Water in the Desert

By William M. Balsamo

The deserts of the Sahara are beyond imagination and dwarf man’s power to control. The carpet of sand stretches out in all directions and cloaks the windblown surface. One cannot imagine a part of the earth which is more formidable and inhospitable for human habitation though perhaps the icy tundra of the Antartica come close. Both represent nature in the extreme; raw nature totally overwhelming and threatening to most people who prefer a more temperate climate and a compromise between torrid heat and frigid cold.

Mark was in Aswan, a city on the Nile somewhere below Luxor and above the Sudan. It is the last major city in Egypt before reaching the borders of its southern neighbor; city fed by the waters of the Nile hugging the banks of this river as a source of life. Fallacas gently go up and down the Nile and Egyptian youths work a ferry service between the center of Aswan and the formidable bank on the opposite of the river which is nothing but sand, sky and Bedouin campsites.

Mark’s purpose in coming this far down the Nile was to go to Abu Simbal, that wonder of antiquity which sits at the border facing the Sudan. It stares south with its intimidating sculptured figures daring any foe to approach the border and its guards.

There are several ways to approach Abu Simbal, all of them requiring patience and time. Mark chose the land route which covered a newly paved road through the eternal sands of the desert. The bus left Aswan in the early morning not far from the market place located close to the banks of the Nile. The journey took three hours one way.

There was a choice of buses. Mark could have chosen a luxury air-conditioned tourist bus fully equipped with toilet, video and complimentary soft drink, or the local transport consisting of an open-windowed, pre-WWII vintage heap of scrap metal on wheels. The former was clean, efficient, antiseptic and sterile. The later would put the visitor in contact with the locals and their country in a way a tourist bus never could.

Mark chose the latter and jumped on it in the early morning before the sun reached the apex of its power. . His ratios for the day consisted of a liter-sized bottle of mineral water purchased in the marketplace the day before, several rolls of bread and a handful of desert fruit.

The bus quickly filled up with turbaned Egyptians wearing grayish white jellebass. This native garment draped their bodies like a nightgown and a passerby may quickly assume that it is the sole garment they wear and in which they spend every waking and sleep hour of the day. Together this motley gathering of locals constituted a noisy group. Their smiles and laughter did not coincide with their physical appearance which underlined a life of possible poverty and privation.,

Their bare feet were caked with desert sand and protected only by plastic shower clogs worn don at the heels and held in place by their big toe and its neighboring digits.

Laughter is infectious and the smiles of the few ignited the glow of others until they were all laughing together at nothing in particular. It remains a mystery among men how those who seemingly have nothing can appear to be happier than those who possess so much more.

The bus belched out a streak of black smoke from its exhaust accompanied by a small explosion as the gears propelled the vehicle forward slowly out into the desert.

Once the city of Aswan disappeared behind the bus the eternal sands of the Sahara opened up before mark as the foretaste of infinity. The environment could best be described as hostile. The road ahead stretched out o the horizon line a vein or an artery leading to some human contact point on the other end. On both sides of this newly paved macadam road, there was nothing but sand unrelieved by an form of shrubbery that might have found some moisture for survival. Beneath the sand who knows what water or oil table may have existed or if millions of years ago this was the bottom of a primeval sea? But for now in all directions were billions upon millions upon trillions of particles of sand.

The sky was a pure cobalt blue, the kind one sees in oil paintings made by children or the works of great masters which have been restored. The sun, a white orb gained in its intensity as it crossed the sky scorched the earth. Along the way, but off to the side, were the decayed carcasses of camels who had died and succumbed in the heat. In some cases they were only skeletons with white bones, in others the hides had not yet decomposed, nor were yet blown away from their frames by the desert winds. They may have been a part of a caravan unable to pause for their recovery and with little time to grant then a burial. They may have also been there for months, years, scores, forever mummified in the parched heat of the desert. Scattered over the miles they were more than just a few. Their presence was intimidating. I these camels born in the desert, sons to this unnatural habitat found the heat unbearable, how much more threatened should Mark feel gazing at them through the window of the bus.

These camels noted for their capacity to retain water to ward off thirst, who take to the sands as a duck takes to water, or a bird to the air, fell victim to the power of the malignant son. What were Mark’s chances for survival is he should become abandoned upon the desert sands?

“Ah,�Emark, “reasoned to himself.�E“They did not die of thirst. They were sick and old. Their deaths were due to natural causes completely unrelated to their habitat. Besides, here I am in the company of fellow men, seated in a bus heading towards a definite destination beyond these sands. The camels had to walk,. I have the luxury of being driven.�E#060;o:p>

This was the path of his reasoning. Man’s greatest gift is his capacity to rationalize and bring reason into a situation which would otherwise seem hopeless or unacceptable.

These thoughts which had a sobering effect upon Mark had barely entered the minds of his fellow travelers. They took it all for granted that they were well-protected, looking at the journey with the same indifference a western tourist would have had he been driving across Interstate 80 on a cross-country ride through the States.

Abu Simbal came upon them quicker than they thought. Even when the stop was announced, mark hadn’t realized that he was already there. His gaze was directed out towards the horizon where a group of Bedouins were following a caravan out into the desert. He wondered how many times they had gone this route before and how long the journey would take and what does one do on the back of a camel for hours and days on end. It was a life totally beyond his comprehension. It could only be endured by those who knew no other kind of life. How many of those camels would make it through to their destinations? How many of the Bedouins would survive the sand storms which were bound to arise out of nowhere to change the terrain and possibly alter their course?

“Abu Simbal,�EA short stocky Egyptian with a thick moustache and heavy clean shaven beard announced at the door of the bus. There was a lot of commotion. People scurried up and down the steps of the bus. They had no intention of seeing the ruined temple, not that they didn’t admire it, but for them it was a piece of history taken for granted. It was there to see at their own leisure and within their on lifetime. It had been there for decades of centuries and may well be there for another million or so. They themselves lived within the warmth of its shadow and could return to it as often as whim or fancy would dictate. It was obvious that they were hurrying to another destination and their connecting buses would leave within the hour.

Temple ruins are much the same the world over. They stand as silent testimony to the futility of man’s ambitions. The musty smell of Abu Simbal’s interior chambers spoke of antiquity. From the entrance one looks down on a valley and out towards the Sudan. Several hours are needed but not enough to imbibe the richness of the past and Mark wondered whatever provoked him to venture so far to see this colossal temple. It had to be more than curiosity or interest? Could the prime motivation be noting more than boredom which lay back in Aswan where people sat in coffee shops playing dominos while drinking dark tea and smoking rented water pipes?

By mid-afternoon he was ready to return. It’s not that Abu Simbal did not live up to its expectations, it was just that three hours was enough to absorb the ruins and another half-hour would be over-indulgence.

“Buses don’t run here very frequently,�E Mark was warned several times by both shop owners and store clerks. It was not the sort of place where one would choose to be stranded. It was neither paradise nor deserted South Sea Island, and Mark could only expect that after the sun set all kinds of bandits and thieves would emerge from the shadows of the streets in the same way that cockroaches infest the kitchen floor when the master retires for the night.

There were Bedouins on the outskirts of the ruins and Nubians, tall, majestic and turbaned appeared to be unattached to either village or community; their peaceful composure dissolving perhaps within the desert heat. Memories of late-night weekend reruns of �E#060;/span>The Mummy’s Curse.�EWere enough to convince Mark to take the first bus back at whatever cost.

He bypassed the souvenir shop laden with untouched merchandise. The vendor smiles at him through half-decayed teeth most of which were yellow and tarred. He wasn’t quite sure what the smile was meant to convey. A fine layer of desert sand covered the vendor’s wares and the fact that all his goods remained unsold (not even touched) didn’t even upset him in the least.

Mark asked him, “When does the next bus to Aswan leave?�E#060;o:p>

The merchant looked at him and said, “Yes.�E#060;o:p>

Mark decided it was better to wait without any further inquires than to receive non-sequitor answers.

It was not long before a bus did appear. Along with another passenger Mark got on board. It was a full bus, with all the seats taken and some passengers lay in the aisles which divided the bus down the center. The bus had come from an unknown point somewhere beyond the scorching sands. It was just passing through Abu Simbal on its way up to Aswan an stopped to pick up whoever was waiting at the stop. No one was left behind or denied a ride in spite of being crowded to capacity. Compassion overrode conveniences and another body could always be squeezed somewhere between the seats or on the floor.

There was the distinct odor of sweat, a stale smell of body parts and emissions, the smell of shirts and underwear that had been left to dry on the skin. It was the smell of a body which had not been bathed in weeks or months. A smell that could easily be forgiven knowing that sand ws a poor substitution for soap.

All of the passengers were men, many of whom were quite young and in their early twenties. There was a swarthy look about them especially those who sported full beards and eyes capped with bushy brows which seemed to merge out of their foreheads.

There was a high level of levity in the air as the bus moved away from Abu Sembal. Laughter has no sense of discrimination. It transcends culture, caste, and country. The laughter of the poor is especially infectious and tragically ironic.

Like boat cast upon the ageless seas the bus set out upon the e of sand. Once away from Abu Simbal the landscape swallowed up the bus with its desolate power. The sky at the horizon played games with the eyes and made the vaporous air in the sky appear as a vast lake. The mirage lasted the length of the journey and the line between illusion and reality remained now more than a thread setting across the distant sands.

After what seemed like an hour and halfway through the journey a popping sound was heard followed by a thump. Te road, smooth as it was, became rough and the even roll of the bus along the paved road became a hobble.

The driver looked out the window and back towards the rear. He pulled the bus over to the side of the road and brought it to a halt. No one seemed much concerned and some poked their heads out the opened windows to grasp for themselves what had happened.

The left rear tire lay flat on the ground. The other three were hale and healthy. The driver got out of his seat and walked back to inspect the tire that had burst in the heat. Having surveyed the extent of the damage he returned to the front of the bus. Jumping onto the first step of the entrance he announced in a matter of fact tone.

“O.k. Everyone off the bus. Take all your stuff and get off the bus.�EA row of commotion flowed and a stampede for the ext created an unnecessary furor, There was no need to hurry, no connections to make , no refuge or relief in sight, no place to go.

“Come on, off the bus!�Ethe driver shouted again.

Once out in the air under the heat of the merciless sun, everyone sought refuge in the shade and shadow cats by the side f the bus opposite the direction of the journey of the sun to the west.

Fifty people turbaned and cloaked in white or grey jellebas sat in the shadow of the bus passing whatever jars of water remained for quenching their thirst. The waters in the jar had been taken from passing streams and distant oasis. Twigs, pebbles and dirt settled to the bottom of the water in the bottles and jars, murky and unpurified,

One Egyptian, a young man whose age was difficult to discern, yet young enough to still be distinctly a youth, came over to Mark after having taken a swig of water from his own bottle.

“Here. For you. Drink.�EHe held the bottle towards Mark’s face.

The contents swimming in the swirl slowly settled to the bottom. His smile was that of innocence, but the twinkle in his eyes underlined a bit of mischief. An inane curiosity for things and people foreign must have urged him to offer Mark a drink. His Muslim sense of charity may even have urged him to show compassion on the stranger for the sun was merciless and everyone’s throat was parched.

The sight of the sullied water repulsed Mark. The feeling pf thirst which assailed his throat urged him to take a swig, but he refused. The young Egyptian forced the bottle towards Mark’s lips as if to say, “We drink it. Why can’t you? We are still alive, you’ll be too!�E#060;o:p>

Mark pushed the bottle away from his lips and nodded his head in thanksgiving. The eyes of several other Egyptians focused on him, some with smiles and others wit solemn curiosity. The thought occurred to Mark that they would survive, but he wouldn’t. Like lizards in the sand they would adapt to their desert clime with courage and endurance. He felt like a penguin without an iceberg, an eagle without a nest, a dolphin without the sea in which to slim and he cursed himself that his own supply of store-bought, mineral wale was used up.

As if from nowhere a car came down along the road emerging from the mirage. Several jumped up quickly to their feet and flagged down the dive. With quick negotiations the lone driver agreed to take them the rest of the way towards their destinations.

One man opened the door opposite the driver and two others got in. three others took possession of the back seat, two more climbed up and squatted on the roof, one clung to the trunk in the rear and yet two more scrambled to sit on the front fenders. The driver somewhere between shock and dismay resigned himself to the assault and proceeded slowly along the road to Aswan. His pace as he drove off was much slower than when he had arrived and the wheels, swollen with the added weight, took on the extra load without a complaint much in the same way that a donkey resigns himself to be a beast of burden.

There was a festive air to their departure. Amid heightened laughter they waved good-bye to those yet stranded in the shadow of the bus.

The sun was setting and a feeling of despair crept upon those remaining. In the hours that had passed eight other cars came along the road each accepting a sizable burden. In so far as the respective vehicles could sustain the weight, the drivers were generous with their help. Mark approached the driver of the bus who spoke fragmented English.

�E#060;span class=GramE>when’s the next bus?�E#060;o:p>

“No bus. Bus broken!�E#060;/span>

“I know the bus is broken but the NEXT one. What time will the next bus come?�E#060;o:p>

“Bus last one till morning.�EHe said this while pointing to the disabled vehicle. Mark looked at the other stranded passengers. There were seven left including the driver.

“We’re seven. It’s a lucky number.�EMark said this with a nervous laugh. It didn’t register at all with the other stranded passengers. Maybe the number seven may not be so lucky among these people whose culture was still a mystery to him. The joke went as flat as the tire melting in the desert heat. By now though it was getting darker and the air had cooled considerable as a slight chill swept across the sands. A wind began to blow and particles of fine glasslike sand whipped into Mark’s flesh.

One man suddenly jumped up and shouted something in Arabic. A car was approaching and all the other remaining five passengers waved it down. One even went so far as to throw himself down on the ground preferring martyrdom to being stranded all night in the desert.

The car stopped, petitions were made and, as with the cars that had gone before, a life was secured. With a mirth which only accompanies salvation, all passengers took off and were enveloped in the desert which no longer had the golden glow of midday but which was now ominous and life-threatening.

There were only two people left now, mark and the driver. It was an eerie feeling being alone in the desert abandoned with someone you did not know and perhaps did not completely trust. Night had begun to fall and the desert became alive with the sound so f life and nature which in the day remained hidden and silenced by the light and heat of the sun. The driver was calmly smoking a cigarette while sitting complacently in the seat of the bus. He turned on the radio over while was broadcasted Egyptian music with heavy accented rhythms. The shrill voice of a female singer cut across the instrumental backup and Mark wondered if she were wearing a veil over her face as she sang. Her song brought with it companionship and warmth, that of human contact beyond the driver and the desert. It was the feeling of having entered a strange town to find people laughing and singing behind closed doors.

The driver tossed his cigarette out of the window of the bus without putting it out and it lay on the road slowly burning itself out.

He turned his face towards Mark and gave a gentle command. “Come on. Everyone’s left. Now, bus be light. We can go slow.�E#060;o:p>

He turned on the ignition and started the engine of the bus. He then put on the headlights which lit the paved road ahead of them and served a s a guide.

Mark jumped onto the bus as the woman’s sad lament came to an end. The driver nodded to Mark, lit another cigarette and the bus hobbled slowly along on its way to Aswan.