The dunes roll in front of us mile after mile. Sunshine glistens off the smooth, sparkling sand as we bump along in a tooth-jarring ride toward the capital city. We have already stopped several times; first for a flat tire caused by a 6 inch thorn, then to ask directions toward the nearest road, then to get out and push our car out of the sand. The latter was a difficult undertaking and a spectacle for the whole village to see.
“If you come quickly, you will see some funny white-men straining and pushing to get unstuck from our sand.”
They had lined up, pushing and shoving, to get a front-row view of the white girls and the white man struggling in the hot sun to push a four-wheel-drive vehicle out of the sand that kept falling back into the ruts to trap it.
Finally, Dad had called out to them in their local language, and they had awaken, as if from a dream and feeling guilty, to stagger over and help get us out. Then it had became a contest among the young men to see who could push the hardest, the fastest and the longest, so as to impress the white girls – and their father. Who knew? Maybe he would offer one of us to them in marriage as a congratulatory prize!
Dad had been thinking no such thoughts, however, when the wheels had finally broken free from the sand. He had been focused on giving the engine everything there was, as he skillfully maneuvered our SUV out of the ruts and some distance ahead to avoid getting stuck again. We had run behind, blowing on our scorched hands after touching the hot, black metal. When we had caught up, we had hiked up our skirts, hauled ourselves into the truck, and taken off as Dad had leaned his head out the window to yell back his thanks to the helpful crowd.
The road is bumpy now, and the trip is wearing on. And on. And on. Never going more than 40 miles an hour. The sun glares down. My dad glares back from behind his sunglasses. We hit a pot-hole. My mom glares at Dad. We pass a small thorn tree. A massive cloud of dust trails behind us. My mom fans herself behind the tarha she draped from the front hand-held to the back headrest. It billows in the hot air coming through the open window. It lets in neither the burning rays nor the cooler drafts.
The car’s music player belts out kids praise tunes. My mom and sisters and I all sing along in harmony. Eventually, Dad wants to listen to an old sermon to help him stay awake, which means the rest of us can’t help but fall asleep.
A cloud of dust encircles us when Dad slams on the brakes to keep from breaking the car’s suspension on the pothole, but my sisters and I still go flying. We bang our heads on the roof as luggage avalanches down around us, pinching fingers and feet. We groggily do our best to hold luggage up, but it’s piled to the ceiling and we’re nestled in the middle of it. So we spend most of the trip shoving pieces back into their slots and hoping that we don’t get injured again.