by Ewan Lawrie
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The field was dust. Not a blade of grass. The posts were rust-scarred and at our end of the pitch one was quite bent. At the far end the posts accommodated the two vultures awaiting the outcome of the game. Giles and I had tossed a 1 dalassi coin in the changing room after we'd taken our first look at the pitch. I'd lost, so I was playing scrum-half. I could already feel the dust behind my contact lenses. God knew what they'd be like at the first scrummage.
It wasn't a great game. We were playing for the Gambian Army team. Kev had wanted to put some ringers in the technical positions. Giles was playing fly-half, I'd be passing to him for most of the game. Jem was at full back, looking clueless. One of the Privates had been arrested in Banjul the night before, not even Major Jammeh could get him out of Banjul Jail, so Jem got to play after all. The opposition should have been quite tasty. Royal Naval Officer Training Vessel, HMS Achilles. The ship had pulled into Abidjan for some shore leave. A bus ride had brought the team down to Banjul. The sailors were drunk for the first half and hung over for the second. We lost 11-8. Jem scored a try.
Kev oversaw the delivery of some crates of the local beer. There were photographs, Major Jammeh and the Gambian soldiers beaming with their arms round Giles, Jem and I. The Navy guys and all of us in a group shot, cans raised in mutual salute. The local fire service came and the Gambian players got a post match shower. Kev offered the three of us the use of the shower at his house, before the party at the British High Commission.
