3.30am, 29 September 2014
I wake up clammy. Pour a cold bowl of bucket water over my head and ignore the whine of mosquitoes as I fumble for slither of soap. Refreshed. I get dressed, grab a torch and a bottle of water. The already packed suitcases are parked by the front door. Keys, passport, purse. In my handbag.
Out by the stelling the boat is stranded. The Pomeroon river controlled by tides has withdrawn, shrunk into itself; left behind a bed of cloying mud, hardy reeds and broken, discarded husks. Fire and Fine Man, physically lean. Strong. Pull, lift and heave at the heavy boat until shout of collective "Waah!" launches it into lapping, freeing, water.
I feel my way across the wooden stelling: slippery and wet with dew. My eyes, though open, see nothing but stars. Like a cast of fluorescent sand across the sky, they fail to lighten the pitch of black below. Tease us like the tickling breeze.
I hold the torch above my head as I sit in the boat. The light meeting the water's undulating surface looks for floating debris: propellor breakers. The commute to Charity is slow; an edging towards. Small Eye drives with caution. An air of dreamy dark calm, cocoons. In the distance a Baboon breathes deeply. Slowly. Gutturally. Sounds like an ailing overweight man gulping air in sleep.
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