It was soooo hot and not to mention dusty work, constantly cleaning and recleaning the stones that bore the paintings telling of the Motoujamii's history. But it was work that Saharan loved, relished even. Still, it parched her throat and stung her eyes, and even good historians had to take breaks to drink water, lest they tire, or get sick, or worst of all, mess up in taking care of the precious artifacts.
She plodded down the path that was no path but in her mind to the water. She knew the route by memory now, which was a good thing. In the land of shifting sand, not knowing, having to rely on landmarks could leave one stranded. But she had been a Simbafutaji before coming to this land, and her memory was razor sharp. She found the water with ease, and with permission from the guards posted to be sure no one took more than their fair share, bent to drink. Ahh. Refreshing!
