We drove ten hours north and east from the capital, speeding over new roads. Camels kneel on the sidestreets here, and the wells at the edge of town are crowded with people lowering and lifting plastic containers for water.
Late last night, I was woken by the sound of metal shutters clanging against the window-grates. Then the thunder, then the lightning just discernible through my own shuttered window. I closed my eyes and waited for the rain. It fell, finally, hard and fast against the flat roof and tin doors. At sunrise, I ran the road toward Burkina Faso. There is a bridge along that road where boys quietly chant the Koran; below them, the riverbed was still dry.