Satchel Reemtsma

The Nomads are friendly, humble and curious. They don’t see foreigners often but don’t mind too much either. It has been a long way. A 6 hour drive interrupted by a car break down at 4 hours in. We are going to get there, we knew – it would just take so much longer.

My friends uncle took us in. He hosted a small welcome tea, asking questions in translation and within an hour we are streched, teeth cleaned smiling adventurous, ready for the next day to come.

The valley farms citrus fruits that gives a living color to the rough and stoney soil. We eat it after breakfast, right from the tree. No chemicals, says the uncle. Everything right from the sun, advances my friend. Everyone farms them, he tells me. They come in closer, some take helping hands during the harvest, mostly afghan refugees.

The life is simple and poetic. The first nomad i meet hums and eats a citrus fruit. He allows my photograph and receives a snack as a gift from my hosts. Nomads come south during the winter and north in summer. Herding goats in a stone desert and walking from oasis to oasis as if along pearls on a necklace. Today we use cars, tells me one of them. We used to walk all the way.

The cracking of stone is the only interruption of a silent heat in summer. Stones creates a new pattern of sounds that is different from what i had heard before. The occasional bird would sing, the song would echo and the silence return. My host takes the shotgun and no bird chirps anymore. Every bird that rises, gets shot with pricision. Meal is selfmade tonight. Open fire at nine. Sit on my matress, on this solid piece of rock.