The intrepid explorers donned their reinforced jackets, once shiny black helmets now impregnated with sweat, dust and grime and blasted off down the road. Like McGregor and Borman we zoomed along the kilometers of tarmac road, swerving round potholes, scrawny chicken, sheepy goats, goaty sheep and cheerful, waving rascals. We were on a mission – to find fuel for our trusty steeds.
Bansang, the nearest place to buy petrol, situated on the South Bank, across the river, is a forty minute ride. The end of the road came too soon. We passed through the police check point and turned left onto the roller coaster of bumps, jolts and slides that mark the route. Vibrating chins, stomachs and thighs, male parts jangling like clackers (so I’m informed), the road undulated unevenly passing rarely seen mounds laughingly called hills. Occasionally the dust cloud of an approaching gelly gelly appeared, like a steam train on the horizon. The technique of ‘visor down, visor up’ became second nature, with exquisite timing, avoiding facefuls of grime whilst being pressure cooked for minimal time.
Surrounded by scrub, we passed donkey carts laden with varied cargos, urged to keep moving by their stick-wielding masters, small groups of round mud huts, carefully constructed termite mounds, thigh pumping cyclists and people walking, walking, walking. We paused to allow a troupe of baboons stroll majestically across our path and watched large winged birds of prey and other elegant, unknown species circle and glide, effortlessly above us, wings glistening in the sunlight. Monkeys chattered and leapt from tree to tree disturbing the lizard and minute life living therein.
Arriving in town we were greeted by the now common sight of shacks and corrugated iron, of women beside the road, selling their wares, mangoes and onions this time. Armed with a previous volunteers hand drawn street map we ventured onto the high street. Stuttering along, avoiding all natural hazards we found our left hand turn. “Oooooooo” thinks I, “that’s deep sand” and failing to find ‘the courage in my heart’ and accelerate, stopped dead in my tracks and stepped off. No one did a thing. Where were all the guardian angels rushing to my help? An old woman in distress, bike on its side, engine gurgling, and where were they? The cyclist continued pedaling, the children never faltered in their step. Luckily my knight in shining armour, well, dust besmirched jeans, returned, manhandled the bike upright and we continued unhurt and undeterred.
Arriving at ‘Riders’, bikes of all sizes, shapes and colours rested like unkempt gravestones as an assemblage of overalled men sat and watched unimpressed. Introductions all round, the fill man, boss man, boss boss man, security man, chief security man, driver, chief driver. No rush. Pull up a chair and chat. Try to remember the new array of names and faces. No move to fill our tanks or jerry cans. More chat. Main boss man is away so of course they didn’t know we were coming. Eventually having filled up and signed our lives away we prepared to take our leave.
Further up the hill and we turned into the hospital to meet up with two VSO physios. Welcomed as only those with a common experience can be, we were offered tea. Oh, my heart leapt. Should have known better, they don’t have milk here either. Bean hebbe for lunch, delicious French type bread filled generously with mixed fried beans.
The hospital was heaving, people everywhere, corridors and paths full of women breast feeding and waiting, patient and resigned. I was taken into maternity. A bemused seventeen year old sat on the bed, in front of her, swaddled tight, two perfect doll-like girls born that day, weighing 1.5 and 1.6 kilos. These babies are unusual I’m told. It’s rare that twins survive birth. A joyous day.
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