Sierra Leone

First they yelled and cursed. Then they flung pieces of driftwood. They were two little boys in green t-shirts and nothing on the bottom. They ran down the beach and appeared later with two slightly taller boys. They held sticks and stood in a line as if guarding the shore. We decided to make friends. John, 11, spoke first. We asked them which football teams they liked. Manchester United, Chelsea, Barcelona and Liverpool, they said. Would we like to see some crocodiles? In fact, we would.

As we meandered up the beach, John told us the four were brothers and that their parents were both dead. His mother's name was like mine, Emilia. She had been sick a long time. His father, a soldier, was killed in the war by rebels. Queen Elizabeth came to their village in 1986. John offered to show us where she slept. Or maybe we'd like to go to Banana Island, where slaves were once held and where the British fought pirates. We demurred. The landscape shifted from ocean to lagoon, and then there was only the hot sun, sand-colored crabs and prickly bush underfoot. 

We arrived to an area of shallow water and mangroves. They mounted the branches and barked like dogs, hoping to lure reptiles. Does the crocodile usually come here? I asked. There's not just one -- there are hundreds! John said. Still we looked and looked and saw nothing. They said we should come back and tie a real dog to a tree. The crocodiles would smell it. We'd return by boat that some larger boys would paddle. How many of us? Not many of us would go crocodile hunting, we figured. Slowly we turned back taking the long route along the sea. When we reached the resort, they crouched under the bushes nearby, waiting for food, batteries, notebooks, but mostly our attention.