“Tina Charles… I loved her very much!”
We sat in the back of the taxi not quite believing our ears. In this dusty bowl populated mostly by men, or groups of women covered from head to toe in black, the last subject we expected to be discussing was 1970s pop.
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“Go! Go! GO!”
I emerge through layers of sleep to the sound of shouting and something metallic rat-a-tat-tatting against our hull. It’s just after dawn, and we are anchored in the Red Sea near the border between Eritrea and Djibouti. Alarmed at the potential damage being done to our yacht, Jamie rushes up on deck. He stops dead: three ragtag men are waving semi-automatic weapons at him.
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