Sunday trading

On Sundays in Yambio the good townsfolk dress in their finery and pour onto the red earth roads to walk, ride or drive to church services that are held throughout the day in both Zande and English.

A few streets away we are making preparations for field travel, which commences tomorrow bar any last minute political or mechanical spanners in the works.

Thank the lord that Sunday trading laws don't exist here, as we've needed to provision ourselves with plantains and pineapple, tea and tomatoes, onions and orange powder (to take the taste of grim water away). Arab shopkeepers open up, as do Christian traders after church if they're not heading somewhere to get mortal on home brew.

We've shopped, crafted last-minute permission letters, sorted through piles of junk, found a dead bat in a bucket, had a tiff with Bennett about the way to store pineapples, charged everything electronic that we can find, dealt with plumbing issues (not metaphorical) and discussed everything from rhinos to rangefinders and avocados to abortion in Ireland.

Music fills the night more loudly and for longer on Sundays than on other evenings. No coincidence that this is the day that people have let loose, drunk and been merry. It's just gone midnight and the bass a few streets away has increased in volume. The good townsfolk show no sign of winding up their party. I hope none of them are the Wildlife Service officers assigned to travel with us tomorrow as it's pretty cramped when our vehicle is fully loaded and the stench of booze can be overpowering.