Vincent in the bush.

Vincent, a Belgian Jesuit, used to visit our family from time to time, calling on his way to or from somewhere interesting, for food, a bed and news of the outside world.

Our little corner of Africa was very remote, but my parents listened to the BBC World Service every evening and knew all that was going on, hence uncle Vincent's reliance on them. He wasn't related to us but we called him Uncle Vincent because my father wouldn't have us address him as Father.

His unannounced visits were always a source of excitement for me, and his overpowering smell of brandy and cigars indicated an edginess that I was unfamiliar with. He was also an expert in snakes, especially cobras. That was his dark side.

My fondest memory of Vincent was of him driving me along with my brother in his open jeep through the bush to a waterfall a few miles from our house along a bumpy, dusty track. There we would swim in a rock pool while Vincent sat under a canvas awning he erected at the back of his jeep. 

He rigged a gramophone to the jeep's battery and listened to crackly recordings of Italian opera in the heat of the afternoon. I suspect that that's where my own penchant for opera comes from and when now I hear certain arias from Verdi and Puccini I can almost hear a waterfall and the chattering of monkeys in the background.