The boat didn't look that safe but it was our only option, other than to swim of course.
From the side of the riverbank it did actually look as if a stone could have been tossed effortlessly into the neighbouring country.
That was, indeed, not the object of the exercise, it was to get us to the other side of the border, as swiftly as possible.

The police had impounded the vehicle together with all of our belongings, including the sealed boxes.
Why this day of all days we had not been carrying our passports I don’t know, just one of those things. The car would have never been searched.
We had crossed the bridge a hundred times and had never been asked to show any form of identification.

The outboard motor seemed to be asking more questions than the skipper, rhythmically, over and over, the interrogation didn’t last long.
The skipper was paid by our awaiting shore party, again no questions, it almost felt commonplace that two foreigners were being smuggled over the border.
A bottle of the cheap local brandy was ordered as we entered the small tavern, still no inquisition.

It was soon time to leave, huddled in the back of the open pick-up, bouncing and jerking, up into the steep, hidden hills.
The whiff of the apple wood burning on the open fire and the faint aroma of bruised garlic, I knew we were nearing safety.
The questions could now be answered.

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