Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [132]
After we cooled down, we got in the Jeep and made our way back toward the highway.
Suddenly Ziad pointed at a spot upon the hills. “What’s that?” he asked, slowing down so that he could gaze into the distance.
I put the binoculars to my eyes and stared. Three forms slowly came into focus. One was an SUV high up on a sandy embankment at the side of a stony ridge.
“It’s a Jeep like yours,” I said. “I don’t think it’s moving.”
“Do you think it’s stuck?”
I adjusted my binoculars and confirmed. “I think so. I see two guys. They’re just standing around near the Jeep. Maybe they’re just hanging out.”
“Unlikely. Let’s go check it out.”
When we got close to the ridge, we realized it wouldn’t be safe for us to drive up where the other Jeep was. The sand was too deep and the incline too steep. We got out and approached the two men on foot.
They weren’t men, as it turned out. They were a pair of Bedouin boys, no more than sixteen years old, who had brought their father’s Jeep for an early morning adventure. Lacking 4x4 capability, the vehicle had gotten stuck. They had spent the greater part of the morning spinning their wheels, and the rear left wheel was now more than halfway buried in the sand. We tried using a big plank that the boys had found as a lever, but it snapped when we put our weight into it. Then Ziad trudged down and back and brought a shovel from his car. The boys took turns digging energetically. Each time they displaced some sand, however, more sand shifted and replaced it. They tried to persuade us to bring our Jeep and give them a push, but Ziad adamantly refused because it would cause us to sink as well. In the end we drove the pair to the highway, from which point they said they could navigate the rest of the way back to their tribe. I was surprised by Ziad’s unwillingness to risk himself for the sake of others.
As we were driving back, the interior of the car full of sand, the taste of the desert in my mouth, cuts from the kite’s beak on my bare arms, the smell of sweat and leather and exhilaration in my nose, I wondered if perhaps the camels at Mandalay Bay hadn’t told me to come to the Middle East to carry out the silly scheme involving the shaykh and the sculptor and the princess. Perhaps I’d felt compelled to come here to befriend Ziad.
“How long have you lived in Muslim countries?” I asked suddenly.
“Two-thirds of my life.”
“Yet you never became a reformist?”
“No.”
“And you never became a fundamentalist?”
“Nope.”
“And you never wanted to become an Islamic leader?”
“Nope.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I find that astonishing.”
Ziad slowed the car and glanced over at me. He brushed his hand over his left eyebrow, dislodging little particles of dust onto his lap.
“Let me ask you something,” he said.
“What?”
“How long have you lived in this world?”
“Pardon?”
“How long have you been alive?”
“My whole life, I guess.”
“When was the last time you flew a kite on a mountain?”
“Never.
“When was the last time you got on the ground and took high-res pictures of insects?”
“Never.”
“When was the last time you saved Bedouin boys in the desert?”
“Never.”
“Well, buddy, I find that astonishing.”
I said nothing. I felt like I was buried shoulder-deep in sand and someone was aiming stones at my essence. Yet rather than shattering me, the stones revealed themselves to be globules of light. They went down my mouth and gathered in my stomach. They became a pool of brilliance that coalesced and began to bubble. Then a mammoth geyser of laughter shot out from my navel and the beam of light was visible all the way to Damascus.
We laughed until we cried.
12
One day while Ziad was at work, I went walking through the neighborhoods looking for a barbershop. It didn’t