traveling north

The road becomes dustier and dustier with no stopping point in sight, and I wrap my scarf around my face in an effort to keep at least some of the largest particles from entering my lungs. On and on we travel through the dust and darkness—though Adana had assured me that no one travels this road after dark. Through my window I can make out the shadowy outlines of young children standing along the roadside and holding up glass bottles of areki (locally distilled grain spirits) in the hope that passers-by will pull over long enough to purchase a shot or two. With the road so rough and the ride so perilous even when the sun is shining and drivers sober, I hope that no vehicle headed in the opposite direction has slowed long enough for a drink.