I focused on the kids, tried to take photos that showed the punishing practicalities of what they were doing as well as who they were, and for each kid I photographed, Amelia asked their name. I remember a Fabrice and a Justin, a Gabriel and a Pierre, a Mpenda and even a Sublime, but to be honest I was more bothered about getting well-composed, properly lit, sharp photos than I was on who was who. After we’d photographed about fifteen kids I realised Amelia wasn’t writing down the names and made the mistake of suggesting it might be a good idea. She gave me a fake-withering glare and muttered, ‘For you, maybe. Just do your bit and let me do mine.’

I’m not sure how long we worked; I got so caught up in what I was doing that I lost track of time. It seemed ages, but probably wasn’t long. Still, Caleb managed to ask the gathered guards if they’d heard anything about a visit from a middle-aged white couple linked to his father, and the next thing I knew he was by my side, apologetically giving me the bad news: nobody knew anything at all.

‘Also, you should probably wrap it up with the camera. They’re getting pretty antsy.’

I glanced over to the gaggle of guards. Two of them were arguing with Francis while a third looked on, and the original man who’d stopped us, and was still hugging his rifle as if it was a cat, was giving me a proper thousand-yard death stare. Marcel, squatting next to this group, held up one big hand palm down and wobbled it from side to side, the universal ‘this is iffy’ signal. I turned away and took one last photograph – of the GPS screen, to pinpoint the location of this place for future investigation – before returning the camera to its padded pocket in the bottom of my rucksack. By the time I was done, the guards’ argument was audible over the squelching of feet and thump of spades in the hole I’d just photographed.

They wanted us gone, that much was clear. So Caleb and I hurried Amelia up the slope to where Francis and Marcel were now openly pleading with the guards, who’d sort of surrounded them, a bit like a crew of school bullies on the brink of making their move. Caleb either didn’t notice or decided not to care. Fair play to him: he barged right into the middle of the men, wagging his finger, and saying, ‘No, no, no!’ very loudly indeed. Again, it was an impressive act. He looked very entitled. But the guards seemed to have grown; for all his work in the gym, Caleb stood out as puny by comparison.

‘What’s he objecting to, precisely?’ Amelia asked me.

‘I’m not sure, but it seems to be working.’