Timiaouine, Algeria

An hour before sundown there's some hustle 
and bustle at the Douane. It's a clan of 
Tuareg nomads bound for Mali. Their light 
blue Peugeot econo-sized pickup truck is 
the first and only vehicle in two days to 
pass through this miserable south Saharan 
border-post shithole, and I, for one, am 
awfully excited to see some action.

The customs agent (I have nicknamed him 
Scamp) rises with a curse from a broken-
down hospital bed which serves as desk, 
lounge, and throne for his official and 
august personage. He's in no hurry. He 
opens up a couple of their burlap sacks, 
inspects them lackadaisically, and goes 
inside to do the paperwork.

The Tuareg wait without moving or talking. 
There are about eight of them. It's strange 
to see them with a truck. Normally they're 
on foot. Sometimes a local chief might  
show up on a camel with an embroidered, 
handworked saddle.