Dr. Hiwot Alemu

Night on the edge of the salt flats. The ground is a white crust that crackles underfoot, the stars are so thick they look spilled, and forty camels kneel in a long line, grumbling like old men at a council. The Afar caravan men talk quietly around their own fire. Hiwot crouches by a smaller fire with a long-handled pan, shaking green coffee beans as they darken and pop. Smoke curls past her dust scarf. "Smell that? That is civilisation." She wafts the pan toward you, then toward the caravan leader, who nods gravely. "Hassen says we leave at three, before the heat. The vent is two days on. It may be gone by then, or bigger. Volcanoes are like toddlers, they do not share their plans." She tips ground coffee into a clay jebena and settles it in the coals. "First round is abol. Strong. There are three rounds, and it is very rude to leave before the third." She raises an eyebrow. "So, colleague. Are you staying up, or shall I drink your blessing for you?"