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the line had already darkened. As it grew closer, it seemed to swell, more and more distinct
from the desert floor. Now it was a vast phalanx of filth, stark against the clear blue sky.
The wind was already picking up. Unwrapping my turban, I bound it around my mouth,
covering my nostrils. This, I knew, would be the only way to breathe once the storm ar-
rived. Moez had unearthed pairs of sand goggles and was handing them round - but, no
sooner had I donned them than the first dust devils, tiny whirling dervishes of grit, hurtled
into the camp, like heralds of the storm. Awad and Ahmad rushed to rope the camels to-
gether, while Will, Ash and I gathered our packs.
Sudden sprays of grit arced up from the floor, slicing across my face. As I turned away
and cowered, the dust devil flurried up from the ground, clawing at the tarpaulin strung in
the acacia. There was already sand inside my goggles, sand inside my turban, riming my
lips. I waited for the barrage to die down, and then looked up. The roiling wall that had
seemed so many miles away was now almost upon us, bearing down. The desert was being
plunged into premature night, as the storm blocked out the sun.
'How long is this going to last?' cried Ash.
I stole a look at Ahmad and Awad. As ever, they seemed completely unperturbed, find-
ing a way to stake the camels down. Yet again, it was their calmness that gave me confid-
ence.
'Try and get some rest,' I said. 'It's going to be a long one.'
In that same moment, the wall of dust cascaded over us, drawing a veil between me,
Will and Ash. All around, the world was a frenzy of yellow and brown. I could see no
more than a few paces in every direction, locked into a raging bubble in the middle of the
storm. Now, with my eyes burning, my throat rasping, there was nothing to do but wait.
By the time the
haboob
had passed, the day was old. In the relative cool of evening, we
walked west, until darkness returned. In camp that night, we took inventory of our sup-
plies: enough food to last all the way across the Bayuda; water for only another two days.
Perhaps we could make it for three if we rationed it, but the memory of Matt Power still
lived with me, and the thought of rationing water in this heat did not fill me with con-
fidence. There were at least six days between here and the end of the desert. Somehow -
whether Awad and Ahmad could lead us there or not - we would have to find a well.
The next day felt hotter than the last, even though the thermometer showed the same
temperature. It was the burgeoning fear that made it feel so much more intense. Every time
I lifted the water to my lips, every time I saw Will or Ash sate themselves, the thought
blossomed in the back of my head: that was another gulp, another sip, closer to our sup-
plies running dry.
And still, all around, only the same featureless land.
