Wasteland

 

The desert sand dunes are loyal sentries sworn to secrecy, quickly hiding trails or tracks with the help of the east wind, then stand proclaiming innocence, while waiting for the storm to move them on to their next vigil.

 

Through the darkness a weak beam of light can be seen in the distance, struggling but purposeful over the desert’s skin. As the light trickles closer, the silence is broken tamely by the sound of the truck bobbing over a verge and coasting into a turn. The driver knows that a straight forward descent would give the sand dunes far too tempting an invitation to swallow the front tyres in an instant, and so slaloms his way down on to flats.

 

This visitor isn’t new to the desert.

 

The rare breeze drifts past the plains as if she was sighing at the thought of what is to come. The barren region has swallowed many and one more will make little difference in a land where shallow graves have blossomed as quickly as the disease took root in the hearts of men, who in turn, were just as shallow.

 

The battered 4x4 chugs slowly before coming to a stop. The driver flicks the ignition and rests his hands on his lap as if savouring the moment. He looks through the windscreen and surveys the emptiness. A smile creeps up his cheek as his eyes pick a spot.

 

His heavy black boots descend out of the cab and his arm brushes past the hinges where the door used to be. The war stripped the vehicles of any pride they once had and the same could be said of anything in the country.

 

He takes familiar steps and seems welcomed. He kneels to the ground and removes his army issue jacket placing it to one side before removing his beret.  He wipes his hand over the sand and mimics rinsing his hand with it, before wiping his arms and face. The simple ritual of tayamum is often performed since the region’s water became as scarce as its honour.

 

He stands dusting off his jacket and stamping the ground to gauge how compact the sand is, the firmer the sand, the harder the dig.