Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 8 (2)

It was only now Alex realized that Steve was half, if not totally, psychotic and Louise herself was off her beam. But, then again, maybe that made her vulnerable? She needed a strong protector, someone to stabilize her temperamental fits and divert the hot-tempered anger that made her so attractive. 

Now he wished he'd gone straight home instead of hooking up with these two and someone had had the brilliant idea of crossing the desert. 

"If I knew I was ever going to frolic in the sun and sand forever, I'd have brought an Italian lover," Louise said with romantic fantasy.

 

"I'd settle for an ocean," Steve answered, "or just plain water."

Alex didn't really mind the way they carried on. He was going to make a list of some of Steve's witticisms. But he especially liked Louise. The fact was, the nights got pretty lonely out there in the desert. A plan was formulating in his conniving mind. Why not stay there in the sand and wait until the storm abated? After all, when they got to the coast, Louise would be gone wouldn't she? Of course! This was his chance, he thought, looking at her with a sly sideways glance. What a stroke of luck! He wondered what Lawrence Olivier would do in the situation. He always looked to the stars for direction. No, they couldn't take a walk, they might not return.

Alex decided to formulate a plan to win Louise over. Time was certainly on his side. "We'll wait it out," he repeated self-assuredly. There was no competition from Steve either he decided. Besides, he figured she could perceive his dominant, strong character side, his leadership ability. After all, he was in control of the situation. He had his maps hadn't he?

Louise was thinking of other things. She wondered why she'd ever consented to taking this stupid trip across the Sahara anyway. She was always jumping whole-heartedly into things without thinking. Now she was stuck here in the middle of nowhere with that stupid twit Alex and that obnoxious brat Steve. She'd thought it'd be a light adventure -- only two days of track they'd said till they got to the tarred road. It was more like an eternity. Her thoughts drifted to nights in Algiers and Tunis, being wined and dined and swept off her feet by suave, debonair gentlemen.

"Mais oui, to be back in civilization!" she said aloud, wistfully dreaming. "The Mediterranean coast and pleasant cool evenings." She was sick of Africa and the more she thought about the Mediterranean, the more her toes tingled. "And then on to Paris, the Champs Elysees and the fountains and parks, all provincial and manicured. To be clean and to drink clean water and be among civilized people again, the theatre and the cafes!" Her dreams carried her away.

"Jesus, you can't win!" Steve said disgustedly and banged his fist in frustration on the dash. His uncouth North American way of expressing anger revolted Louise who was still dreaming of Paris.

Only Alex was content, his eyes slowly gliding up Louise's tantalizing bronze thigh and his mind exploding in ecstasy when it stopped abruptly at the hump in her white shorts. Lecher! He snapped his mind away as if he'd been slapped. He was surprised at himself and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as he got a grip on the situation. It's not very British, he thought, but the again he wasn't British. But he must regain control and keep his primitive urges in check.

The sandstorm slowly abated. When the wind finally stopped swirling the sand around, winding down, began to be able to see outside the Land Rover again. The dunes were left with a rippled effect, almost as if they were crawling.

Alex could see the marker of the track off in the distance. At least they were on course. He turned the ignition to start the Land Rover. The motor was churning over but wouldn't catch. He continued trying to get it to fire. It wouldn't. He didn't want to burn out the starter or run down the battery. "Just let it sit for a few minutes," he said.

Louise jumped down. She wanted to stretch.

Steve could see her cleavage. Nice hips, he thought, chuckling to himself. If she wasn't such a bitch, I'd jump her. After all, they didn't have much to do out there now.

Louise was bending back and forth, loosening up her arms and back. She saw the wet sand. "A hole!" she screamed fanatically, "there's a hole in the gas tank!" and buried her face in her hands in agony.

Alex checked it out. "About one centimetre across, I'd say," he said with an air of importance. "No wonder it wouldn't start."

Steve sauntered over and had a look. "No problem," he said and Alex felt belittled. Steve went to the cab and came back with a piece of soap which he wet in the sweat between his hands and placed over the hole, pressing it so it stuck to the tank on the edges.

"That'll hold it," he said. "Done it before." Alex wondered why he hadn't thought of that; it surely would have impressed Louise who calmed down abruptly.

Steve took down the two jerry cans and poured them into the tank. "It'll take us a bit," he said and Alex busily got out his maps and compass and hastened to check their position.

"According to my calculations, we're about 200 kilometres from Agadez," he said, slowly looking far away across the sand and into the sun, like he'd seen somebody do in a movie once.

And so they piled in and started off again.

"At least we know what the problem was. Now all we need is petrol," Alex said as they drove along. Louise was sitting up front now, happy to be moving again. She had her knees against the dash. He tried not to look at them as he followed the faint track. Steve lounged in the back.

They drove on for about an hour before the Land Rover started to miss. It finally chugged to a stop. They were finally out of petrol.

Alex stared straight ahead. He could observe some movement. It got closer. "There's some people coming over the dunes on horses," he finally said.

"Good, we're saved!" Louise said excitedly like the U.S. Cavalry were riding in.

"They're Fulani," Steve said as the tribesmen came riding up. He reached over for his hunting knife.

"Fulani," Alex echoed, noting the red leather mirror case hanging down from the front one's neck, the red leather sword slung over his shoulder. A sword! These weren't ordinary Fulani -- "pastoral nomadic herders" he quoted to himself, "also reputed to be fine warriors in their time." Out here in the desert, he worried, anything can happen. There's no embassies here.