Santino is back with supplies of petrol, batteries and bottled water, not to mention his contemplative chin-on-the-wheel diplomacy. They are equally welcome. Food comes in bowls, a soup whose meat I can spit into my hand and re-conceal beneath the liquid. Simon poses with his rifle, flashes his fifteen-year-old’s crocodile grin. Coughs without covering his mouth. In the white Toyota, a grandmother taps her head to advertise her wisdom. It is minutes before I tire of the potholed roads, broken systems.