The yellow-reddish desert landscape is passing by. Air, sky and sand glimmer
at the horizon and form a strange, blurred picture.
It’s hot. The air flow tumbles my hair, twirls it around my face and into my eyes. Why do I always forget to take a hair tie with me? Meanwhile I should know it well enough since I prefer to drive in the heat with open windows instead with air-condition switched on.
The sand shines yellowish, the mountains in the background emerge clearly from a bright blue sky. In a distance, a blue stationary ribbon can be seen: the sea.
Oh, how much do I love this heat, this hot wind, the desert! I wouldn’t mind if this trip lasted for hours. The road is good. Now and then, we are passing a checkpoint and Mustafa is an excellent driver.
In a sense, he drives in the same way as I do: no powerful acceleration, gently ganging gears, no abrupt braking. He steers the car cautiously so that I don’t feel any movement. We are quietly and silently gliding through this apparently bleak landscape. It’s a fascinating landscape: the colour of the coarse sand, the wind-shaped hills rolling in gentle waves towards the mountains, the meagre, dark and frail rocks. Now and then, there’s a tiny bush here, a bunch of grass there, a lonesome, dishevelled tree.
Arabic or English? Mustafa is holding a music cassette in his hands. Arabic, please! As the music starts to play, I turn my eyes to the desert so that Mustafa can’t see my face. My eyes are filled with tears. I wish I could drive on like this forever.
It’s hot. The air flow tumbles my hair, twirls it around my face and into my eyes. Why do I always forget to take a hair tie with me? Meanwhile I should know it well enough since I prefer to drive in the heat with open windows instead with air-condition switched on.
The sand shines yellowish, the mountains in the background emerge clearly from a bright blue sky. In a distance, a blue stationary ribbon can be seen: the sea.
Oh, how much do I love this heat, this hot wind, the desert! I wouldn’t mind if this trip lasted for hours. The road is good. Now and then, we are passing a checkpoint and Mustafa is an excellent driver.
In a sense, he drives in the same way as I do: no powerful acceleration, gently ganging gears, no abrupt braking. He steers the car cautiously so that I don’t feel any movement. We are quietly and silently gliding through this apparently bleak landscape. It’s a fascinating landscape: the colour of the coarse sand, the wind-shaped hills rolling in gentle waves towards the mountains, the meagre, dark and frail rocks. Now and then, there’s a tiny bush here, a bunch of grass there, a lonesome, dishevelled tree.
Arabic or English? Mustafa is holding a music cassette in his hands. Arabic, please! As the music starts to play, I turn my eyes to the desert so that Mustafa can’t see my face. My eyes are filled with tears. I wish I could drive on like this forever.
