The Marco Desert. Shimmering on the horizon.  A lake which is not there! Jagged mountain peaks red, blue, green, brown, and grey hold up this plateau,  the sun sinking over the edge, a big red falling ball. For miles and miles there is not a body in sight, just us in the landrover with humming tyres. A straight concrete road all the way.

Over to the right three enormous vultures sit thirty feet from the roadside but they fly off low, we stop anyway, and find the remains of some kind of desert cat. Later, a shack approaches. In the brown garden specked, with white stones, a man has laid out his prayer mat, and is in the act of bowing to his God.  He doesn’t turn his head as we go by.

Nestling between low rolling hills, those black tents, and a string of camels heading towards them. They’re still using them. The camels coming from Kabul where we will be tonight.

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