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The Well Was the Plan
Owen had come to a well in the Aïr because he wanted to see nomads, and he wanted them to be what the word had meant in his first textbook: people who move because they have not yet learned to stay. The Sahara was doing its part. The man at the well was not.
He was Tuareg, and he was watering goats, and the indigo cloth over his face was a tagelmust. Owen recognized it from a photograph. He asked when they would wander on. The man looked at the animals, then at the sky, and named the next pasture. They would go when this ground was tired, if the well there was still good. A cousin had said that it was. The cousin might be wrong. That was the whole uncertainty. It was not an absence of direction.