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1299 of a deserted gold-digger village, no bushes blowing across the sand, only plastic carrier bags, beofre the duel to come. This is where we spend the night. Shortly before sunrise, we fol- low the Massai chief of the community, Johannes, on his 125 cc China Toyo through the village littered with plas- tic waste. After the last huts he stops abruptly before the vast veld, thrusts his right arm into the air and tells us to always follow his fingers. The tip of his finger ends in an illuminated stripe in the skies. A red sand track leads us directly into a turbulent sea of mealy sand dust which stretches knee-deep well beyond the horizon of our wheels. The hot, still dry wind, which is supposed to bring rain, whips up the red powder into the air, vortexes of fesh fesh sand blow into the leaden skies which hang oppres- sively over the countryside. Heavily loaded trucks full of building sand from illegal sand pits churn their way to the building boom city of Nairobi, making deep grooves in the tracks du- ring the rainy period which then fill

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