Luxuriously late sleep in, lying under my net watching the truck swarm with mozzies until 8 o’clock! And we didn't finish breakfast until 9:40, having made several group decisions - including checking our feet for jiggers (parasitic sand fleas that burrow into human skin), several of which were found and removed.
Fourteen of us then headed off to a nearby island fishing village - and what an experience. A long walk on muddy track through villages, along asphalt road, past mosques, through villages, over wooden bridges and old railway tracks landed us at an area of natural chutes on the river. Man-made wooden scaffolding stood across the water, from which hung fishing nets trailing in the rapids. Chaos ensued as our three guides tried to arrange a crew to paddle a pirogue, with men armed with paddles climbing in and out of the as if a raiding party preparing for a tribal uprising. When order seemed to have been restored, we started boarding but there were fisticuffs on the bank at the end of our boat before we eventually pushed off, jammed knee to elbow with local lads, only half of whom seeming to have any function other than to add to the sardine effect. The headman noted the paddlers' names to ensure correct payment. We were still close to shore when the instigator of the shore fight paddled his pirogue towards us. One of our crew pushed him away with an out-thrust paddle, and his boat rapidly took on water and sank, the man disappearing up to his neck in the river; his expression didn't change, he didn't move, he just sank slowly in front of us. Oblivious to what that had all been about we could only laugh.
Once underway, enthusiasm plus the paid work had us moving at a fast pace, the crew chanting in unison with the rhythmic dipping of their paddles.
Our pirogue trip consisted of several revolutions in the water before we stopped near the fishing ramps where we got out of the boat to watch a staged display of this fishing technique: local youths wearing only brightly coloured jocks clambered over the rocks and along the wooden scaffolding, then cast out and hauled in one of the woven conical nets. The lads obviously enjoyed having an audience and performed to us, one of them paying his genitalia far more attention than we were. We then ventured into the village, where a man ceremonially draped with huge bronze discs, beat a long, hollowed drum: our guides translated the message as "white man visit village”. It was commercial and not really worth the money - and we were told several times to not let on to the villagers what we had paid (so someone was skimming as is so common on this continent).
Making our way back, we came upon a women selling peanut butter and in a darkened hut another woman grinding nuts to paste with an empty beer bottle. As e continued, Ann translated our questions to an elder, about funerals, weddings, and children's education. The grizzled old bloke requested money for the information, and the children asked for one Zaire and Biros - hope this is not a sign of things to come. The women we saw bore unusual, intricate tribal scarring like tiny bird footprints down their foreheads to the bridge of their noses.
Grabbed an ice-cold cheap Fanta on way back to camp. Spent a lazy afternoon writing, talking, expending as little energy as possible.
We ate dinner off the truck, spuds with a delicious sauce, before returning to the bar to write more. Ben, Vicki, Bob, me and mosquitoes were the last ones standing.
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