. Ears strain, trying to interpret the battle's outcome. We burrow our way under some trees and find a small clearing where we sit in the morning dew. Patricio follows us and crouches down, cradling his AK-47 between his knees. A furrowed brow has replaced his normal perplexed, impish look. To ease the tension, Sandy starts telling Tammy and Seth her latest Palm Village story, but Patricio narrows his eyes and shakes his head.

Captain Hook, the Sergeant Major and George join us. They order their chairs be set up in the shade about 20 metres from us. Seth’s friend Boxo and another small boy arrive; both carry AK-47s and push bicycles with handlebars that are level with their heads. They settle next to us, the small boy sniffing wetly every few minutes. More stragglers trickle in, and I estimate at least 300 sitting around us. A donkey carrying all the kitchen paraphernalia clanks its way up the valley. Sandy catches sight of Machiavelli being carried past on a stretcher. I spend the time writing up my diary. Patricio’s mention of helicopters flying by and Russian MIG jets is very much on my mind, and I wonder if the next move will be an airborne attack. Tammy and Seth sit quietly, using us as pillows.

I need not have worried. Five minutes later, a soldier comes running up the valley with a message that we can begin making our way back to the camp. Slowly, everyone emerges into the open and forms into a single file. We wait to allow the stretcher-bearers to pass ahead. As the Doctor passes, he smiles and gives Tammy and Seth gentle pats on the head. His work is about to begin. On the path down to the river, we pass an old man leading a blind boy about Tammy’s age. The tenderness shown towards the sick and injured amazes us. The burden placed upon the community must be considerable, and contradicts the brutality with which they treat their fellow citizens – Mozambicans who in all ways are identical to them save that they happen to identify with Frelimo.