The PIU officer and The Programme 

The small village of Sare Soffi lies 5 Kms or so north of the South road, east of Bansang and west of Basse, hopefully that's nailed down the location. I'm told that not many Toubabs get there, a few Peace Corps volunteers, the occasional charity worker perhaps. Quite remote.

A close friend, Siyaka Trawally 'popularly known as ST', a fountain of unreliable information, had been stationed there for one year. Either unwilling or unable to travel to Kombo, he decided that I would travel there. For over twenty years our conversations almost always resulted in lighthearted arguments that neither of us ever won. It was always an entertaining meeting him, everyone liked Siyaka Trawally.

Arriving unscathed and in record time, just four hours, on Malang's daily Brikamaba-Kombo gele-gele I found a wobbly seat at Binta's portable roadside café. Gone are the days when the same journey might have taken seventeen hours and leave you nursing a displaced spine.

Siyaka was of course late but it was pleasant eating an omelette roll, drinking Nescafé and watching the world go by for a while. Quite a while. Eventually he turned up on his working Boatian Superstar Motorcycle, parked it on the slanting verge and didn't seem particularly surprised when it fell over. Hastily exchanging greetings he loaded my larger canvas bag onto the back of the bike with a long length of frayed decomposing rubber coil with countless knots in it.

"It'll fall off"

"Naaa, naaa it fine"

Hoisting my leg over the pillion seat I burned my calf on the exhaust pipe, as he attempted half a dozen abortive kick-starts and told me to get off. Loosening some valves, shaking the bike and kicking something he fired up the Superstar and we were set to go. Neither passenger or driver could claim to be experienced motorcyclists. Olushambles and Kibarkingmad on wheels.

We saw very little traffic on the way to Janjangbureh, Georgetown, Macarthy, Macatty (whichever you prefer) junction. In fact it was so peaceful trundling along the south road that I took a few snaps. Had there been a wing mirror I'd have snapped my contented image in the reflection. Had there been a working speedometer we'd have known how fast we were trundling, had there been any fuel in the tank the bike would not have come to a spluttering standstill.

"Is normal"

Siyaka rummaged through the backpack attached to his chest and produced a plastic bottle of petrol which he dispensed into the fuel tank, shook the bike knowingly and off we went. There were a few vehicles queuing up ahead at the checkpoint as we stopped by the hi-viz police jacket wrapped around some breeze blocks by the STOP sign. We waited our turn. The checkpoint was remarkably picturesque. A ramshackle old shack emblazoned with a local sign writers rendition of 'Police Checkpoint', it was populated by a donkey, a few goats and chickens, a fruit seller, sacks of charcoal, and groups of people chattering or dozing in the shadows of a blazing sun. Really quite enchanting. I took a discrete snap.

FATAL ERROR 

I'd been spotted by a PIU officer who marched towards me and ordered me off the bike.

"Hecatu. Hecatu baké?"

Didn't work

"Passport" he demanded 

I gave him my passport 

"Mobile"

I gave him my mobile 

"Go there"

I went there.

Ordering me to unlock my mobile he flicked through my snaps

"You are with BBC"

I responded in the negative.

"Journalist taking photos"

I knew nothing of this. Nothing. Marching me further to the police point he continued sifting through my photos until he reached an image of a slaughtered hippopotamus.

"What is THIS?"

Wanting to tell him that it was an image of a slaughtered hippopotamus but thinking better of it, I replied

"The hippo was killed under licence near Walikunda because it was attacking fishermen. A wicked hippo, hunters shot it."

The next photo was of a huge dead hairy black bushpig.

"What is THIS?"

My patience was wearing thin.

"My mother-in-law?"

Silence.

Siyaka had now sauntered over to the interrogation.

"Who are you?" questioned the PIU officer.

"I am Siyaka Trawally 'popularly known as ST' am PIU officer stationed in Sare Soffi"

"Huh? You who? You what? Why didn't you tell me?

"You don't ask"

"Go, go go. And get crash helmet or I will fine you next time. Tell this man he has ugly mother-in-law"

Off we went. Exiting the main road, onto the bumpy bush track, the rubber coil overstretched and whiplashed depositing my canvas bag behind us.

"I told you"

"Naaa is fine I fix it"

Bag re-tied we commenced onward along narrow tracks lined with thorn bushes. Nearing our destination we spotted the daily gele-gele bouncing along in the opposite direction churning up dust and sooty exhaust fumes in it's wake. The ever alert Siyaka took evasive action by swerving left into a gully, losing all control of the bike, jackknifing, and throwing us both into a thorn bush. Dragging ourselves back to our feet the gele-gele swept by depositing a coating of fine dust and soot over us. Surprisingly the only fatal damage was confined to my telescopic fishing rod and reel which had broken irreparably.

"Now I have nothing to do for 3 days"

"Naaa we fix it"

When we arrived at the Forest Camp we were basically the same colour. Buba, the watchman, greeted me very courteously and led me to my visitors accommodation. He opened the metallic green door that gave out a noise like a startled elephant. A small furry creature shot out the door and under the wicker bantaba.

"Small rat, he don't come back" said Siyaka.

Buba meticulously swept the concrete floor, the concrete seat and the concrete bed which had a one inch thick layer or tired foam rubber on top of it and placed a wafer thin floral pattern synthetic drape that crackled with static electricity before clinging itself to the contours of the sarcophagus. This was not Coco Ocean Hotel.

No worries. I had a towel, a pillow case, soft clothing to stuff it with for a pillow. No problem for a traveling Toubabo. There was one dimly lit electric bulb and a power point hanging from the wall by spirals of multicoloured wires. Buba lit up a beaten up old tin charcoal stove and boiled some water to fill my flask. The mirrored glass interior had shattered into a million shards 

"Can you fix that too Siyaka?"

"Naaa you cannot fix that"

No worries. Buba had a flask in his compound and would bring it along later. We drank some coffee out of rubberised mugs. It had been a long testing ordeal, a bit like reading this account. I asked Siyaka to convey my best wishes to the Alkalo and that I'd visit him next morning. Siyaka departed on the Superstar and spluttered towards Alkalo's compound where he had his room.

Buba had left two large buckets of hand pumped well water and left them in the washing area and murmured something about 'a Programme' on the football pitch adjoining the camp.

'a Programme?' I thought.

Washed and tired, night closed in. A couple of thousand bats evacuated the shed next door and a couple of thousand stars appeared from the darkening sky. One last cup of coffee.

Silence. Peace. Bliss. Totally alone.

At one in the morning two giant speakers on the back of a pick-up truck unleashed a tsunami of Afrobeat decibels that sent shockwaves through the corrugated iron roof above me and almost turned the concrete sarcophagus into a pile of dust beneath me. Jumping off the bed the statically charged synthetic drape followed me out the door to the sound of a startled elephant. Sitting outside on the bantaba until 05.45 until the final DOOOMPH! dooomphed I exchanged pleasantries with the pouch rat.

Finally went to sleep...

Siyaka Trawally 'popularly known as ST' wasn't quite so popular when he knocked on my door at 07.30