Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Don't count the days, make the days count.' Muhammed Ali

The Geneina airport has a gravel runway, but it felt relatively smooth in the Dash 8 Turboprop. The weather, both in Khartoum, and Geneina has been identical every day; sunny and hot. I follow the exiting passengers, like a line of ants, to a small brick building.

Once inside, everyone spreads out like a spray; some find families or friends, others head straight outside, and a handful converge in a corner, waiting for their bags to materialize. I stand alone just inside the building, like a plate of leftovers on a dinner table.

I hadn't fully thought this part through. The obvious would be to find a taxi or tuk-tuk.

I spot Donna holding a sign with my name. She nods and walks over. She is a local woman, average height, with long black hair tightly held back in a bun. She walks with a slight limp.

"How was your flight Mr. Rembrandt?" She has a strong, confident handshake.

"It was like being in a refrigerator." I smile, trying to use humour to get polite cordiality out of the way, and start this leg in a friendly manner. I notice her look around for my suitcase, for which I only have my backpack, and one large duffel bag which I managed to sneak as carry-on baggage instead of checking it in.

"I smuggled on all my bags," I explain, eager to get away from the airport and see the WFP compound.

The dirt roads are drier and dustier than even Khartoum. The buildings and houses are small, no apartments. We pass wide cracked-dry riverbeds, hinting that water used to be there, but it's hard to imagine the volume of water required to satisfy the thirst of the dirt, and then fill it to the rim.

In a field, I see a cattle grazing on the sparse greenery, their ribs showing through their hide. Another mile down the road, a few goats huddle in a small group with their shepherd. It is still a hot, dry day, but different than Khartoum, without big city stuff to bake under the sun. The smell is different; more dust and sand, less smoke and city. It's like the subtle difference between being on a large lake, or an ocean; both are on the water, but the water is different.

Donna catches me studying the dry riverbed.

"It's hard to imagine it full right now. The short rainy season is crucial here. The whole area becomes a big mud pile; the grass grows faster than the cows can eat. They get fat and have calves. Estivating mudfish wake up and multiply. Believe it or not, in that field over there", and I look at an expanse of desert sand where a cow had found the lone tuft of grass, "the grass will grow as tall as you. It will be swampy, and, you can fish."

I had heard about them; it would have been fun to fish in a field of grass.

Looking at the barren sand, it is no wonder that the WFP is here; weather patterns are unpredictable, and one season of missed rain would be devastating.

She brings my attention back inside the truck.

"I have an update from the El-fasher helicopter group."

I glance at her, and then look out the window again.

"There had been a protest. It was expected to be relatively peaceful. One of the engineers, during a drive to the market, had run over a farmer's goat. He offered to buy it; however they couldn't agree on a price. The farmer threatened to bring up the matter with the Sultan. Despite this, the farmer's cousin organized a protest, with about thirty family and friends, but once the story spread, it ballooned to hundreds. Someone threw a firebomb into the house, which caused an explosion and the crowds dispersed. The police have questioned the farmer and his cousin, who adamantly claim they didn't see anyone throw the bottle. So the police have no witnesses. I have to be honest with you, I don't think they will make any more progress."