foreign places


So here I am, a very unhappy twelve year old.  Living in the middle of an old volcanic crater amidst steaming heat and sand. We settled into school, as best as we could.  Changing schools becomes so much harder as you get older.  Everyone has settled into their friendships, their comfort zones and making room for a newcomer isn’t necessarily on their agenda.  Oh well. But I continued to amuse myself,  wandering around the souks and bazaars fascinated by the sights, the smells, the noise.  Food on stands displayed openly, covered in flies and the dust of exhaust fumes from the old cars that made their way slowly down the narrow streets. Green spittle was everywhere.   Khat, I later learned was something of a narcotic plant, that was chewed and the residue spat out and it didn’t seem to matter where.  But perhaps there was an order to it that…

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