A Reason to Believe_ Lessons From an Improbable Life - Deval Patrick [27]
From the edge of the city, the road west consisted of tracks through the sand. It was well over 100 degrees at midday. Nothing moved on the landscape except us. We were young and old, wearing both Western and indigenous garb, united by our common discomfort. Everyone wore a towel or a broad hat to shield ourselves from the intense sun. We spoke little, as if we were trying to conserve our strength. Communication consisted mostly of smiles of understanding when we hit an especially hard bump. The strain of the engine, downshifting and upshifting, was the only sound for hours.
Early that first evening, several miles outside Khartoum, a freak rainstorm hit. Everything turned to mud, and the truck sank to its axles. We sat there, huddled against the rain, until morning. We were soaked, but no one complained. There were just the same occasional understanding and reassuring smiles. By daybreak, the hard rain stopped, the sun burst back, and things quickly dried out. Passengers and crew worked together to dig out, rocking the lorry to and fro until it was free. Miles later, we went into a skid, and the top heavy vehicle rolled over with a thud, littering the desert with cargo and people. Everybody was shaken up. A few passengers had broken bones.
What happened next was eerie. After the initial clamor to see who was hurt and how badly, silence descended. There were no wailing sirens, no rush of emergency medical teams, no squeal of other cars braking to see what had happened. We were alone in the desert with our calamity. And we would remain so (mostly) for three days.
I had minor bumps and a badly bruised hip, but nothing serious. Other injuries, though not life-threatening, were serious and painful, and those who were hurt were made as comfortable as possible. Strangely, there was a lot of fussing over me. I was the guest in their country, and according to the teachings of Islam and the customs of Sudan, my well-being was a priority. I was given food, water, and comfort and reassured that our plight would soon be over. “Insha’Allah,” they said: If Allah wills, all will be well. The understanding smiles increased in number and frequency. We built a fire and a makeshift camp. As the time passed, we began to look each other directly in the eye and communicate as best we could. The men told stories, which Kamal would translate for me, while the women combined beans, water, and oil to make the traditional meal of foul. Everything was shared. But when I tried to contribute my dates or nuts or bread, they were politely refused. I was the guest. I was embarrassed by so much attention, and also deeply touched.
No one seemed to be afraid. I took my cue from my companions and maintained my composure. When I asked Kamal how we would get out of this, he explained that we were on a regular trading route and the driver had assured him that other lorries would come soon. He did not seem totally convinced and was even a little contemptuous of the driver, as if he wanted it understood by all that the accommodations were not up to his usual standards. But after that first night, sure enough, another lorry came along heading west and took Kamal and me and the few with broken bones to the next tiny outpost, about two hours beyond. It consisted of two or three mud and grass huts for the herders and a well with drinking water. There were a few families living there or several generations of one large family. They made us as comfortable