Read Part 1
Sand in my hair, sand in my face, sand in my shoes, sand between my teeth. I’m so sick of sand. But I’m afraid I will have to endure it a bit longer because there is still no sign of any civilization.
I wonder if there are people looking for me. Family? Friends? The government? Although I don’t really know which government. Where do I come from? I’m not even sure what language I’m thinking in. Every detail about myself seems to be redacted and replaced with useless knowledge.
The signing dunes are behind me now, I haven’t heard them once today. But not only they are gone, my water bottle is also empty. Which sucks, a lot. My mouth feels dry and the sand in it only makes it worse, a lot worse.
The only thing that is missing now is a sandstorm. No way to top that.
I chuckle. Yeah, that would be ultimate bad luck: Being overrun by a sandstorm in the middle of the desert with no shelter available. But I’ve been lucky so far, maybe that will last.
”Sand, sand, sand, so much fucking sand”, I sing to myself. My voice is raspy and my dry throat hurts with every sound I make. Guess I should stay silent. I really start missing the singing dunes. Their constant hum was really comforting, in a way.
I didn’t feel so alone.
The sun is already getting closer to the horizon. Another day in the desert that I survived. I wonder how many more there will be? Hopefully, not many. I really want to find a way out soon.
My estimation gives me about two or three more hours of sunlight, so I decide to keep walking.
Maybe I’ll go mad before I find a way out. I hope I die before I’ll go mad. How do you know if you’re mad? Do mad people question if they are mad? Some of them probably do.
A rumbling sound makes me stop and joy fills my heart. The dunes are back! Now I won’t have to walk in total silence anymore! How refreshing.
With a wide grin, I look for the dune in question but quickly lose my happiness. The rumbling doesn’t turn into a humming, it stays a rumbling. And it comes closer.
On the horizon to my left, a wall of sand, several meters high and probably several kilometers wide makes its way towards me. What did I think about sandstorms earlier? Why did I have to think it? Never think about how a bad situation could get worse because it will get worse in exactly this way.
I squint my eyes. This is no ordinary sand- or dust storm. This is a haboob and it can be as fast as 100 km/h. If this thing catches up to me while I’m unprotected, I’m dead. It will grind the flesh from my bones in no time.
Frantically, I look around, trying to find some kind of cave or rock formation or anything to protect me from the storm. But there is nothing.
And the storm rumbles closer.
I can’t go around it and I sure as hell can’t outrun it. But I won’t let it kill me, not without at least trying to survive.
With bare hands, I start digging a hole into the sand. It’s slow because every time I take out a handful of sand, a bit of the surrounding sand slides back. But I increase my efforts and finally manage to create a hole that is deep enough for me to crouch down into. As for the last step, I try to cover as much skin as possible with my robe and close my eyes.
Then I wait.
The haboob approaches and I can feel the vibrations it sends through the ground. My heart is beating fast, faster than it is supposed to. And finally, the storm reaches me.
Sand pours down into my hole, covering my back and trying to reach my eyes through my closed eyelids. I suppress the need to cough and try to breathe very slowly through the piece of cloth in front of my mouth.
The noise from the storm is deafening, but my plan seems to work. Aside from the sand that covers more of my body every minute, the haboob doesn’t touch me.
For an hour I sit like this, hoping for the storm to pass. And when it finally does, it’s already night.
With aching bones and burning skin, I climb out of my hole. Sand is pouring out of every opening my clothes have. If there was a place without sand before, there isn’t one now anymore. I think I can feel sand in my belly button.
Tired, I let myself fall on the ground which is still warm from the day and look at the stars. The constellations above tell me nothing, I can’t recognize anything.
I close my eyes and wish I was home, wherever that is. Slowly, I fall asleep
Sources:
Every Dust Storm Isn’t a Haboob, but Every Haboob Is a Dust Storm
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