This is Part 2 of my Far From Home series. Read Part 1 here.

There was the look of it: an ugly desert plain with tin trailers crowded on top of each other, clotheslines strung up between them, and people walking heads bowed along the dusty paths which count as roads.

There was the sound of it: the call to prayer warbling up into the dusty air, seeming to be distorted by it, or perhaps by the trauma which swirls around the homes and the little shops. The shouts of kids playing soccer, the creaky sound of a bicycle whooshing past, bouncing along the dirt road as a father rides home at midday to his children, plastic grocery bags swinging from both handle bars.