90km short of Francis town, a woman stands on the side of the road, swinging her arms, waiting for a bus at a crooked stop sign. A crackled hardware store sign stands in front of seemingly empty mud huts. The only signs of life are this woman and some wandering goats. We lie on the dirt on the other side of this road, baking in the soft afternoon sun. I am listening to Phil Collins’ Just Another Day in
On the other side of the road, the woman sits down next to her canvas bag. Both of us are waiting for transport but we are going in different directions. I am trucking on to Francis town with the prospect of returning to this crusted sign tomorrow to complete the distance. I have no idea where she’s going… there is not much where we have come from.
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