THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT

We reached N’Djamena at 3 a.m.  The terminal had the resonant, hollow feel of the early hours: queues of dopey mid-sleep-cycle passengers, prodigiously yawning customs officials.  Outside, beyond a couple of street lamps, was a wall of black: the plane had been eight hours late and the taxi drivers had given up and gone home.

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I woke late next morning, went to the pool-side restaurant and ordered an omelette.  Women were lounging by the pool, beautiful women with black skin and Day-Glo bikinis, gossiping and giggling and rubbing oil into their thighs.  I ate the omelette and felt a sudden wave of giddiness. I spent the rest of the day in bed, vomiting and reading Crime and Punishment.

Buckley/Sand