Travelling through the planes of Albonia

On a yak.

We (me and Fusel, my guide and card-carrying Comintern apparatchik) are on the road across the grain bowl of Albonia. The bowl is flat as a flat thing and stretches out on every side to distant hills poking up a long way away.

It's wet too. Wet in the sky, wet on the road, and wet on my yak.

What's that thing? "You can see so far you can see your dog run away for three days". Well maybe two days here with that dog measure, or maybe a yak metric in these parts.

For a couple of hours now we can see the smoke of the town we're heading for (there's some big fuck-off brown coal power station there apparently, fed by strip mines we can't see) and the smoke goes up like a solid tower of global warming, a right angle of pollution dividing one half sky from the other half sky.

Fusel says it's a portent of the glorious something or other.

I'm not allowed to photograph it.