Dry season in Uganda is long. No rain, the earth scorched and brittle, our front yard blackened by the sun and the surrounding fields and hills awaiting the pyre of inevitability. So part of life becomes a battle against the blaze, a clash with conflagration, the march of brazened soldiers delving deep into the shimmering ashes of the grassland with little more than sandal, shovel, and moth-like determination to reach the light. Fate then determines which is extinguished first.
Poetic. Anyway, two of us headed out into a larger-than-normal fire yesterday and spent the better part of an hour beating the earth with our shovels and dashing frantically between the taller grasses in an effort to contain what could be dealt with. In the end we arose the victors, but not without forfeiting the pallor of our pieds.