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As the last yards of miles and miles of jungle rushed past, the thick foliage suddenly cast itself aside and the Citroen burst out into open space in all its unrestricted freedom of panoramic vista. Happy to escape from the jungle’s grip, the car seemed eager to surge forward at a faster, smoother pace along the road that was now relatively drier and firmer. Frank saw the shapes looming up ahead, closer and closer.
It was a veritable eyesore of social impoverishment at its worst – an absolute scrap-heap of a dilapidated refugee campsite of shabby dwellings scattered around each other in no particular order like a fortuitous roll of the dice. Shoddy thatched wooden huts and crumbling arrangements of stone and hardboard, supposedly houses, with strips of tin and canvass for roofs. Roast
