didn’t want to be distracted. “If so many pirates came to Madagascar, is there still pirate treasure here like gold and stuff?”
But before Malingu could reply, he swerved abruptly. They skidded onto a small mud track and bumped over a particularly deep pothole so that Ollie’s head hit the roof of the cab. “Phew! Nearly missed that turn-off!”
“Are we close to the camp?”
Malingu shook his head. “No. A few hours still.”
“A few hours?” he peered through the steamy window. The forest had closed in on them. They were in a tunnel of smudgy green. He wound down the window a little more and squinted upwards. No sign of sky through the thick mesh of canopy. But there was enough water gushing down to have Noah worried. They were practically driving in a river.
“At this rate, we’ll never get there.” But instantly he wished he could’ve swallowed his words. They were hardly out when the tyres of the truck went into a spin and a swirl of mud sprayed up against the windscreen. The truck came to a jolting halt that almost tossed them out through the front windscreen.
His father threw open the passenger door of the cab and jumped out into the downpour.
“What does it look like?” Malingu shouted from his side.
His father shook his head. His hair was plastered Napoleon-style against his forehead and his shirt was clinging to him. “Not good. Pretty bad in fact. Well and truly stuck.”
Malingu got out and kicked the tyre. “At least there’s no puncture.”
Ollie jumped down as well. His trainers disappeared into the mud. He had mud socks around his ankles. “What about a tow truck?”
Malingu laughed and shook his head.
His father sprung into action. “Okay. Have you got chains? No – I suppose not. We’ll need some branches and a shovel to dig around the wheel.”
Malingu scrabbled around in the back of the truck and stood up with two machetes and a shovel.
His father handed the shovel to Ollie. “Okay. Start digging, while we cut some branches.”
He opened his mouth to explain it was useless but with loud whacks his father and Malingu disappeared into the forest and the noise of them swishing through the undergrowth was swallowed by the sound of rain thudding against the thick leaves and the metal of the truck.
He started digging. Soon he was cursing not just the mongrel truck but also the mongrel tyre. The clay was heavy, squelchy and slippery. And he was sodden. He stood up and swiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced over to where he’d seen the forest swallow Malingu and his father. He wasn’t going in after them.
Then finally he heard voices and they were back. They packed some branches in under the tyre. Malingu got into the cab.
“Rev! Rev!” his father barked. “Turn the steering wheel. Turn!”
The tyre spun and sent up a spray of mud and shredded leaves and sticks, then settled even deeper. He took a look at his father and started to laugh. He was covered in mud and had leaves sticking up from his hair.
“You look like someone who’s just come out of the Vietnamese jungle.”
“You don’t look much better yourself.” His father let out a hefty sigh. “It’s no good. We’ll have to try rocking it out.” But with every shove the truck sunk in deeper. He gave the tyre a kick. “Looks flat to me. Like a slow puncture.”
Ollie opened his mouth to ask about a spare tyre. No. Of course not. Not even a mongrel spare.
“I’ll raise someone on the radio.” Malingu fiddled with an earpiece and pushed wires about into a black box. “Tana Tana … do you read me? Over and out.”
There was a hiss of static, then the sound of a faint, strange voice like someone speaking from Mars. Then nothing more but a few crackles.
Malingu pulled and pushed the wires again. “Lost him. It’s the rain. Reception’s never good when it’s coming down like this.”
Ollie bit his lip. “What now?”
His father shrugged. “We can’t sit around. We’ll walk back to the main road to get help.”
“We could push on,” Malingu offered.
“Push on?”
Malingu nodded. “Walk to the camp. If it’s a puncture, we’ll reach camp long before anyone from Tana gets here with another tyre.”
Ollie stared down the mud track they’d just come along, hoping he might make someone appear.
His father shrugged. “Sounds good to me. We’ll take some of the equipment. I don’t want to leave cameras and microscopes out in this downpour, even under the tarpaulin.”
Ollie pulled out the map from inside his back pocket. It was wet through and beginning to come apart at the folds. He tried to hunch over it so it wouldn’t get even wetter. “How far away is the camp?”
“You need a proper map. Take this one.” Malingu tapped a place that seemed in the middle of nowhere. “We’re here. But we have to get there.” He used his thumb and forefinger as a protractor to measure. We’ll probably make it by the time it gets dark. We’ll take a short cut. I know a track.”
He gave Malingu a look. “A track through the forest at night?”
“If we hurry we’ll get there before dark.”
His father nodded. “We might even come across some golden mantella frogs along the way.”
He shot a look at the thick tangle of creepers, ferns and trees. “Or … we might get lost.”
Malingu laughed. “I’m a tracker. I grew up in the forest. I know the terrain.”
As if conjured up by wishful thinking, a truck loomed up out of the murkiness in front of them. It slid to a halt just in time. The driver clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone on the narrow road. He leaned out of the window and raised his hand, “Mbola tsara.”
“Salama,” Malingu replied, then spoke very fast in Malagasy and pointed at the tyre. Every now and again Ollie thought he heard a few words of French popping up. The man sitting next to the driver snapped something. It was hard to catch a proper glimpse of him through the misted windscreen.
When Malingu tried to introduce them, he lifted his hand in an impatient wave and mumbled something.
“They’re in a hurry,” Malingu smiled.
The man on the other side wound down his window on his side and poked his head out. His face was tanned and craggy. Even in the gloom, his eyes were the colour of aquamarines. His hair was wiry and straggly as a bird’s nest and his beard sprouted in all directions. He looked like some wild scientist who’d lived in the forest all his life. But Ollie saw that the arm he leant across the edge of the window was as muscled and hard as a Christmas ham. It was criss-crossed with tattoos.
“D’accord.
