As the sun rises over the river the following morning, having rowed through the night past bridges, tree outlines and huts that I recognized onshore, I am in awe of the splendour of this place. I see another elongated boat motoring in the distance. On board is our former guide, and Karen.
As the boat comes alongside my own, Karen jumps into the front, nearly toppling it over. The other man turns his boat around and motors away. Karen and I are suddenly left alone.
“Where have you been?” she asks angrily.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice hoarse. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve been looking for you since you left. I’d nearly given up hope. I thought you’d gone mad, seeing your door wide open, and those paintings in the hut; the hut owner showed them to me, dozens of pictures painted all over the floors and the walls and the furniture, all of the same girl with clubbed feet and a small head with a flat face. To say that I was shocked, disgusted and extremely worried would only be—well, in fact, after seeing those images, I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I want to travel with you,” I say. “To see more of the world, to experience more than I’ve ever known.”
She smiles after a time, and then, before we arrive on shore, she says: “The next bus will be through here tomorrow morning. The protests are long over. We have been here far too long.”