A wave of excitement ripples through the group – chicken for dinner. A second wave breaks as I say that I really don’t want my egg and I’d rather someone who appreciated it ate it. Eggs are fowl. Amid the Saturday night excitement I sit down to my bowl of rice, I cheer it up with a good pinch of pepper and a spoon of mustard. I’ve had rice for every meal since I’ve been here bar one. I don’t think I’ll ever hate rice I’m just developing a much deeper appreciation of the nice things that can go with it. Fortunately redemption arrives midway through my rogan josh fantasy in the form of banofee pie. Made from bananas, condensed milk (obviously) and some slightly stale biscuits in what appears to be the washing-up bowl, it tastes bloody sweet and bloody good. I wash it down with rum and sprite and I’m ready to party. Bush party.
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