As kids my brother and I spent our holidays in our grandfather’s village. From the point where the pucca road ended, we had to travel five kilometres along a dusty — or muddy, if it was the rainy season —track to reach his village. In the late 1970s, this part of the journey had to be undertaken on a bullock cart. One year, we came to an intersection. My uncle explained that the government had built a new track that was shorter and in better shape. Alas, the pair of oxen insisted on taking the road to which they had