Across Continents

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Towards the border

I’d woken early in the petrol station, back on the road before seven. On the edge of the village I spotted a pipe close to the road, gushing out water. Brief stop to fresh up, to remove some of the accumulated grime, to rinse some of the salt out of my clothes. Icy. Invigorating. Quickly re-warmed by the early morning sun.


The road began to drift south east. A few irrigated fields, one or two workers just visible. But mostly openness, horses wandering freely.


A steady, gentle descent towards a smaller range than the one I’d crossed through the previous day. The mountain pass downhill this time. The relative lushness of the plain quickly replaced by arid desert. Strange sandstone features, smooth, rounded by the elements, warm pastel shades.


Towards the towns of Koktal and Zharkent a sudden return to green, irrigated fields, rushes growing at the roadside. Trees offering a little shade for the frequent water stops. No longer alone.


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