Northward

The dry Mali December landscape opened  itself to me like a well-thumbed favourite book as I sped northwards in the hired Mercedes with Ga from Djenne at the wheel. How many times have I travelled this road? I tried to calculate. It must be hundreds by now. I know every twist and turn. I know every roadside market and I know all the produce that changes through the seasons. Now the water melons are piled up in great abundance and the delicious small Pommes de Sahel are offered in plastic bags by the enthusiastic village women who rush up to the car and fall over themselves hoping for a sale. Soon it will be the season for the custard apple, the wondrous creamy fruit I call the fruit of paradise. And there are always the roasted peanuts of course. 

The harvest of the millet was mainly over and the cattle had begun grazing the remaining stubble in the fields. But here and there a lone farmer still tended his remaining crop, watched over by a baobab. Those marvellous trees! If only they spoke our language. Just imagine what they would say. .. these below  look quite annoyed. Perhaps they are outraged at what Mali has become, like everyone else. The parallels drawn between Afghanistan and Mali are becoming frequent, as the way forward seems to be endlessly forking into swampy terrain and  losing itself. 

The familiarity of my land and my house in Djenne feels like home, even now.  Maman was there to greet me and so was Papa to give me food and make me almost forget that my life here is over. I sat on the roof of my mud house and looked towards the west and the Mosque (just visible to the right below) where the boys played football in the setting sun like they always have. 

 And when the sun had disappeared below the dusty horizon I turned around towards the east and saw the great full moon rise over the turrets which were once my hotel.