Sunday, November 06, 2005
The middle of the Sahara desert, Niger
The late afternoon sun filtered down into the bed of the Mercedes truck where I was sitting, exposing the magnitude of dust, sand and animal feces particles that floated quietly in the air. The sun beat down on the passengers, as only the Sahara sun can, leaving my mouth dry. My sullen mood was interrupted only by the baying of goats. This was day two of our long journey into the heart of the Sahara desert.
The long day that we had spent on the truck had begun to take its toll. My face was caked with a thick layer of what I discerned could only be feces, despite being wrapped in a head scarf and a hat. Every now and then we would hit a bump in the road and one of the seventy heads of goat that the truck was transporting would plunge into me. Sometimes they would urinate or defecate on my feet before I had the chance to push them away. My protestations were kind-heartedly laughed at by the fifty immigrants that sat perched on the bed, on the sides and on top of the truck. It seems that laughing is all you can do at this point. To myself, I thought that this kind of reaction was a little psychotic. How little did I know...
The truck was transporting goats, three crazy tourists and immigrants from all over West Africa. Most of the immigrants were en route to Europe, where they hoped to make a life for themselves. They would reach Libya and board one of the illegal pirate boats headed for Italy. Many of them were younger than me. Conversations exposed the fabrications they had come to believe about Europe as the land of milk and honey, the land of white women who would marry you for citizenship, the land of infinite opportunities. Despite my compassion for their fates and their stories as part of our research, in my exhaustion, the only words of encouragement that I was able to mutter were: "You will see."
At sunset, we stopped for a break at the only well in 200 kilometers. We realized that a goat had urinated on our food bag, but we cooked some of the food anyway. As the drivers began to get ready to move out, I could not bring myself to accept the thought of riding another kilometer with those devilish goats, so I changed places with Nate. He had been sitting on the top of the truck and warned me of the elbows, unbalance and dangers of being thrown off. I responded that anything is better than those damn goats.
As the sun set into the West, exposing a rainbow of the color red to the evening sky, the beauty of the scenery relaxed me a little. There was more of a breeze up top and I noticed that if I kept my head up, I would not be in the line of the feces trail from the goats. The beauty of the scene faded quickly as darkness fell and the desert was illuminated only by a sliver of the moon. How we got here and where we were going began to feel like insignificant details of a sinister plan. What was left for my mind to concentrate on was only the relentless bounce of the truck, swaying my body back and forth, jerking me alert at times, lulling me to sleep at others.
My mind began to wobble, like my body. Night fell and there was only darkness now. I lost my grip on time. I could not distinguish whether we were hours or minutes closer to our destination. The moon set. The constellations were indiscernible, they were swaying illogically with the movement of the truck. My body doubled over in fatigue. I was scared. I decided to pray. My mother had once taught me that in times of distress, I should create an imaginary pyramid of protection around myself. I imagined a soft yellow light emanating around the truck, connected to the heavens.
Hours later, I had lost my will to live. By the time I realized that I did not care whether we were protected or not, I had already deemed my life insignificant. All I cared about was stopping the truck. I knew that the driver would not respond kindly to my pleas, so after some time of reflection, I abandoned the idea of throwing my body against the windshield, shrieking with terror.
Instead, I looked for signs of civilization on the horizon. There was nothing. After some time, I saw a blinking light. It blinked in yellows and reds. I was sure it was a radio tower. No star could look like that. This must mean that we were close to Dirkou, the final stop. After minutes of intense concentration and hope, I looked up at the night sky. With disappointment, I noticed that all of the stars were blinking in that fashion. I realized that delusion had set in.
What do you do when you realize that you are delusional? I hoped to grip onto anything that seemed familiar. So, I looked down at the goats. After a while, I began to hallucinate. At one moment the goats were standing, at another, they were flung around the truck haphazardly. The goat herder began to look like a maniac, flinging goats back and forth by their tails. The goats were at their breaking point. They were going crazy with fear. They began to scream and scream. This wasn't helping me to regain my sanity.
Finally, the truck slowed to a stop. People began to jump off the sides into the desert below in pure abandon. For a while, I thought that the truck driver was just toying with us. I had made him into a maniacal devil. After a few minutes, I realized that the passengers had began to make fires. I moved myself off the truck. When the three of us had set up camp, we were too tired to cook. Instead, I got a hug from the boys, fought back tears and fell onto my yoga mat to sleep.
This is the hell that immigrants to Europe go through for an opportunity to succeed in life. But they do it for 30 days or more. I could only handle two. I resolved to never get on another truck like this again. For the others, this was not a choice. They were already far too deep in their journey. To turn back now would be a giant waste of money.
The late afternoon sun filtered down into the bed of the Mercedes truck where I was sitting, exposing the magnitude of dust, sand and animal feces particles that floated quietly in the air. The sun beat down on the passengers, as only the Sahara sun can, leaving my mouth dry. My sullen mood was interrupted only by the baying of goats. This was day two of our long journey into the heart of the Sahara desert.
The long day that we had spent on the truck had begun to take its toll. My face was caked with a thick layer of what I discerned could only be feces, despite being wrapped in a head scarf and a hat. Every now and then we would hit a bump in the road and one of the seventy heads of goat that the truck was transporting would plunge into me. Sometimes they would urinate or defecate on my feet before I had the chance to push them away. My protestations were kind-heartedly laughed at by the fifty immigrants that sat perched on the bed, on the sides and on top of the truck. It seems that laughing is all you can do at this point. To myself, I thought that this kind of reaction was a little psychotic. How little did I know...
The truck was transporting goats, three crazy tourists and immigrants from all over West Africa. Most of the immigrants were en route to Europe, where they hoped to make a life for themselves. They would reach Libya and board one of the illegal pirate boats headed for Italy. Many of them were younger than me. Conversations exposed the fabrications they had come to believe about Europe as the land of milk and honey, the land of white women who would marry you for citizenship, the land of infinite opportunities. Despite my compassion for their fates and their stories as part of our research, in my exhaustion, the only words of encouragement that I was able to mutter were: "You will see."
At sunset, we stopped for a break at the only well in 200 kilometers. We realized that a goat had urinated on our food bag, but we cooked some of the food anyway. As the drivers began to get ready to move out, I could not bring myself to accept the thought of riding another kilometer with those devilish goats, so I changed places with Nate. He had been sitting on the top of the truck and warned me of the elbows, unbalance and dangers of being thrown off. I responded that anything is better than those damn goats.
As the sun set into the West, exposing a rainbow of the color red to the evening sky, the beauty of the scenery relaxed me a little. There was more of a breeze up top and I noticed that if I kept my head up, I would not be in the line of the feces trail from the goats. The beauty of the scene faded quickly as darkness fell and the desert was illuminated only by a sliver of the moon. How we got here and where we were going began to feel like insignificant details of a sinister plan. What was left for my mind to concentrate on was only the relentless bounce of the truck, swaying my body back and forth, jerking me alert at times, lulling me to sleep at others.
My mind began to wobble, like my body. Night fell and there was only darkness now. I lost my grip on time. I could not distinguish whether we were hours or minutes closer to our destination. The moon set. The constellations were indiscernible, they were swaying illogically with the movement of the truck. My body doubled over in fatigue. I was scared. I decided to pray. My mother had once taught me that in times of distress, I should create an imaginary pyramid of protection around myself. I imagined a soft yellow light emanating around the truck, connected to the heavens.
Hours later, I had lost my will to live. By the time I realized that I did not care whether we were protected or not, I had already deemed my life insignificant. All I cared about was stopping the truck. I knew that the driver would not respond kindly to my pleas, so after some time of reflection, I abandoned the idea of throwing my body against the windshield, shrieking with terror.
Instead, I looked for signs of civilization on the horizon. There was nothing. After some time, I saw a blinking light. It blinked in yellows and reds. I was sure it was a radio tower. No star could look like that. This must mean that we were close to Dirkou, the final stop. After minutes of intense concentration and hope, I looked up at the night sky. With disappointment, I noticed that all of the stars were blinking in that fashion. I realized that delusion had set in.
What do you do when you realize that you are delusional? I hoped to grip onto anything that seemed familiar. So, I looked down at the goats. After a while, I began to hallucinate. At one moment the goats were standing, at another, they were flung around the truck haphazardly. The goat herder began to look like a maniac, flinging goats back and forth by their tails. The goats were at their breaking point. They were going crazy with fear. They began to scream and scream. This wasn't helping me to regain my sanity.
Finally, the truck slowed to a stop. People began to jump off the sides into the desert below in pure abandon. For a while, I thought that the truck driver was just toying with us. I had made him into a maniacal devil. After a few minutes, I realized that the passengers had began to make fires. I moved myself off the truck. When the three of us had set up camp, we were too tired to cook. Instead, I got a hug from the boys, fought back tears and fell onto my yoga mat to sleep.
This is the hell that immigrants to Europe go through for an opportunity to succeed in life. But they do it for 30 days or more. I could only handle two. I resolved to never get on another truck like this again. For the others, this was not a choice. They were already far too deep in their journey. To turn back now would be a giant waste of money.
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