Today's police stops were noticeable for being dramatically fewer and the people manning them - mostly youths - often just waved us through. Maybe the big guns had hangovers and hadn’t fronted or perhaps they had made a New Year’s resolution to hassle travellers less. We encountered one cool dude wearing blue fatigues and a cigarette dangling from his lips; his 2IC waggled his hips to the reggae on the radio as the boss lazily turned passport pages, before demanding that we all get off the truck. Ben was very ill with diarrhoea and stayed onboard with Florence Slinko bathing his heated brow - he had come down with it fast and it was a long hot day for him.
Driving on, we passed many cute storage "jars" fashioned from woven matting supported by pieces of wood and topped with jaunty witches' hat roofs of bound sticks. Some towns had lots of them clustered together like happy families, their tops askew and cocky.
I'm becoming increasingly observant of variations in storage vessels in different countries, regions and even tribal villages, from the building materials (mud and stone) to the shapes and designs. We've seen all-in-one sealed clay vessels, clay structures with stone foundations and straw roofs, and now huts with matting walls. The more I see the more obvious are even subtle differences. I must try to get some good photos of the more distinctive features of each before I get blasé about them.
Everyone was tired and lacking energy when we camped; Vicki's head is in my lap as I write this, having had little sleep last night and been nursing Ben all day today. Everyone except Geoff, that is, who somehow missed last night's New Year's celebrations and is partying on his own. He disrupted Bob's shaving by swinging the cook light from side to side and making inane comments when Bob was seriously discussing the problems of calculus on his teeth and bleeding gums! The whole truck laughed hysterically and Geoff wandered around wearing a lopsided, faraway smile.
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