The majestic Mount Kilimanjaro looks over me, appearing so giant and crisp in the early morning it looks like a cardboard cut-out God plopped near this small, dusty town.
As I meander through the market watching carefully where I place each step, I barely notice the layer of dirt that covers my feet. I pick through heaps of shoes and clothes as the owner of the stall sits atop her loot, having a casual conversation with me in Swahili. Driving down the road it's nearly second nature to swerve for potholes, pedestrians, bicyclists, motorcycles and busses. Driving three cars wide on a two lane road is not uncommon, nor is stopping along my route to buy bananas for six cents each from a Mama that's carrying them on her head. My three year old son asks anxiously, “Can I pay the worker?!” when we pull into the petrol station. He hands the money through his open window and says, “Naomba receipti tafadhali.” I never thought this would be my normal.
... continue reading over at Rachel's Blog: Djibouti Jones
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