by Tom Weller
Driving through bandit country.
As we all waited for the rains and watched food stores dwindle, tales of roadway bandits flourished in Beinamar, the Chadian village where I lived and worked as a Peace Corps volunteer from 1993 to 1995. Friends kept pulling me aside. They grasped my hand as they delivered warnings:
by Tom Weller
It was the spectacle that mattered.
Clouds of dust bloom around feet pounding across the bronze field, bare earth baked hard by the Chadian sun. I move with the flow of the action, like a swimmer tossed by swirling currents. I angle hard to the right before circling around to the left, I
by Tom Weller
It was a true taste of local culture.
The soldier sat down, uninvited, next to me. He wore dusty, faded green fatigues and shower sandals. He swung his battered automatic riffle off his shoulder and leaned it against the table nonchalantly, like a man shrugging off a golf bag after playing a quick
