slithering north of sigla

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall/ Through every part/ Can tie those parts, and make me one of all;/ Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art/ Have from a better brain,/ Can better do ’t: except she meant that I/ By this should know my pain,/ As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die.
John Donne (1573–1631). The Funeral

We had slithered northward with Obaid all morning, turning off the new road south of Al Ashkharah at a patch of sabkha around the settlement of Sigla. Our goal was to follow desert tracks that led to Jaalan Bani Bu Ali and Hassan, up north where the highway was, following ancient trails that were used until recently when the new road was built. Hard sabkha soon turned into soft sand dunes, and we roared up and down, desperately trying to keep afloat. We were following a fast disappearing sandy track, heading west and then north, straight into the desert. It would seem, until we reached an abandoned road, almost like the end of the world.

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