Dune approaching Arak

Rock

Tankers at Arak

At 325 km from Tamanrasset, Faysel shredded the back left tire. I felt complicit in our situation, aghast at the stupidity of not insisting on getting a spare at Arak. We pulled over behind a parked truck, a bus came by, and Faysal hopped aboard with one wheel to get a tire at In Ecker, 160 km away. I sat down with the truck drivers on a blanket they had put down under a tree, and we shared tea and peanuts.

Beudjabbara Slimone owns his own truck and drives all over Algeria depending on his latest load. He lives in Ouargla, where his kids all go to the university. We discussed the usual: politics, family, kids, and whether life was better in the US or Algeria. I argued for life among family and friends and a culture you knew no matter where that might be. He told me there were no tires at In Ecker, that Faysal would have to go all the way to Tamanrasset, and that he would be back tomorrow at the earliest. He suggested I move the car off the road in case of bandits or thieves.

Truckers

We were joined by three other truck drivers, one young guy pulling out a collection of three year old postcards written in English from a Hungarian girl he had met over the internet. He had held them all this time and never gotten them translated and simply wanted me to tell him the romantic bits, but there were none except for a single use of the word “Dear”. In any case, they were three years old.

I took their picture, got their addresses, and they took off for Tamanrasset. I sat in the car and tried to read Faysal’s French literature and waited.

I learned to wait when I was a kid, sitting in the dentist office amid Highlights and National Geographics. By turning my thoughts off and finding this hum inside me, I could make time pass effortlessly and without impatience. Interestingly, I never needed painkillers until I was in my twenties, around the time I remember losing my ability to find that hum. Waiting has been less easy since.

I couldn’t move the car, because I was sure Faysal had hopped on the bus without noting where we were. He would drive right by when he returned. That bit about the bandits and thieves had caught my attention however, so I pitched my tent out of view of the road, yanked all the valuables out of the car, and called it a night.

Faysal returned at 5am, the Tamanrasset-Ghardaia bus traveling at 30km/hr for half an hour searching for the car. He had a new tire from Tamanrasset, but left the food he had bought on the bus. I put him in the tent for some sleep, climbed a nearby hill, and waited for dawn.

So, I wait, watching the wind drive rivers of sand down the oued. A collection of upright slates surround a body-sized plot, and I wonder who might be buried in such isolation. The stars are stupendously bright and plentiful, with a faint glow on the horizon that might be dawn, or might be In Ecker. The theme to “I Dream of Jeannie” floats through my head, and thankfully doesn’t stay. I doze a bit, and suddenly realize the stars have gone, and then watch as slowly the sun rises to wash the surrounding peaks. I am radiantly happy that events have led me to this stunningly beautiful moment.

The morning after the second flat