The coffee tastes like water strained through one of the many piles of cow shit I avoid stepping on, street side. There is a ‘herbal sauna room’ which I suspect is likely a room infused with marijuana smoke. It’s achingly hot and my muscles are aching, my hair is thick and packed with dust that sticks it together in three distinct parts that I’ve been plaiting daily into one. On either side of the town rocky mountains rose up, people rock climbed off them and an army compound lay to the West. Like anywhere deserted, everything was covered in the dusts. It hung off people’s clothes and skin and their babies eyes blinked with it, their lungs I imagined were coated with it and they kept living anyway. The way the dust hung in the air was perpetual, stagnant particles that waited to be captured by walkers through it, tossed up by carts and slowly shuffling feet, and like the hottest places it felt slow, even paceless. The donkeys or asses or tiny horses or whatever they were were saddled with travellers bags and plastic wrappings packed with vegetables, and their long eyelashes sank slowly with each blink and sat half way up their eyes giving them hooded leering expressions. They stood still while their owners sauntered into cafes or little concrete houses to drink tea and laugh before continuing, forward.