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lunchbreak.
    I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew it was two o’clock. To while away the last hour, I pulled out our Travellers’ Guide to Africa and opened it at the chapter on Gabon. The country relied heavily on imported food and consumer goods. There was no commercial agriculture, and much of the population depended on subsistence agriculture, hunting and fishing. The only major manufacturing industry was a massive plywood mill at Port-Gentil on the coast. Gabon’s economy was critically linked to world demand for its minerals, offshore oil and timber. The Guide also highlighted the government’s flagship project – a plan to build a railway from the port of Owendo near Libreville to a vast iron-ore deposit at Belinga in the remote north-east. When completed, the railway would bring out the mined ore for export. Construction on the railway had not begun, and no ore had been mined.
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    At three o’clock we were back at the Banque Nationale de Paris, where I explained to a melancholy French clerk about our funds transfer. I wasn’t hopeful. After a thorough search of the records, he returned with the news that themoney had not yet arrived – perhaps we would care to call back next week? Out in the street we took stock again. We had nowhere to camp legally, and probably just enough cash for one day’s food. Our new contacts in town would be critical for our survival.
    Hunger and fatigue set in again, so we drove to the far end of town, where we found a European-style hypermarket, Mbolo, crammed with luxury French food and alcohol.
    â€˜We’ll try for some salami,’ Win said. He chose a piece twenty centimetres long, looked at the price and instantly dropped it, hissing an expletive under his breath. It cost four times what it would in Paris. Stunned, we chose a piece half that size and a small baguette from the bread display. By the time we had paid, it was almost four o’clock and there was no time to eat. We were due at Doug’s office for coffee.
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    On the walls of Doug’s office, geological maps jostled for space with black-and-white aerial photographs of a minuscule clearing in thick forest, where a scatter of tin-roofed buildings perched on a hillside. Above the desk, the latest official portrait of the president of Gabon, El Hadj Omar Bongo, looked out imperiously.
    We sat in black vinyl armchairs and sipped the strong coffee brought by Doug’s bilingual French secretary. Intrigued, Doug eyed us both in our soiled jeans. ‘So what have you been doing in Africa? Where’ve you been?’
    Win and I exchanged glances, took deep breaths, and began. After we’d finished the story, Doug sighed deeply. ‘That’s a hell of a tale. My wife would love to hear that!’
    Doug had worked as a geologist around the world and had been in Gabon for just six months. On arrival, he had spoken no French and had no African experience. His brief as director of SOMIFER was to: reopen an old mineral exploration camp in mountainous forest 600 kilometres from the coast, in a region with no roads, airfields or railways; coordinate surveying, mapping and test drilling of the area; establish supply lines for provisioning the camp; and provide housing for up to twenty expatriates and over a hundred Gabonese workers and their large families.
    â€˜What is this project?’ I asked.
    â€˜It’s an iron-ore exploration project at a place called Belinga,’ Doug said.
    â€˜Belinga?’ We both sat bolt upright. ‘We read about that only today. Isn’t it supposed to be the biggest iron-ore deposit in Africa?’
    â€˜It is! Come over to the desk and I’ll show you.’ He spread out prospectuses, photographs and maps, and on an aerial photo, pointed to a clearing in dense forest. ‘That’s the camp. We’re cutting a road through to it at the moment, but it’ll be a while before we reach it because