Flat

The Plateau du Tademait surrounding In Salah is as flat as the palm of your hand, and that is where it gets its name in Tamachek. A black granule lies over red sand stretching far beyond the horizon, and it is tempting through untrained or sensitized eyes to call it “Nothing”. The black granules disappear south of In Salah, and the color goes to red Orange beige, but that is the only difference I could detect as we continued on our journey. The road began to get very bad.

Landscape south of El Oued

We were 150 km from Arak and traveling at 140km/hr or so, a guess because Faysel’s speedometer was broken, when he shredded the left front tire. The vibration of the car suddenly sounded louder, we smelled burning rubber, the car began vibrating badly, and Faysal slammed on the brakes and pulled over. The tire was easily changed, but we had a long way to go without a spare. I saw slate escarpments to either side of the road, brushstrokes of whispy clouds painting the sky, and a grey overcast at the horizon that turned out to be sand.

Landscape south of El Oued

At 130 km from Arak the sky turned yellow and the light turned sickly. Hissing tributaries of sand had been blowing across the road since we started, but now the sand and dust was airborne. The heat from the sun no longer radiated out into a clear sky, and the car became a sealed sauna.

Sandstorm

At 120 km from Arak the visibility shrank to about 1 km. The dust crept up our noses like an infection and sand crunched in the cups of our teeth. My snot was all blood and dirt. Conversation was reduced to “Putain” and “Merde” and sometimes “Putain du Merde”.

Sandstorm

At 110 km from Arak the visibility shrank further, to ½ km or so. The occasional truck loomed black out of the dust, each time requiring some negotiation for asphalt. The potholes were plentiful and difficult to see. The wind became a gale pounding the car, and a truck carrying mattresses ahead of us seemed barely to keep its right tires on the road. Faysal did not slow down, he cursed the trucks that were ruining the roads, and we slalomed along through the potholes, still reeking of gasoline and fish but conscious too of our own nervous sweat.

I-n-Amguel, Algeria