From Souk to Souk by Robin Ratchford

Author:Robin Ratchford
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783067282
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

Dreams of Rain

Barren, brown, dry: an inhospitable landscape of the sort that appears in science-fiction films rose before us, its jagged mountains uninviting and hinting at danger. Only the parallel lines crossing the sedimentary rock at a steep angle told of other epochs millions of years ago when, in their youth, these giants lay beneath the sea. Now rugged masses, they stood lifeless, yet still exuded a strange majesty and beauty. Ahead, a square, flat-roofed building roughly garnished with thorn scrub told us we were nearing the point to turn off. Approaching the V-junction, we saw two old Mercedes parked at the side of the road, three bearded men and a few children standing around them. As we slowed down, the men, one much older than the other two, began waving. Unsure as to their motives, we smiled weakly and gave a single, cursory wave as we drove past and headed on to the dirt track, leaving the smooth tarmac of the main road and an ephemeral veil of dust behind us.

The route began to climb, the rough way quickly turning into a rocky and potholed ascent with hairpin bends. Frédéric wrestled with the steering wheel as it pulled this way and that. We lurched to the right and I banged my head on the window, despite being strapped into my seat.

‘Sorry,’ said Frédéric absently, as we bounced around.

My French friend had asked me if I wanted to join him on a trip to Oman and Dubai over the Easter break, an invitation I had accepted without hesitation. Now, with my head aching, I wondered how I could so easily have forgotten his rather particular driving style. I held on tight as the 4x4 dipped and rolled on the bumpy road, its engine revving gruffly. Soon, between the gaps in the rocky embankment at the road’s edge we began to get glimpses of the parched valley below; sometimes there was nothing at all separating us and stomach-churning drops into the abyss. As we turned a corner, we were suddenly confronted by two young boys at the roadside, one slightly taller than the other, large bags on their backs. They stepped aside to let us by, our Land Cruiser reducing its voice to a low growl as we rumbled past. They waved, small hands at the end of slender arms, and grinned broken smiles. We continued a little further. And then we stopped. Frédéric yanked the handbrake on and I opened the car door.

‘Merhaba! Do you want a lift?’ I called back.

They appeared to understand and came scampering to the vehicle. In an instant they had clambered inside and were giggling with excitement as we set off up the steep hill. They wiggled and danced to the Arabic music on the radio and told us of their favourite songs, they laughed at their own jokes and asked us where we were from. At least that is what I imagined they were saying: in fact, we understood nothing other than that they were called Ali and Sayyid.

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