Walata, February, 1324, Morning
After nearly a month of travel, I do believe that my feet won't get any more sore or painful from blisters; they're already too numb. I suppose that this is a good thing.
I sit under a tree that wears the most vibrant fronds I've ever seen. An oasis town like Walata has little miracles like that, though. Walata was the endpoint of the Saharan Westward trade route, so there are many merchants starting and finishing a journey akin to ours, only much shorter and much more practical and much more average. There is nothing average about our journey, however. Gold in the form of nuggets and dust upon the camels and treated-like-camels slaves. They buzz about like flies on the land, chatting and haggling with others of their kind. They presented their goods and they presented gold. They spoke in different dialects, all of them. Some were very smooth and fast-running, like a river. Others were gutteral. More were stilted and sharp, like a dulled knife on the tongue. One had clicks in the throat as letters along with the other sounds, making it fascinating to listen to.
They came from all races, as well. Most immediate to recognize were the charcoal-dark Sudans of the south trading with the coppery Berbers of the north. There were many peoples though, of all gradations and faces and fabrics. It was, however, that they were all the same person. The more I listened to the languages, the more they blended together. The more I studied their clothing, the more they interwove. The more I looked at their faces, the more they faded into one singular persona. One singular entity of trade.
But though Walata brings comfort with it's abundant water supply, the next leg is to Taghaza--a small desert town of salt mining. Even though it is the wet season, one can't expect any significant amount of rain supplied by the skies.
I sit under a tree that wears the most vibrant fronds I've ever seen. An oasis town like Walata has little miracles like that, though. Walata was the endpoint of the Saharan Westward trade route, so there are many merchants starting and finishing a journey akin to ours, only much shorter and much more practical and much more average. There is nothing average about our journey, however. Gold in the form of nuggets and dust upon the camels and treated-like-camels slaves. They buzz about like flies on the land, chatting and haggling with others of their kind. They presented their goods and they presented gold. They spoke in different dialects, all of them. Some were very smooth and fast-running, like a river. Others were gutteral. More were stilted and sharp, like a dulled knife on the tongue. One had clicks in the throat as letters along with the other sounds, making it fascinating to listen to.
They came from all races, as well. Most immediate to recognize were the charcoal-dark Sudans of the south trading with the coppery Berbers of the north. There were many peoples though, of all gradations and faces and fabrics. It was, however, that they were all the same person. The more I listened to the languages, the more they blended together. The more I studied their clothing, the more they interwove. The more I looked at their faces, the more they faded into one singular persona. One singular entity of trade.
But though Walata brings comfort with it's abundant water supply, the next leg is to Taghaza--a small desert town of salt mining. Even though it is the wet season, one can't expect any significant amount of rain supplied by the skies.