On our fourth day of driving through Mali we saw no other
traffic today,
not even a donkey cart. It seems that even an ass knows not to use this
dirt
track in the heat of midday. A dust cloud follows our vehicle like a
persistent beggar.
Occasionally we pass a Fulani and his herd of goats or long-horned cattle.
We pass
small, nameless villages, twenty or so people living in mud huts next to a
well. They
farm millet and groundnuts. The women pound the millet into flour using
mortar and pestle. Naked
young children wave at our truck and run from cameras. Outside the
villages the landscape hasn't
changed since Senegal: flat, dotted with short, hardy trees or bushy
scrub. Between the trees,
yellow grass grows thinly over red soil. The red earth seems to burn
under the sun, reflecting
heat and pushing the mercury over the 40 degree Celsius mark. Locals
tells us that this is the
cool season. This semi-arid vegetation zone is called the Sahel and it
stretches for thousands of
kilometers, from Senegal to Chad on the southern fringe of the Sahara
desert. We look at the locals
with respect; what is adventure travel to us is a home to them.
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