10 july 2008
Our second flight in twenty days is taking us from Paris to Bamako - don't get too excited, we stayed in the airport, napped and changed pants to look presentable for our arrival into Mali, even though it turned out to be the most unnecessary change of clothes, quite possibly, ever.
The meal consists of rice and fish, something I am told will soon be my staple diet. I pass it up and go for two glasses of red wine.
Over countless Europen cities we fly, crusing at great heights through the salty air lofting above the algea green of the Mediterranean Sea - losing, every minute, my sense of balance. Onward south over the hostile, AlQueda inhabited Saharan Desert and red, seemingly lifeless, Mars-esque lands... endless red. Endless. Red. Turning my head away from the window, away from the science fiction that seems to be occuring below, I turn my attention to the seat back infront of me. A tactless, tasteless movie appears, American pop culture at its best (er, worst), nausea takes over. Again, I peer out, through one squinting eye, over my seatmate's broad, black shoulders, to the clouded and sandy view below. Almost as if testing myself to see the absolute reaction of fear, excitement, dread and passion - my face flushed, my stomach in knots, my mind races.
We begin our descent.