My Own Private Brigadoon


"There is no hotel here," said the driver.

"It's okay," I replied, and went on to explain the intricacies of my tent, which drew quite a crowd. They were all amazed, not just at the tent, but that anyone would want to sleep in something like it. One guy even insisted I use his mattress (in the tent, you understand, and not with him on it).

We struggled past the language barrier and I found myself being led off to the local restaurant - a small house with a wall outside where I waited for a bowl of spaghetti and chilli paste, washed down with Coca-cola. Yes, even this remote village has failed to avoid the forerunner to globalisation.

Satisfied, I retired to my mattress, after a long walk to find the area of bush reserved as the village toilet area. I slept better than I had slept since arriving in the country, and did not even wake briefly until the dawn lightened my tent.

The truck driver found me immediately after I'd got up. He'd found that a bus would come past some time in the next few hours that was going to the next town. I sat at the bus stop, eating biscuits and playing with all the local kids. A dozen of them had arrived with their football, a piece of material wrapped up and sewn together into a vaguely spherical shape. They insisted I play, and it appeared my rudimentary soccer skills were more than enough to impress these six-year olds, who refused to even let me take a break.

However, by the time the bus arrived, I was reluctant to leave. I got on, went straight to the back seat, and stared out of the window. I wanted to remember this village forever; this village that had appeared out of nowhere and saved me from a night on the road. I realised that not only did I have absolutely no idea where I was, but I didn't even know the name of the village. I would never be able to get back to it. It disappeared behind the mountains, and I felt in my heart that it had disappeared into thin air, and would not appear again for another hundred years when it would again hold out a helping hand to another weary traveller.

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The copyright of the article My Own Private Brigadoon in African Journeys is owned by Jane Stewart-Williams. Permission to republish My Own Private Brigadoon in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.

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