I wipe sideways down my cheek. Brown. Step by step, I continue my walk, returning from the closest neighboring Peace Corps site, about 4 miles away. Blowing snot into a tissue, I see the contents of my nose. Brown. The road, the fields, the houses, the few plants still barely living: all brown. It hasn’t rained more than a mist since April. Everything is coated in a thick layer of dust. Harsh winds blow the eroding soil into my mouth, my eyes closed tightly, praying the wind will die down so I can finish my walk in relative peace. It’s as if the winds wait until the earth is most vulnerable to unleash their wrath. If tumble weeds existed here, we’d all be buried in them. The rainy season usually comes in November. By October, clouds
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