Crunching tyres and parched rock,
nothing but an anonymous horizon for mile after prodigious mile. We're at the head of a convoy of
half a dozen beaten-up, beefed-up Land Rovers cruising south into the Sahara, far beyond the Tuareg outpost of Tamanrasset, and south, always southwards, towards Niger and beyond. I'm in the backseat, my head lolling from side-to-side, tottering
into sleep, barely able to resist the feverish heat, when Beni does
something stupid.
