X tells me “Djibouti” is French for “tiny, expensive, hot, steaming pile”. I admire conciseness in a language. Night. Somewhere in the desert between Hargeisa and Djibouti. A couple of huts selling food. I am in full power-saving mode, stretched out on the tarp with my daypack under my head, eyes tightly shut and not a single muscle moving, even though I know there’s no time to sleep, even if I could manage to. My fellow-passengers are finishing up their meals and are assuming similar rest positions. X is somewhere to my left, taking full advantage of his Frenchness and talking to the really cute fellow-passenger (whom I saw first!). She’s telling him that she’s married to a French legionnaire who promised he would take her to France when his term expires in 2 years. The
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