The slowness of evening was beginning.
We'd reached a cross-roads
of sorts, a spot of dirt
which seemed remarkably red
after having travelled over shadowy sand
for ten days. We were near a town,
and the leaders had decided
to allow a smaller caravan
to join ours, so that now
we'd stretch a full kilometer
as we wound our way through the desert.

The friendliest of the council
approached me afterwards,
brought out a worn deck of cards,
flashed some money
and pointed just above the horizon.
It was an invitation to play poker.

The air turned body temperature -
when you feel your body
is just about to vaporize - not quite,
but as if it could happen.
This is not unpleasant.
And the smell of hot and cold sand
had become one.
And combine this with the quiet,
extreme quiet, I found it difficult
to register my body's position
from moment to moment.
But far from making me dizzy
I experienced this as total clarity.

You can lose everything
playing Bedouin poker.
Whatever card-playing skills
you possess, throw them to fatamorgana.
Whatever poker-face you've practiced,
all strategies concerning betting,
however deep your pockets,
nothing can help,
not even your superstitions,
not even rubbing your legs with camel dung.

There were twenty of us
cross-legged in the dirt
in a wide circle.
This an hour before sunset.
The bet was cast out
in the middle
and we all matched it.
The deck of cards
was passed from hand to hand
and each in turn
selected a card from the deck.
Then, all together, waved
their card in the air
with prayers and praise to Allah,
then suddenly slapped
their card down -
at an elegant distance before them -
all at the same instant
and almost violently -
puffs of dust.

And then we waited.
Some sat constantly perusing the cards,
others slowly turned their heads,
carefully leaned-in,
and whispered to their neighbor -
gestureless as they mumbled -
something I'd never witnessed here before -
more like boys whispering
during prayers in church
than men playing cards.

The first hand took at least twenty minutes -
"Sha-mah!" someone finally sang.
And all looked,
and yes, it was true,
a fly had landed on his card.

The raking in of the pot
required him getting up
and shuffling in
and bending down, quite embarrassed,
'Praise Allah' and shovelling.

But then I knew the rules.