a stinging explosion on my left cheek. i look up in surprise—forehead, nose.
another fast curve, and a downpour.
the hillside to my left was imposing and beautiful in the storm: black slabs of gritty stone soaring to the heavens. to my right, overwhelming open space is interrupted only by the tauntings of distant monoliths.
white knuckles.
we roll to a stop. i grab my camera bag from under an AK47. Kaabong.
a surreal world between or within or combining worlds. fried chicken and mashed potatoes with chocolate cake. empanadas.
lizards scurry behind the rock wall of the pavilion where i read.
the Mening language is listed on ethnologue as a dialect of Teso. Katibong isn’t listed at all. there are others, too. and, of course, Nyang’i. on Monday i’ll take the last leg to Karenga, where i get to start to tease these languages apart.
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