Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
locals in Kasansero had not been exaggerating when they called this place a quagmire. For
miles the path disappeared into impenetrable mangrove swamps, and Boston and I hacked
our way on, turning in circles, until we stumbled upon a trail blazed by locals to the next
settlement along the shore.
The swamp seemed to stretch forever. An hour later, lost - and with the next settlement
still ten miles distant - we were wading through brown, soupy water that reached our
waists. More than once, I had stumbled and become entirely submerged, having to be
fished out of the stinking brine by Boston. We had backtracked in search of Boston's lost
shoe, and spent ten minutes working out a way to pull him out of the soft earth that was
trying to swallow him up. There was a part of me - some insane, masochistic part - that
was beginning to enjoy the torment when Boston's eyes drew mine down to what appeared
to be a pool of black liquid right beside my feet.
'It's a snake,' he whispered. 'Look, Lev! A python . . .'
I saw the blackness uncurl and disappear, setting the surface of the water to ripples. I
froze. Then, putting on my most nonchalant face, I smiled back at the overjoyed Boston.
'It's probably just a monitor lizard.'
'I don't think so, Lev.' Boston had crouched and was already plucking a ghostly white
snake skin from the reeds - by its rubbery texture, quite fresh.
'Still,' I muttered, with my eyes constantly on the water, 'at least he's quite small . . .'
An hour later, soaked to the skin, we stepped up onto dry land and, in front of us, stood
three wooden huts and a crowd of villagers. Most of them were half-naked or just wear-
ing filthy rags. By the remoteness of the place and the piles of shells lying on the sand it
seemed they were shell-fish miners. We were to see more of them as we ventured north,
men who collected shells to grind up and sell as chicken feed in the local markets. It is one
of the worst-paid professions on the shores of Lake Victoria and, as they turned to see us,
they were evidently thrilled. To them, strangers meant opportunity.
They rushed to meet us, eager to shake hands. One man cried out to congratulate us on
not being constrained by such foolish things as 'paths' - and, as the crowd shifted, I saw
something staked out on the beach, reflecting the cruel midday sun. Boston and I shared
a look. It was another python skin - but this didn't belong to the friend we had made in
the swampland. This was ten times as big, more than six metres long. Nor was it a skin
that had been shed. This gleamed black and blue, a true snakeskin taken from a dead py-
thon and pegged out to dry. It was the kind you only see in movies and nightmares and I
couldn't tear my eyes away.
A drunk man, deeply proud of his achievement, clawed his way to the front of the
crowd.
'You want to buy it?' he slurred.
'I don't think I'd get it through customs,' I replied, but the joke was lost on him.
