Freezing cold morning drive wrapped in my sleeping bag. Saw camels and donkeys and again experienced the sand-scouring effect of the harmattan (desert wind). In the villages we passed were granaries made of mud and matting and decorated in patterns suggestive of Bendigo pottery wine jars.
Read and dosed most of the day, except for a shopping stop at a fabulous market in a large town. Here were piles of pumpkins, sacks of dried chilies and of onions, and the odd tired capsicum. And we're definitely back in the land of dates – by the mound! We followed a network of alleys lined with red-brown terracotta pots from money box-size to huge urns and with reed mats, some woven in vibrant patterns. Adri and I both coveted one of these mats but couldn’t work out how to pack them onto the truck so resisted temptation. Did, though, get a lovely photo of three men with their mats.
Camped opposite an antennae station behind some shrubbery. We seemed to be miles from a village but during dinner seven children appeared out of the darkness and slowly approached us, coming to rest beside the truck. We spent the rest of the evening with these three beautiful girls and five boys aged about 8 to 15 years, the enjoyment obviously mutual.
The kids were delightfully mystified by the music coming out of the truck cab, edging closer to the open door as curiosity won over nervousness. Then the three girls started dancing, chanting their own tunes and clapping and moving to a different melody, dancing despite our music rather than with it. Then, and perhaps not coincidentally, after we gave them some lollies they performed a foot stomping dance that raised a cloud of fine dust throughout the camp. Those of us round the campfire sat enthralled and delighted by the relaxed display, not caring if it was planned - they just seemed to want to move. The oldest girl was the most receptive to our strange music. She and her sister, we assumed, smiled as they imitated Nikki and Kel’s swaying moves. Nikki took the eldest into her version of the jive and all onlookers clapped their encouragement.
The children wore a weird collection of headgear, some closely resembling the strange ear covering caps of the Cromwellian era; the older lad wore a part turban part Moslem head wrap. As they relaxed and our welcome became more obvious, they worked towards the fire, the three girls always together with arms around each other, the youngest's solemn face peering out from a blanket. She was the only one who didn’t smile all night. Kel extravagantly built up the fire and the children were drawn to it like moths.
Kel was an instant favourite when he offered them one of the Swedes’ magazines and started turning the pages, giving an amusing monologue on Swedish life. The kids poured over the magazine, often held upside down, their fascination delightful to watch as they slowly turned pages from picture to picture. Nikki gave them her unposted Marrakesh postcards, which they handed around. Their simple curiosity in our things was written in their wide eyes and grins.
They returned the magazine even though I made it obvious it was for them and this is one of the few times so far that we’ve had contact with children who weren’t asking for gifts and even gave something back to us. Sitting in a tight group at the end of the truck, the girls watched us avidly and in the fire light I noticed that their faces were tribally scarred. Two also had studs through their noses.
This has been one of the most emotional and enjoyable and unexpected evenings so far. Kel spent the whole time wandering around with almost childlike wonder and joy on his face, obviously still touched by these encounters even after all his travelling. His reaction delighted me almost as much as the children watching his bright eyes and warm smile.
Over the last few days I’ve been watching Africa go by and realising that I’ve been concentrating too much on the bigger events and left much of quintessential Africa un-photographed. I’ve taken no photos of the numerous longhorn cattle herds and tending shepherds, the loaded donkeys and the everyday lines of women balancing assorted pots, foodstuffs and chickens on their heads. And despite all my rummaging I never took a photo of the fabric stalls!
I’m getting almost blasé about what I’m seeing, tending to fall back on “I’ve seen it before.” It takes concentration to note the subtle changes in the village structures, people and landscapes. Having been in Niger before, I’m not paying enough attention to the subtler things going on around me, instead escaping this extraordinary landscape in books. I'm looking forward to a new country (Tchad) and enjoying the fast roads leading us out of Niger.
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