I should have taken my camera with. But, this having been my second funeral ever, I was a bit uncertain as to the correct funeral etiquette. Is it rude to take photos? Do you say ‘cry!’ instead of ‘smile!’ when pushing the button? In the end, I left it at home, and regretted it within the first 20 minutes of driving:

The road to Nigel is long and straight. It runs in between farms and small dorpies. The red soil has discoloured the tarmac into a pink-brown strip that carries on forever, over flat hills. I drove past a guy on a donkey-cart who waved as I moved to the other lane to pass him. A little bit further on, there was a black guy in a blue overall next to the road, clutching a white, awkward-looking chicken in each of his hands. Harvest-debris rolled up into huge balls of animal feed, so big that you mistake them for cows from afar. Black cows on a pale brown land. Brown. Winter is brown; all shades of brown. Luckily the sunsets are a picturesque pink and blue.