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It’s early evening in Catania, Sicily, and the central station is once again thronged with African asylum seekers. Every night they come here—their meagre possessions in tow, seagulls wheeling madly overhead—to catch buses and trains to other parts of Italy,

We should have turned back. The moment Mel came off her rented bicycle, headfirst over the handlebars in what Austin later described as horrific but hilarious slow motion, grazing her arm and obliging our Basotho guide, Thirsty, to ride back