We also have an enormous quantity of food on board although it is reserved for Zaire where nothing is allegedly available to buy. The group settles into being marooned in an endless expanse of hot, windswept nothingness. No one, however, goes out of sight of the truck - too easy to become disoriented when there are few distinguishable landmarks. The Unit and I sand bathe in the lee of a low hill. The wind whistles over us, depositing a film of sand but, since it also wicks away moisture from our skin, it is easy to flick off the sand.
Sand is absolutely everywhere in the truck.
My job as truck cleaner has become futile - it is impossible to keep the Sahara at bay. In spite of the difficulties the cooking crew produces baked potatoes and chili. By now all of us are getting used to the occasional crunch from sand that inevitably blows into the pot. Unlike salt, the grains of sand do not dissolve. You must either swallow or spit.