The ceiling was black; or was it white? Or did it actually change colour depending on the time of the day?
That was all that I could grasp as I lay in bed with Miss Malaria, munching medicines.
In the hallway outside my room - high-heeled prostitutes “
clicketi-clacketed” back and forth with their new and old customers - and outside our questionable hotel - unenthusiastic independence-day celebrations took place.
Slowly my strength returned and I ventured out into the flooded streets of
Niamey -
the city of flies - the capital of Niger.
Always poor, dirty and hot, and at most times it’s also very dusty. Now - thanks to the heavy rains - with all its dust fixed into pools of brown sluggish liquid - we waded through the city.
At times the pools were ankle deep - at times a lot deeper, hiding sharp metal scrap, animal carcasses and excretion.
After a week we had had it and jumped on a bus heading north into the desert.
Feeble gatherings of sand turned into small islands of aridity in a sea of grass and low bushes. Small islands of aridity that -
Full Text Entry: Days in the desert