We were not expecting to have to swim ashore.  This was not in our game plan.  We had far too much equipment, were suffering from mild sunstroke and I had only brought one pair of shorts.  ‘Shipwrecked’ was not in our risk assessment.

But here we were 500m of the coast of Orango, stuck on a sand bar, with a woman next to me muttering about shark-infested waters.  The wind was picking up, the sun sinking in the sky and one man was already in the water with a pig wrapped around his shoulders.

A brief bit of back story.  We had arrived in Guinea Bissau with a hunger to explore the Bijagos islands - a unique archipeligo found at the mouth of the Bissau river, whose remoteness and biodiversity have made them a mecca for birdwatchers and naturalists alike.

Access to the islands is difficult, and we had opted to spend five hours in a pirogue – a narrow fishing boat shaped like a slice of melon. The pirogue’s advantage is that it sits very high in the water.  Their disadvantage is they get tossed around like a cat in a washing machine. 

Our boat was heavily laden and numerous passengers (livestock and human alike) had groaned and screamed across the water as we were pummelled by a Westerly wind.  Finally we could see Orango – home to the elusive salt water hipp– and were excited by the possibility of shade and some food.

Then the boat shuddered to a halt.  Pigs squealed, chickens squawked, and a number of passengers were tossed from the boat’s sides into the livestock area.   And a long silence. 

A sandbar had caught us under the bow, paralysing the engine.  Nervous glances were exchanged.  The shore was still a long way off and water looked deep.  The outboard screamed as the captain tried to extricate us. Nothing and nobody moved.

It was then that a hero emerged.  He wore a small yellow hat and carried a chicken.  It was he who jumped overboard; who strode away from the boat to the jeers of the other passengers; who found a path to the shore. 

He was not a big man.  He did not say much.  Others overtook him later.  But if he had not removed his trousers and splashed into the water with the chicken held high above his head, then things could have been very different.

We watched anxiously as he departed.  His fate was our fate.  If he got swept away by a current or attacked by a shark we would stay in the boat.  If he went out of his depth and had to swim then somebody else would need to find another route.  But he kept walking.  And the water went from chest height to waist height to knee height. 

This is what happens when you are shipwrecked in Guinea Bissau

He did not turn around when he reached land.  His work was done.  He had a chicken to cook.  But back on the boat, chaos ensued.  Women loaded possessions on their heads, children were strapped to chests, pigs trussed and heaved over sun burned shoulders.  The great exodus was beginning.

We were the last to leave.  Following a scattered train of people weaving through the shallows.  We carried camera and sound equipment on our heads, lugged bags and food on our shoulders and gripped flip flops in our teeth.  It took us 20 minutes to wade to shore.  Along the way we rescued children overburdened with luggage, found cases of wine dumped by struggling castaways, and encountered small transparent stingless jellyfish.

We flopped onto the beach like fallen leaves.  Some passengers had already broken open wine taken from the boat.  Others were wringing out their dresses and shirts.  Many had simply carried on walking into the bush.  We caught our breath and limped up the beach to a small hotel. 

On arrival we explained our odyssey to the land lady.  ‘Its amazing that we survived, I mean we could have been stranded there for days’ I gasped.  She looked at me with bored eyes.  ‘It happens every week’ she said ‘its called low tide’.

Robinson Crusoe has left the building.