The Bridge

It stretched ahead of us looking very long and thin - a line of pale boards slung over a valley that was filled with a river of vegetation. The tops of plants and trees reached up almost to the level of the bridge itself. The ropes that were wound around the posts on the bank and that held the planks together seemed flimsy and the whole thing had a makeshift look: more like a temporary walkway than a road bridge. John said the crossing was safe, that he'd checked it with the Road Supervisor in Enugu; but even so he suggested that I get out and walk across first so as to reduce the weight in the Landrover.

I got out to have a look, while he lined up to the bridge, so that when he started to cross he would be driving in a very straight line to reduce the strain. I walked about, stretching my legs after the journey and hoping to get more courage, to catch up with myself somehow. I went nearer to the bank, to where a lush mix of palms, bamboos, ferns and wild bananas grew up from the sides of the gorge, filling the space. I could see directly into the crown of a tree, its roots somewhere far below us. The air was very quiet and heavy - the land was waiting for the start of the rains - and even the cicadas and treefrogs were stilled. A large bright butterfly, blue and purple, settled on the ground near me where there was a trace of moistness. Far below I could hear the sound of falling water.
It was hard to recognise myself in this place, with this young man whom I felt I hardly knew. I hated the heat, didn't care for John's colonial colleagues and yet I was intoxicated by the Tropics. Africa. Who'd have thought I might fall in love with Africa?

Two weeks ago I had been among the cool grey stones of Edinburgh, taking exams, and six weeks from now I'd be back there. A year ago John had been there too. He was here now to stay. This trip was a holiday for me, everyday work for him.