Photo from Propnomicon.

The Land Rover followed two parallel grooves dug through time in the Sahara sand. Goods stacked several feet high balanced on its roof, for passengers to sell in Timbuktu: colorful bags stuffed with electronics, sacks of flour, potatoes. The travelers, coated in a film of dust, sat silent inside, lulled by the truck’s dreamy sway and the groan of the springs. Around them, rust-colored scrub dotted the surrounding desert, and nothing more. Timbuktu, the town they moved toward, means “far away place” in Berber. Despite its isolation, or perhaps because of it, traders, scholars, and pilgrims have journeyed to Timbuktu for over a thousand years. And now these travelers too went there.

The driver strayed from the beaten path. Who knows why. Nothing to mark place but the different ways wind over the millennia had molded the sand. A traveler’s baby passed from one set of arms to another. The mother had grown tired and given him to the man next to her. For hours, the baby went from person to person, row to row, sleeping deeply all the while. The mother slept too. Her head rolled back and forth on the shoulder of the man beside her as the hazy sun fell. The driver returned to the path, the truck’s tires sunk back into their slots.

A cow, on its side and unmoving, lay in the middle of the road. The Land Rover stopped and the travelers got out, encircling the cow. The cow was alive, yet she had several deep gashes across her blood-specked throat. She gasped desperately for air, and her eyes bulged from their sockets. A hundred yards or so into the desert several cows ate from patches of brush. There was no herder to be seen. One of the travelers wondered what had happened, wanted to ask if someone had a knife but did not. The travelers returned to the Land Rover and moved on.

They arrived at the Niger around midnight. The river broke the gibbous moon into a thousand shimmering sparks. Its banks were desolate except for the small congregation of people and vehicles gathered near a dock on each side. The next ferry wouldn’t be until the following morning, so the travelers headed for the riverbank. They spread sheets, lay down. On the other side of the river, soundless silhouettes did the same. The river lapped quietly against the sand, and stars filled the sky.

Honking horns and revving engines woke the travelers. The sun, a vague light on the far side of the earth, pushed through the dark haze. Scattered across the river were a handful of canoes, each manned by a standing fisherman with a pole. One man’s circular net spun slowly through space before finally draping across the water. The ferry pulled up to the bank.

The ferry crossed the river, and a heavy-set woman wearing a dirty, worn T-shirt and a multi-colored wrap roamed the deck, laughing wildly and grabbing men’s buttocks. The men pushed her hand away and smiled. She danced and began stripping her clothes off, and everyone formed a circle around her. She laughed and sang; the travelers clapped their hands and laughed with her.

The ferry reached the other side, and the crowd disbanded. The travelers got in their vehicle and went on, yet the one who had wanted to kill the wounded cow looked back at the woman, who stayed on the ferry. He wondered if she crossed the river back and forth day after day after day, singing and ripping off her clothes and putting her clothes back on again, and that’s all she did. The woman disappeared in the dust.