Sandstorm

Posted by Kaire Kalam (That Estonian Girl) on May 17, 2012 in Stories | Leave a comment

The high-beams of the SUV bounced on the empty two-way highway as we entered Oman. “So where is the camp ground?” asked Foofer, his head appearing between the two front seats. The surrounding flat landscape of sand, rocks, the occasional tree and the shadowy mountain background looked more like an African savannah complete with roaming hyenas and lions rather than the UAE / Omani border. “Well, we pull off the highway, drive away from the road and pitch the tents,” I answered. Silence took over the car and I noticed Foofer apprehensively checking out his surroundings; leaving me to wonder if my idea of a fun trip might seem bizarre and alarming for others.

Foofer, a long time friend from the States, whose real name is Wilfred, had earned his nickname back in high school when someone randomly said, “Man, your such a Foofer.” The nickname stuck and for so many reasons, fits him perfectly. A week ago he had spontaneously and unexpectedly purchased a ticket to come visit my husband Ed and me in Dubai. It was a very Foofer move. “I am game for anything man. I wanna do it all,” he announced excitedly, upon his arrival.

Two tents had never been so difficult to pitch. We were parked in the middle of nowhere, in the black of night, in the middle of an unexpected sandstorm. We repeatedly chased after tents that were better suited as box kites than for sleeping. The sand attacked us from every direction. It invaded every inch of our bodies and became unbearable to handle. We called it a night.

I was woken by a heart wrenching, frustrated, “get me the hell out of here,” sounding scream, exiting from Foofer’s tent. Like an angry caveman who has had something wrenched from him; his woman, his meal, his loin cloth, in this case his sleep. The wind was playing a cruel trick, standing outside with buckets of sand, emptying fistfuls onto our faces.

“Hey Ed, check out the car man.” Foofer’s voice interrupted my sleep once again. A thin morning light creeped into the tent but opening my eyes turned out to be more challenging than usual. It felt like I needed windshield wipers to sweep the sand from my face. Ed unzipped the tent flap while I absently picked away sand from my ears and eyes, mystified at the amount of sand crunching between my teeth.

I popped my head into the outside to see heavy hills of sand that attempted to bury the tent overnight. The car was leaning dangerously to one side, looking ready to fall into a ditch the wind had created. The three of us ambled about exhausted, defeated, still crunching on sand – unwitting survivors.

In a nearby breakfast joint we desperately waited for sand-free coffee and food. I wondered if Foofer would now ask us to end our camping trip and take him back to “civilization”. He broke the silence, “Man, that was a night from hell! Worth every minute of it.”