The Valley of Death and the Home of Hunger

Roll out of Dar on
A claptrap bush bus
And you're there... or
Better, passing through.

Scraps of life dent
The roadside: Maasai beggar and
Brown scrub, but mostly
The dearth of breath.

Burton and Speke pushed
Through here; undeterred at
The name bestowed by Arab slavers.
Hellbound westward, or

Coastbound east. Two Victorian
Obsessives; slaves, too, in their
Quest for
The Source.

Pleuristic Speke, slung
Between porters, on his hammock.
Race-hate Burton, carried by
His bile, slinging

Cloth and beads at the
Feet of reluctant chiefs. We're
Always in motion, carried forward by
Truth, or a lie.

Why am I on this
Bus? Aimless Mzungu, safe
In passage, while death slings its
Bile across the road, wheel-bound.

Familiar hell-on-earth, like
Dachau, or Dealey Plaza; each a
Passing-through place or a terminus. Entirely
Random - as decreed by killers.

We're off to the Mountains of the Moon, over
The Pass Terrible, so clear the road before
This jerry-can juggernaut does to
Life what drought couldn't.