Returned to the police post early, only to discover that although the flag was up the chief was still in bed. With the prospect of another long wait at the border, we set up a jerry can chain between the truck and the village pump, which had a long wooden arm worn smooth by the passage of hands. The hair washers and truck scrubbers set up too, only to be interrupted when we were presented with our stamped passports and told we were free to leave. And so we did.
We made an early morning stop at a tiny village of woven huts with distinctive roofs like witches' hats, with long grasses jauntily tied at the top. In the back alleys I came upon a small pile of wood and other bits and pieces of general refuse. Sticking from it was the top of a woven jar-shaped basket and I stopped to look at the fine weaving. I pulled what I expected would be a broken remnant of basket from the pile but it was undamaged. Delighted with my find, I asked a group of old men watching me if I could have it. I didn't have any of the eye drops he asked for as a trade but still he let me keep my prize.
When I rejoined our group I saw my first child - a six-month old baby - with new tribal scarring: four cuts on each cheek and one across its forehead, the scars and wounds bright pink and its eyes crowded with flies. The baby’s beautiful mother wore a necklace of yellow 1915 English coins - maybe gold.
We stopped for lunch beside an abandoned and partially stripped Berliet truck. This was the perfect setting for an “alternative expedition” photo and provided four planks of wood for bench seats and kindling. We were in a very thorny landscape here, with a small herd of horned cattle crossing the depression below us. Despite being very close to Lake Tchad, we couldn't see water and spent the next few hours traversing grey lowlands that were probably old lake beds, with only tiny patches of green and one long expanse of deep golden sand.
A long, low-gear climb rook us into the town of Liwa, just in time see the rear end of an Encounter Overland truck disappearing.
We were still not at the official border post but the gendarmes meandered through our truck, three of them sitting chatting with Marcus while the other scrounged through the lockers until we finally gave in to the demand for Aspros, Gary giving him salt tablets instead, after which they cleared off, bidding us a fond farewell.
No sight of the Douglases but we hoped we’d see soon see them behind us. Long haul afternoon in sand, passing a very poor village where children and women, mostly wearing rags, ran alongside the truck with their palms held out to us.
Camped slightly early in the hope the Douglases would catch up, Ben putting up a banner in the truck and writing camp with an arrow in the sand.
We thought we heard their rumbling engine twice, the second time giving us a sighting, whereupon three of us stood in the road waving and Ben clambered on to Stanley and waved from the crows' nest. Together again, the girls coming over to check out our new timber-plank seats and escape the continuing intellectual discussion on their truck, confident they wouldn’t get one with us lot. We didn’t let them down.
Late night round the coals again, lots of wood to burn but I've got another bloody headache.
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