Everything was the same hue of brown as the sand in the desert. The clay brick streets and small, squat huts looked ancient, turned that way by the heat and sandstorms that swept across the barren landscape. In that desolate place there were no flowers, so the bright red of roses or purples of violets were seen only in the brightly colored kangas and scarves worn by the women. So too, the many bracelets they wore that jangled musically as they walked and the tinkling of the bells around the goats in the herds provided the only pleasant sounds. The songs sung by the merchants in the marketplace were dirge-like and weighed on my ears discordantly. There was an old woman who sat on a stool in front of her hut and sang from sunrise to sunset in a voice so raspy and wracked with age that it set my…