The African Queen

“Oh yes please” we replied to an invitation from the Peace Corps.  A free dinner!  A double whammy as our gas bottle had, despite our miserliness, had spluttered it’s final gasp.  And so it was that we showered (?), put on the least smelly clothes in our possession and set off to cross the river to JJB camp.  It felt almost like being a tourist, phoning for the boat to come and collect us, anticipation of good food skitted round my tummy, a bit of civilisation, what delights would be in store?

Too hot to move fast we ambled to the landing stage in time to see checked shirted, hefty man gesticulate that he would be back and to wait.  Down the sandy track, bespattered with puddles, littered with assortments of fabric left by the bathers, to undertake a favourite Gambian pastime - waiting. The pathway was alive, multisized, multishaped and multicoloured insects weaved their way through the leaves, up walls, across feet and down tree trunks.  We mused at the jetty, a series of rotten planks that would no way hold our weight and yet used by diving boards by the local youths running and dive bombing each other, looking around to check our admiration before each move.

Ishmael returned, sporting bags of shopping and many apologies for the delay.  Avoiding the wooden suicide, we stone jumped, as deft and agile as lily pad hopping frogs, onto the boat, wobbling precariously with uneven weight.  A Heath Robinson contraption of wire and rope and we lurched into action.  Strange.  I could see our destination, prettily candle lit tables and chairs.  I could hear the low rumble of chatter and laughter.  I could smell onions cooking.  So where were we off to? 

My thoughts were soon to be answered as we approached a galleon in the middle of the river.  Understanding nothing of the bellows from craft to craft, thoughts of piracy or drug smuggling flitted through my mind.  We bobbed along side, rust coloured hands hauled on the steel rope to drag an anchor and, before we knew, our two boats were joined by wire, surely inevitable disaster pending.

Superglued together, we dosy doed back and fore, slowly moving beachward.  The prow glided over, heads ducked, we bumped and bashed and manoeuvred the African Queen, engines revving and bemoaning their fate till we were near enough for ropes to be thrown to land.  

The meal and company were excellent and the journey back stunning, pitch black star twinkling African skies.  There is nothing quite like it.