Roads go through towns. Homes with rusting tin roofs. Tall hillside mountains. On the right these tall magicians make way for a road winding like a river. Some tall and white with dusty lime stone bolders piled for truck-load removal. Some deep earthen red swallowing this bus with its dusted heat. No trees for what seems miles as we stop off at a restaurant in the middle of somewhere, but no-where I know.
I fall asleep and again the climate changes. The road wet with puddles on either side, lush trees bursting with green. Mountain-sides at angles of up to what looks to be 90 degree are cleared of trees and farmed for maize (corn).