The light touches on every exposed patch of land in Kalahari. It falls on the leaves softly; it bounces across your eyes and resides in your iris like a pool of stars and shimmers across the prairie. The light touches everyone — children, visitors, and even the stray dogs — with a sort of brilliance in its yellow and orange. A mellow, yet so generous that it even seems sacred. The bus rumbles, and so does the pebbles beneath the worn out rubber surfaces of the tires. When you step out of the bus, the air blows dust and summer into your cheeks. The air is hot; every breath taken is held back and let out with traces of light and warmth. You swallow each breath with great caution; you listen to the noise it’s making, the intricate sounds of your breath, the soles of your shoes scratching against the grains on the parched ground, the fire crackling and the distant laughter of local children from far beyond. Yet the horizon is too far, and the sound dissipates even before it reaches your reminiscence. The light paints the horizon before it reaches the eyes of the villagers who observe the arrivals of their visitors with wary eyes. The children, on the contrary, peep through the wooden walls and stained glasses, in a new-found curiosity, often clinging onto their arms like monkeys in jungles. Their eyes are kind and unknowing. They welcome the visitors warmly. Their fingertips touch the corners of the visitors’ lips, napes of their necks, and their fingertips for sharps (South African greeting gesture), pulling them close to their embrace. And the horizon — the horizon is ever so forgiving. They wrap everything in their vision and the day goes by as it closes its eyes.