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Fedon’s Camp

It was 5am and still dark when we set off along a steep farm track in the heart of Belvidere. The countryside was silent, not a cricket stirred, and only the sound of our feet tramping through rough grass and over stone disturbed the absolute serenity of the morning. We walked for around half-an-hour. A small wooden shack with a red and rusty tin roof emerged from the gloom as the sun began its slow ascent over the horizon to the east. The sorry structure was ramshackle and apparently abandoned, despite a rather hopefully scrawled sign in black paint declaring ‘Private. Back soon.’ Continue reading ›

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Indian River

The boatman calls himself Nature Boy. He rows standing up in the stern of his colourfully painted wooden skiff, on the look-out for a boa he saw yesterday that was resting on the pale and twisted branch of a bloodwood tree. I am seated on a damp bench in front of him. The river disappears around a bend, curtained in on both sides by a jumble of liana vines, contorted mangrove roots and the mysteries of swamp and forest. For the most part the journey is silent and uninterrupted, save for the occasional cries of mangrove cuckoos, a jaco parrot somewhere high in the canopy, or the splash of a barracuda on the prowl in the dark margins of the brackish river. Continue reading ›

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La Ville: Aftermath

Water dripped relentlessly from the ceilings, tormenting the faucets which had been dry for over three days; scorched wood made a dark patchwork quilt of walls where colourful landscape paintings once hung. Ominously, an oil slick slithered in slow motion across the floor, forming dark pools of sinister proportions. Sharp arrows of morning sunlight exposed bad joinery and the fragile tin roof creaked like old bones on a winter’s morning. The sorry looking figures of townspeople lay prostrate all around, some now stirring, others closing their eyes even tighter, afraid to face the day and deal with the inevitable aftermath of questionable behavior. Continue reading ›

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