2022-01-21 - The Long, Hot Drive

Tenere Desert. A desert region in the south central Sahara, comprising a vast plain of sand stretching from northeastern Niger into western Chad, and covering an area of over 150,000 square miles. It's nothing but sand, sand, and also, sand. The Tuareg people call it ténéré which means 'desert', just like sahara means 'desert' in Arabic.

It's great to know your geography. Particularly when you're sitting on it.

It all made so much sense, last night. Take that bet; a million bucks, to drive across the desert in a small bus. Plenty room for water, blankets, anything you might need. Think of how much difference a million bucks can make! Easy peasy!

It makes less sense now. The desert is red and hot, so very hot. The road map -- it shows a neat, clear line towards a mountain range, but when you look around, everything is flat and red and hot, and there are definitely no mountains on the horizon anywhere. There's bottled water on the bus, sure -- enough to keep everyone going for a week or so, if no one wants a sponge bath. The atmosphere inside is going to develop -- a certain presence.

There's guns too -- three of them, AK47s. Who the hell uses AK47s, not counting Afghan freedom fighters? And what are you supposed to be shooting at? Lions?

And the hangover. Man, the hangover. Never make decisions on open bar night.

The year is 1978. The former French colony of Chad is torn by the civil war that broke out in 1965. Medicine Sans Frontiers, the Red Cross, and other relief aid groups are working hard to secure some kind of peace or at least survival for refugees and non-combattants. Libya is invading, and the Republic of Chad is literally being torn apart. And somewhere in this mess, a small group of relief workers were offered an opportunity.

Ride this bus across the desert. A million bucks, US currency, for the relief effort. Right there, right now, immediate bank transfer. Think of what this kind of money could do, to save lives. Do not ask who you are making this bet with, Miss. It does not matter. Our employer wants a laugh -- and this offer is too good to refuse, when one is burdened with a conscience.

Must have been something in those drinks and frankly, no one's even sure they actually signed anything before passing out. Better hope that compass is accurate.

Pint-size, red-haired (it's natural, thank you very much), a spitfire of the first order: after three years in the desert, three years trying to strong-arm through red tape, sexism and, ok, yes, outright war, there's not much soft left about Eva Evans (and that's before anyone, ever, comments on her goddamn name). Not even now, with a hangover pounding between her ears and disorientation dragging her eyes open and closed again. "Someone get me some of that goddamn water," she instructs, without glancing at her companions: she's leaning forward now, gaze fixed on the horizon. "We've got a bet to win, and some fuckers to prove wrong." And it's not that the prize isn't worthwhile, not in this place, in this war, but there's something to prove, too.

She's driving. Of course she's driving. When would Eva fucking Evans ever let anyone else take the wheel?

The young'un isn't reaching for it; it's enough of a reach for her to keep clutching the seat in front of her with one brown hand and somebody's hat with the other, without throwing up in the latter (or someone's lap). The shirt emblazoned with 'UN' (unsteady? unready?) swamps her lanky body, but rumpled as it is, her black hair's still somehow coiffed into wings.

She isn't driving; she isn't in control; all these things happen to her, right along with the static edging her vision and scraping at her ears, her voice. "Hey!" That's for whoever's poking her with the bottle, gesticulating to get it up to the driver. Which Cia does, or tries to, too much in a hurry to loosen the cap first.

Maya’s the one passing the water forward, one-handed and not looking up. Her attention is on the camera she has balanced across her knees.

As photojournalism goes, this is one hell of an assignment. Grit, a good eye, and the ability to work under pressure — Maya’s got these in spades, plus that burning desire to prove herself in a career that’s hard to break into, and all the more so when you’re a brown woman. Wars are no place for women and no one’s going to talk to you; let the pros handle it — she’s heard it all, and maybe that’s why she jumped at the chance to document this trip across the desert and wherever it may lead. So much of who she is and who she wants to be depends on luck, being in the right place at the right time.

“You want another Panadol too?” she asks without looking up, focused on her task. Sand clogging up the camera is the last thing she needs.

It's the dry season, and when you're in the Saharan part of Chad, that's dry. The only flora is the date palm groves of the occasional oasis. This is one of the hottest and driest regions of the world, with a mean temperature closing on 90 degrees Fahrenheit -- and if there is any silver lining to this venture at all, it's that it's being carried out in January, because in summer time, day time temperatures easily range at 104-117 degrees. Rain is scarce; less than a 100 millimetres a year -- in the sheltered pockets; most of the desert gets no rain whatsoever.

At least it's not spring yet. That's when the sand storms have real power.

The only people who make their living out here are the Tuareg. Indifferent to the borders drawn on map by European colonisers, this nomadic berber nation of blue-scarfed camel riders, travels along ancient routes in the desert, following the stars. The 'blue people', thus named for their characteristic indigo clothes and patterns drawn on their skin, trade with whoever's buying. They fight for whoever is paying. At some point around the 7th century they adopted Islam, probably because it made trade with Arab-governed city states easier; they still believe in matrilineal spirits and have religious customs alluding to fertility, menstruation, the earth, and ancestresses, that have no root in Middle Eastern religious beliefs.

They trace their origins to Queen Tin Hinan who lived sometime around 400 A.D in Algeria. Now, they live in clans each ruled by a chief and a council of elders. In the late 19th century they resisted French colonisation but broadswords were no match for European firearms. This region of the Ténéré is 'owned' by the Iwillimidan Kel Ataram. The warlords of Chad, like the French colonial overlords before them, know to deal with the chieftains and largely leave the blue people alone in their deserts. It's not as if anyone else wants to live out there.

The Tuareg people are the least affected by the war -- because how do you wage war on people who are in one oasis today and in another tomorrow, leaving nothing but the holes of their tent pegs? And why do you want to -- there are easier ways to acquire camels. The blue people are valuable guides and scouts but as subjects go, well, none of the Saharan region governments would shed large amount of tears if they went to live somewhere else.

And they don't do a lot of slave trading anymore.

That last bit might pop to mind to people who have worked in the area for some time, aiding refugees and documenting the horrors of the civil war. The bus rattles along in the sand as its firebrand driver looks for patches that are solid enough for the wheels to not get stuck. There's nothing out there but red sand and the promise that once the sun sets, the desert will be as cold as it is hot during the day. And then there are camel riders out there, on the dunes, riding parallel to the bus' route.

Just a handful of them; men in flowing indigo robes, faces covered, atop their mounts, rifles resting in their laps. Opportunistic, majestic, unchanging through-out time. Survivors.

"Yes." The answer is always yes: yes to another drink, yes to a trip to the front lines, yes to crazy trips across the desert, and definitely, definitely yes to another panadol. Una-- Eva -- takes the water bottle without taking her eyes off the not-actually-a-road, and manages to wedge it between her knees in order to get the cap off without skipping a beat.

Actually drinking, though: that may be a step too far. As much as she's focussed on scanning the ground, she's been too long in this part of the world not to be hyper-aware of movement, and having caught sight of something out of her peripheral vision... she straightens her shoulders, and puts the cap back on the water.

Not that she, you know, says anything to her companions. Perhaps she assumes they're equally aware.

"Yes," says Cia near-simultaneously, assuming. "Dramamine too?" There's a pleading quality to her voice, though she doesn't mine the drama so far as to beg; she unsticks herself from the vinyl seat enough to pull her knees up and turn (Look out the window, look at the horizon) and - "What? What?! They have guns!!"

"Pill coming right up." Except as Jules/Maya shifts to start rummaging, the Tuareg on the horizon catch her eye. Headache be damned; she's a photographer, and that's one hell of a shot. Without further ado, she leans out her open window, pointing her lens at the nomadic figures and adjusting for the shot. "Shut up, of course they do. Everyone here has guns. How long have you been here, anyway?" There's judgment in her voice as she snaps, snaps again, snaps again. "God, they're beautiful."

Snap snap snap! goes the camera, shutter clicking in rapid succession. If only one picture in ten is worth keeping -- then that one picture will bring in a nice paycheck from several anthropological magazines because what audience does not love a story of the wild and noble savages of the untameable desert, i.e. who doesn't have a secret Lawrence of Arabia fantasy somewhere.

Wrong indigenous people. Wrong desert. Who cares? Also, Peter O'Toole has very blue eyes, almost as blue as those robes that flap and flutter in the ornate camel saddles.

The first aid kit is well stocked. Very well stocked. There's several interesting pick-me-ups in there, most of which should probably not be taken as a cocktail; barbiturates, amphetamine, chlordiazepoxide, and those coloured sugar cubes there might in fact very well be LSD. Trip's gonna be interesting.

Della's attention brushed past the bus' little pantry before fixing itself on the rifles of the camel riders out there -- and now it taps her on the shoulder and whispers into her ear about that's a lot of plastic bags in there too. And it is -- who the hell packs packages of white powder wrapped in plastic for a desert trip -- oh.

Oh.

It's never as simple as a bet and something to prove, is it?

"We have guns," points out the redhead, without turning her attention from the 'road'. "We have guns, they have guns, Maya's right: everyone has guns. That's half the reason we're all here in the first place. Maya's just hoping to shoot them with film, first. Me, I'm a fucking do-gooder, self-righteously here to prove how much better we are than everyone else, and I can give the rousing speech to prove it. Why are you here... Cia?"

It took a moment. But she did remember. Mind like a steel trap, Eva Evans.

"...Two weeks." Unless it's more? Or less? It's all dusty turbulence in Cia's head, and slitting her eyes against what's coming her way from the open window only helps a little. She swallows dryly. Packets of powder. "I'm not supposed to shoot. I think." Where's the handbook when you need one? Maybe with the sugar. Why did she - "I'm supposed to watch. My boss said. To tell the," shirt, so helpful, "UN." That's not sugar. "To make sure. But they're not supposed to shoot us." If it's not sugar, it's... not flour.

"Um... Maya?"

Maya may or may not know the difference -- or more accurately, may or may not really care about the difference -- but she knows what will sell. "Not nearly fucking long enough," she opines when it comes to two-weeks-in-Chad Cia. She's still trying to take pictures, concentrating hard to counteract the bumpiness of the ride. "What?" Cia's attempt to gain a greater portion of her attention doesn't work so well the first time around. "Hey Eva, can you slow down a sec?"

Eva's muttered reference to 'amateurs' is, at least, mostly under her breath. It's not Cia's fault she's so new, though the redhead may not show such tolerance in either words or expression. A clear(er) stretch of ground has given her the opportunity to re-open that water, and finally get the drink she's been craving: that, and keeping them bumping through the landscape, has most of her attention.

But finally, "What? Fine. Fine." A little slower, anyway.

"Maya," Cia repeats once she's managed to turn back, terse and sharp as though there were a scorpion not quite on the other woman's shoulder but nearly, nearly. She waves towards the (not flour) pantry (pharmacy), but her dilated eyes stay on what the camera lets her see of Maya's face. "Did you pack that?"

In reality, 35mm photography would actually require the bus stop (or come close to it) in order to set up the shot. In Dream world, however, the continuing bumps don’t faze Maya, and she’s grinning despite the concentration.

Until she’s pulled away by Cia’s insistence and finally looks up from the viewfinder. “What?”

Then Maya sees it. “Oh shit.”

Somewhere below it all, in consciousnesses that rest safely in beds more than forty years into the future, the idea might float that of bloody course it's never going to be as simple as drive from point A to B because that would make a very boring story.

Which might lead to the realisation that it is a story.

Which might lead to questions about who the hell is telling a story and how does that someone draft people to tell it, and really, that might be a question for another time because there's a flock of maybe ten,fifteen camel riders in blue robes kicking their mounts into action and galloping along with the bus, arcing towards it on a semi-parallel intercept course.

And there's a pantry full of what's probably heroine or cocaine, take your pick. It could be baking soda, but that would be -- kind of wrong for this kind of story. Wouldn't it?

The rider in front shouts something. The hot desert wind eats most of it. He points at something ahead, and dark blue robes flow and rustle on that very wind.

Anyone can tell that he's telling the driver to stop. An alert driver -- like, say, Eva Evans, redhead on a mission -- might ask why. And then she might look ahead and realise -- that the sand ahead is very, very flat, and that there are camel tracks that veer off to either side of that very flat patch, but none that lead across. It'd be a feat of alert attentiveness to spot how some of those tracks have been there a long time -- a discarded canister in the sand, the way that wheels and camel feet (paws? pads? hooves? things) have pressed sand down for a long time to form some very vague trail -- and that trail forks ahead, leading around that very flat stretch of land ahead.

It's a good thing Eva Evans is just that alert.

It's a good thing that Eva is so focused on her driving: as alert as she is, an identity crisis at this particular moment might be particularly bad news for all involved (not least since her alter ego can't drive a car). That feat of concentration means she's not paying much heed to the discoveries of her compatriots, though the lift of her foot from the accelerator may seem linked.

She's not stopping: not for anyone, not even gun-toting camel-riders. But she is throwing her weight behind turning the wheel, adjusting their course to the left, to follow the trail and not drive straight into what may well be Certain Doom.

It's not smooth. She's not much for giving warnings, either. And the lift of her hand, aimed towards the roof of their vehicle? That's a thanks to their unnamed camel-riding friend.

It'll definitely be smooth sailing from here.

Right?

That squawk, that's Cia, thrown to the side with her echoing, "Shi-it!" Never mind the not salt or what she saw of Maya's surprise, much less the eons-ago guns; keeping hold's lost out and she's failing, sailing (more or less smoothly) towards the other side of the bus.

Jules — Maya — certainly hasn’t caught on to the nature of the story; she’s too deep within it, drowning in that ‘oh shit’ realization that this is a drug run that they’ve wound up in. There isn’t time to focus on that yet, though, as the nomadic camel riders catch her eye. They’re breathtaking, those impossibly royal blue robes in the foreground of the stark landscape, and Maya’s photographer instincts take over. She whirls back to the window, frantically snapping one shot after another until Eva throws the wheel, and then she’s just trying to hang on. She grabs the handle on the roof, and a shriek escapes her as they careen, but it’s immediately followed by giddy laughter and a whoop. Yeah, she’s an adrenaline junkie. How else does someone end up with a hankering for conflict zones?

Is quicksand a thing in deserts? It's not. Quicksand requires moisture -- a certain balance between water and very fine sand. What is a thing in deserts is areas of sand so fine that it offers no resistance to such heavy things as the wheels of a bus -- rendering driving across them not very different from driving right into a body of (very dry) water. It's possible that the wide, webbed toes of camels can spread out enough to allow the animal to snowshoe across. It's possible that the ancient track goes around the area for a reason.

How fortunate for that band of indigenous tribesmen to happen to be right there at just the right time.

The desert burns orange, unrelentingly, the horizon a wobbly line of heat under a turquoise sky, and the indigo and blue robes of the camel riders stand out and create a picture so perfect that anything Maya manages to capture on film is an all but guaranteed pay check from National Geographic.

Toed camel feet pound against sand as the riders draw closer; whatever their agenda, warning the bus off the dangerous patch was not the only thing. The way those men sit in their tall-backed camel saddles is amazing; their balancing skill honed to perfection by lives spent doing exactly this. Camels are not beautiful animals, very far from; and yet the riders and their shaggy mounts achieve a level of aesthetic perfection that no Rub al-Khali horse rider from the other side of the Red Sea could top.

The trail is narrow. It winds and twists -- and Eva has her work cut out for her, keeping the vehicle on the safe path because a bus is considerably wider than a camel.

And slower, too, for that very reason. Those riders are catching up.

Una was a city kid, raised by a single mother who couldn't afford to run a car when a bus more-or-less works to get to and from the local QFC supermarket. Learning to drive was never particularly high on the priority list, let's be honest. Not so for Eva, who handles the old bus like a pro, muscle-memory (but... no, don't think that one through) carrying them careening through the twists and turns.

"Hang on!" says Eva, though there's a thickness to her words, a frown that's audible as well as visible because--- because--

Yeah, something isn't right here.

Dry water. That's something Della could dream up, only it wouldn't be orange; maybe that's dry water in the packages, white sand.

Cia, though: she's slow-mo twisting, reflexively adjusting so when she smacks into a pile of baggage it's with bruising force but nothing dislocating, not literally. That hat, though, that's gone.

It takes more time for her, Cia, to scrabble her way out and back to her spot, her window, her place that she's not supposed to be but is. It's hard. Eva's a pro driver, but Cia's hardly a pro bench-crawler, and the vinyl gets in the way. But then - one reaching hand finds a... strap. A belt she hadn't noticed before. (A belt that hadn't been there before?) It's an old bus, but sometime ago (maybe a moment ago) it was retrofitted.

She hangs on.

Also, please let me know if things like 'finding' the seatbelt are beyond scope.

"They're going to catch up," says Eva, tracking the path ahead of her but also, too, their interceptors-to-be. Her fingers are white on the steering wheel, beneath their desert tan.

"Jules--" Wait. Where did that come from? "Maya, fuck."

For the first time, Eva Evans sounds like she doesn't know what to do.

Still hanging on, polysyllabic Cia: "Jewels?!"

"Are we carrying conflict diamonds now too?" Watch Maya (not Jules) start to panic.

Nothing says action movie like cocaine and blood diamonds. Is that something glittering in there, in another bag, behind the definitely not powdered sugar? Or is that just Maya's imagination running wild? At the rate this is going, there's probably five confused English blondes each with a sock in their mouth, destined for the tent of some Arab sheikh -- never mind what continent we're on, consider it a homage to Rudolph Valentino.

Or maybe it's three women in a bus, who are destined for something along those lines. The bus is still ahead of those Tuareg warriors but the camels are fleet of foot and made for running in the desert -- which is more than can be said for the bus wheels.

And the temperature is climbing. It easily soars to 105 degrees Fahrenheit or higher at noon -- at which point the bus is going to be decidedly unpleasant, if not outright dangerous. No one who has worked and lived among refugees and relief workers in this region for a while does not realise this danger: Dehydration is a very real risk. Worse yet, so is disorientation -- a disoriented driver may fail to follow map directions or to see obstacles in the road. The desert floor is not just sand, after all. There's patches like the ones that the bus just skirted, and there are old wrecks along the trail, partially covered by sand and moving dunes, and there are large rocks, ditto.

It doesn't help to be driving fast enough to dodge pursuers. All in all, this movie seems to have skipped the build-up and gone straight to the breath-taking action scene in the end.

A flash of blue up ahead catches Eva's attention -- and possibly that of anyone else whose heads happen to be turned that way. Heat waves rise from the orange desert floor, wavering, obscuring the view -- but the sky is a brilliant, deep cyan shade of blue, and that new stretch of sky is a strange shade of silvery blue -- like an ocean or a river snaking its way across the sandy sea.

There aren't any oceans or rivers in the middle of the Ténéré Desert. Or well, there are bodies of water, but they are oasis lakes in the clifflands, emerald green and jade, cutting through the rock like jagged knives, sheltered from the unrelenting sun by mountains. And they are not here -- because being sheltered by mountains requires mountains.

Reality is starting to feel a little frayed around the edges. A bit as if someone, somewhere, is shrugging and going, yo, look, it's just a movie, don't overthink it.

"Diamonds?!" Cia exclaims after Maya, clutching the strap for dear life, no delicate pearls here. Sweat's wilting her UN-top as she stares out into the world, gaze glancing off the diamond-bright light to the riders with their sapphire robes, the camels all smoky topaz and amber, the jewelry of their accoutrements; she stares and stares, without a glance for the turquoise and aquamarine up ahead, and finally (guns or no guns) she waves.

Maybe it's really The Blue Sword they're in, with camels instead of horses, with combat to learn and magic to burn.

Forget jewels-or-jules: reality has hit Eva-wait-no-I'm-Una, though it's rather more with a whimper than a bang, that growing awareness that has finally tipped over into reality right about the time that she-- Una, definitely Una-- catches a glimpse of that distant (and impossible) blue. It's the straw that breaks the camel's back and, unfortunately, also the one that seems to trigger recognition that Eva may be perfectly comfortable behind the wheel, and Dream-muscle-memory is definitely a thing... but over-thinking things tends to result in a failure of muscle memory, and that means...

Well. The bus stalls. It's inevitable, isn't it?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Maya leans over to investigate, but she doesn't get far. The jolting motion of the bus inhibits a closer look unless she lets go of her own safety strap, and that's something she's not about to do, not when she's holding her priceless camera. And then, when the motor dies altogether, that has her attention. She shifts her weight to angle a look forward, towards Eva-Una; beyond her, the blue glimmer catches her eye. Maybe in some corner of consciousness, the wrongness of it starts to work its way into recognition. But now, there are problems to deal with. "What just happened?" she yells up to the front. Una might be panicking about her driving ability, but Maya is firmly under the illusion that the driver is, well, the driver. "Did we overheat?" She looks out the window again, sticking her head out into the unrelenting inferno of desert sun in order to assess the camel riders more closely. "Maybe we should find out what they want."

The blue up ahead is definitely some kind of river that snakes its way through the desert in a display of irreverent disregard for inconvenient things such as laws of nature. Rivers through deserts are not unheard of -- there's a rather famous North African one that spawned some rather culturally significant parts of history and art, for one -- but as a rule of thumb they are surrounded by a fertile strip. Then they are not, there is something in the water or in the soil that prevents plants from growing -- be they the date palms of the deep desert or the irrigated wheat fields of Egypt.

It's possible it's the soil. Too alkaline, maybe, or too salt? Not enough actual soil?

Or maybe it's just the same kind of strange dream reality that turns Una Irving into Eva Evans who shouldn't think too hard about her driving.

More importantly, there's a fort on the other side of that river; a gleaming square of white, flying --

-- the French flag. In the middle of the desert claimed by the Republic of Chad (and some anti-government forces, and Libya -- war is such an inconvenience).

Hot water rises like a geysir cloud from the front of the bus. Do modern buses have cooling units in front like this?

Does it matter?

There are armed riders in pursuit behind them. There's an impossible river in front, along with an equally impossible bridge, and beyond that, an impossible fort. And back there, in that impossible fort, somebody is playing an impossible bugle.

Because nothing says bad action movie like being stuck in the wreck of a bus with smugglers' goods native to the 21st century while trapped in the crossfire between 19th century colonial forces and their -- well, the Tuareg have lived like this for a very long time but their rifles are not from the 19th century. And neither are those three AK47s sitting -- not on Chekov's mantelpiece, but maybe on Chekov's bus.

"Jules." Una-- and she is definitely 'Una' aside from the vestigial Eva-ness that is probably contributing something to her general level of not-completely-freaking-out. 'What would Eva do?' is a helpful thing. "Jules. Wake up." Della... well, she casts a quick, wary glance towards that member of their group, and perhaps it's a deliberate thing, not to make any attempt at spreading further awareness there.

But whether or not Jules is going to catch on, this has become something of a Situation, and WWED-- given the scrunch of Una's forehead-- is not as helpful as it perhaps could be. "It doesn't matter what happened. Point is, we're not going anywhere. Do we trust them," and maybe end up dead, "or do we take precautions?" and maybe end up dead.

Maya -- Maya -- turns a bewildered look on Una. Her response is probably not very comforting: "Are you okay? Drink some more water." As for the photographer, after a brief hesitation and a glance out at the riders again, she resolutely turns to pick up one of the weapons. "They've got guns, we've got guns. I think we're better off at least showing that we're not sitting ducks, if they're not friendly." Carefully, pointing the AK47 at the ceiling, she offers it to Una.

"Good idea," Cia's saying about finding out, nodding with still-shaky relief (the possible talking, the bus no longer jolting), her gaze not leaving the riders (who get another smiling wave, her eyeliner smeared with the heat but artistically so, her black wings just as impossibly intact). "Trust them! They're beautiful," only.... then there are those guns again and one's being passed forward instead of water and the young woman (so much younger than Della) squeals and ducks, her free arm rising to protect her head from the supposed-to-be-bottle. "Neutral! I'm supposed to be neutral!"

Just because you've spent all of your life on a camel's back with a rifle in hand doesn't mean it's actually easy to hit anything. Camels don't hold still. Compensating for bumping and grinding is a thing, also outside of a certain kind of movie. Camels do not have built in gyroscopes.

Souri Ag Rezkou fires his rifle. He means to take out the wheel of the bus -- because while it has slowed to a stop, he cannot see why. The geysir of hot water from the cooler is in front -- and he's coming up from behind. Behind him, Beketa Ag Echerif aims his rifle, and so does Alemhok Ag Elwafil (who expects to miss because his camel has a limp). And behind him Ou-Fenait Ag Mellou is wondering why his name sounds like it was picked out of a random name generator written by someone who does not actually speak any North African dialect -- while aiming as well.

It doesn't matter much anyway, because the shot goes a mile wide. Maybe the important point is that there is a shot. No one shoots at people because they want to ask how their day is, maybe ask how 'bout them Lakers, and wish them a pleasant evening. When someone shoots at a bus that's already stopped -- it's an intimidation tactic. At best.

The bugle still calls. Maybe it's a signal to someone inside the fort. Maybe rescue is imminent. Maybe the girls, their bus, their cargo of heroin and blood diamonds, and their impossible 1978 hairdos are about to jump from the frying pan and into the fire.

The look Una aims at Jules (Jules, damn it) is deeply withering, but further argument is forestalled by that thankfully off-target shot, at which point? "Fuck, fuck, fuck," is really the only appropriate response.

"They're beautiful, and they're shooting at us. Do you want to be neutral, or dead?"

That's why she's taking the AK47 Jules (Jules) is passing up, even if it means batting Cia away in a most ungenerous and somewhat forceful way. Even if guns are terrifying, and there's not quite enough of Eva left in there to fix that. On the other hand, what would Eva do? She'd shoot, damn it, and so even if Una is vastly less confident, and even if it involves hoisting herself halfway out the van window to try and aim a warning shot...

Well, that's what Eva/Una does. Bang.

Not sugar. But also, not dead. Cue shrieking, though after that eardrum-defying moment, swallowing. And then Cia's taking off her shirt.

Did Eva hit her head? Or was it the concussion of the gunshots so close by? Or is it just that sort of bangin' movie?

It is hot outside, and stifling-hot inside, but no, Cia's turning that un-shirt (ur-shirt) inside out and putting it back on, obscuring the lettering much as how the camera's view is obscured by the back of the seat. No more waving. Not even a breeze to wave in. She gets her shoes back on. And her cell-- wait, they don't have those here. She twists to check on Maya, what the other woman (older woman) has for her next.

“Fuck.” Eva’s already said it, but it bears repeating. “Don’t shoot them!” Maya squawks a second later: she can’t tell where the other woman is aiming. “Shoot in the air!” Before she grabs a weapon for herself, she mutters a Hail Mary under her breath. “Cia! Where’s my press badge? What are you doing? Isn’t it better if they see U.N.?” If they even know what that is — nomads might be savvy, but there’s a little too much mixed up timelines going on here to be sure.

This is the AK-47 assault rifle, the preferred weapon of your enemy, and it makes a very distinctive sound when fired at you, so remember it.

Heartbreak Ridge is a movie that will not be released until 1986, but that doesn't mean that the sentiment is any less real in 1978. The rakatakatakataka as the guns are fired are familiar from dozens of movies -- and war zones. What made the AK47 the preferred assault rifle of militias and guerilla fighters everywhere is not the beauty of its design or even its accuracy. It's that it's cheap to produce, cheap to acquire, and easy to use. Point, pull trigger -- that's all.

Eva -- no, Una -- fires a warning burst across the bow of Souri Ag Rezkou's camel (at least that's how the camel is going to recount the story later on, over a bale of palm fronds).

A hissing sound goes more or less unnoticed in the sound of whooping and gunfire; a wheel gives up its air content, and the bus begins to sink to one side. It's definitely not going anywhere soon.

The Tuareg riders fan out -- planning to circle the wreck, perhaps, rather than hold still and make easy targets. All they need to do is keep the girls from leaving -- the heat of the day and the cold of the night will wear their resistance down soon enough, as their water supply and ammunition reserves run out. So why do they not simply wait outside of firing distance?

Maybe it's that lonely bugle across the river.

More likely it's what it portends. Riders on small, light horses -- French soldiers in their blue coats, billowing red pants and flat-topped kepi. Twenty or so of them, gallopping towards the bridge across the improbable river, towards the crashed bus.

The time distortion is almost palpable. Ou-Fenait Ag Mellou texts his wife that he may be home a little later than expected.

There are a few things going through Una's head right now, as she takes in the situation at hand.

Point 1: This is a Dream.
Point 2: ... but I've heard about Dreams (capitalisation matters here), and that doesn't mean it isn't real.
Point 3: Clearly the Tuareg (and how the hell do I know what and who they are?) don't mean us well.
Point 4: But do the-- French? Is that better or worse?
Point 5: No one else seems to realise what's going on here. That's a problem.

"I'm not going to shoot them. I don't even know if I can!" That's definitely Una-and-not-Eva. "What do they want?"

Also, because a little bit of genre savvy would probably help here, but unfortunately Una doesn't have it: "If this were an action movie, what would happen next?"

Work with her, ladies.

"No! Not if I'm shooting!" which is apparently where Cia's own head has gone, except it looks like she's Lucia now, emblazoned in an italicized subtitle for the viewing audience. "Badge?! You're supposed to be wearing it--" which doesn't stop her from scrabbling down between the seats to try and find the lanyard, at least as long as it doesn't take very long. That stops her from grabbing a gun of her own. "Don't waste ammo!"

Beyond that, while Lucia's looking, she's not saying anything for the next few seconds; maybe deep-down-Della's puzzling over whether there were action movies in the '70s, and if so what was the state of the genre, and just how problematic was the representation of everything. Deep-down-Della knows better than to look at her fingernails, just in case. Maybe that's why she doesn't spot the badge yet, or maybe it's the now-tilted floor of the bus; panting, sweating (glistening), "Next thing: we shoot them."

“Well I’m not!” Maya snaps back irritably. Don’t ask why. There’s no logic behind it in this Dream—she doesn’t have her press lanyard, now she needs it.

She tilts right side up again, fingers wrapped around the gun she now points out the window on her side. Not at the Tuareg per se; it’s just there, one more show of force. “God, I don’t fucking know.” Her mind churns, and suddenly a little bit of Jules’ own sensibility comes to the surface. “In the movie, it would turn out that those fuckers at the fort,” the French, “are up to no good, and it turns out those noble savages,” (here, her voice lilts towards mockery) “are actually here to warn us and escort us away.”

Does anyone speak French?

Yes, as it happens. How would these women -- no, girls, to stay with the 1970s vernacular -- have been working in a disaster zone if they did not speak the local lingo? The script may not require them to deign to pick up more than a few native words and terms for flavour's sake, but of course they speak French.

Probably the kind of French that would make an actual Frenchman cringe, but serves well enough to convince an American movie goer that he's looking at the French Foreign Legion. It's not like he knows anything about it, anyway, beyond what he's picked up from a few war movies and the occasional old newspaper comic.

Command shouts ring out in French. The Tuareg back their camels up a bit, keeping out of range. The handsome captain on the horse shouts, "Courez vers le pont, mesdames!" and if his accent sounds like it was picked up from Google Translate, it probably was. "Je suis le Capitaine Poulet et je vous protégerai!"

Run towards the bridge, ladies! I am Captain Chicken and I will protect you!

Maybe the name should have been left untranslated there.

"Si vous traversez cette rivière, vous passerez le reste de votre vie avec le Commandant Crock et sa bande de perdants!" Souri Ag Rezkou bellows a counter-command in an accent that probably is Tuareg in the same way that a Mexican actor may try to pass for Catalonian (i.e., not very convincing to anyone who actually speaks either language involved). If you cross that river you will spend the rest of your life with Commandant Crock and his band of losers!

Reality is starting to feel like it's fraying a bit around the edges. Somewhere in the desert there is a wrecked bus. On one side of it, the 1970s and a group of desert nomads. On the other, the 19th century and the French Foreign Legion, as represented by one Captain -- Chicken. It's almost as if someone started writing a story and then, halfway through, decided that actually, that was boring -- but what'd happen if --

It's not a very reassuring feeling.

"Give me something white," demands Una, supremely confident. Likely, she's forgotten the fake names of her companions, and the 'Eva' side of her is no use: names are a waste of time when you're in the middle of shit... and this is definitely the middle of shit. "No one called Captain Chicken can be trusted."

She leans out of her window again, waving her arms wildly as she faces the Tuareg. "Nous restons là où nous sommes. Veuillez ne pas nous tirer dessus." We're staying where we are. Please don't shoot us.

(Being able to speak a language one does not actually speak is... weird. But there's no time to dwell on that: WWED? She'd speak French. And she would also...)

"Alel enɣ tayaziḍt?"

Machine translation Berber is even worse than machine translation French. But Eva Evans has been in this part of the world a little while now, and evidently she's picked up a thing or two.

Help kill chicken?

What_ever_. Lucia's finding a considerable amount of grime and wrappers, but the press badge? It's hot and something's dripping on her neck and, "That would be nice," she says to Maya as she reemerges from the dank depths of the footwell. "Why can't they both be good? That's what I want," since she doesn't get to shoot anyone yet (or be shot, let's remember that). Deeper in Dream than her compatriots (but not more reassured for it), Lucia doesn't second-guess the immediate segue (in language or in levels of excitement) to, "Que se passe-t-il?!" What the hell?! which might have as much to do with what they're yelling as whatever-it-is white.

"Alel!" because that vocabulary is much more limited, but that much she knows, along with how to ask for the restroom. "L'aider, Maya, donnez-moi un paquet blanc! Non, je ne sais pas pourquoi, Eva le veut, viens déjà," aka Hand me a white package, the white stuff that isn't in the middle of the Oreo, IDKY but Eva wants it so whatever. Sort of. There may have been more people on the bus, once upon a time, but right now it's all for Maya. "Allez allez allez!"

There’s a moment, a blink of an eye, in which Maya just stares at Cia while the young woman starts directing her in passable-if-not-fluent French. The Dream nearly materializes the giant question mark over her head. But then Jules plunges right along into the plot twist, as ludicrous as Captain Chicken is, and witheringly replies, “We are not dangling drugs out the window.” If movies have taught her one thing, it’s that displaying your stash is a bad idea.

”Imidiwan, imidiwan!” Maya starts yelling out the window.

Friends, friends.

Her shirt is white, a long flows peasant blouse with loose sleeves that drape over her wrists; full coverage means full protection from the sun. Who knew? Colors weren’t so important in the Dreamscape until now—or rather, they were, but only the majestic blues, searing bleached-sun whites, and desert golds. Only now does the Dream supply the details of Maya’s desert attire.

“No way I’m stripping,” she asserts before anyone gets any ideas. Instead, she focuses on retracting the assault rifle and showing her camera out the window instead. “La presse! Journaliste! Je fais partie de la presse en visite ici!” Yeah, now she speaks French too, using it to claim her press credentials, because surely everyone respects that in conflict zones. Right?

Help kill chicken?

One reality finally finds something familiar to latch on to, and asserts itself. Kill chicken. Yes. This is what the Arab horde and their stone god Nebookanezzer have been trying to do since -- 1975? Where did that number come from?

Never mind. It's the wrong continent and it's the wrong people but there is a dominant story line here, and Charlie's Angels Meets the Dakkar Race it isn't (any longer). Captain Poulet is the enemy, and the camel riders raise their rifles and charge forward on their steeds. Blue robes bleed colour and become white under the desert sun. Improbable Arabs speed towards improbable legionnaires near an improbable fort by an improbable river. Reality is no longer starting to look frayed around the edges.

It's starting to feel like the kind of reality where the camera might cut to the lost patrol next, twenty years of walking in circles because no one knows how to read a map. Maybe they're who the cocaine is for; it takes effort and energy to be that dim-witted.

And the blood diamonds? For the dastardly Commandant, of course.

Gunshots ring out. On one side, modern assault rifles; the Arabs, formerly of Tuareg fame, fire Kalashnikovs too, but theirs are AEK-971 -- the newest model, released this very year, 1978. On the other, rifled muskets -- the Minié rifle of the mid-19th century French military.

It's pretty one-sided. It's also pretty ugly. Might be a good time to keep one's head down. Pay no attention to that dawning awareness that this is not how gunfights work: People who get shot bleed and die.

They do not groan dramatically, clutch their chests without a trace of red, and fall dramatically off their camels or horses, to lie in the sand until you blink, and then get back up and run away as if they were escaping the set of a particularly bad movie.

Reality isn't frayed at the edges. It's got more holes than a sieve.

It's probably for the best that Una/Eva doesn't wave drugs out the window... though really, at this point, it's not as if the whole thing could get much more absurd.

"I..."

No, start again.

"..."

Nope, still not helping.

Una stares out the window, though she's crouching on the floor of the bus, now, red hair barely visible (though it's still probably a beacon, catching the sun here and there).

"I think..." She aims a look at the other two, a little wide-eyed but also searching: well?

"Fine." No-longer-yelling Lucia, who's just trying to help and also save our lives here, survives getting shot down (so to speak, so far) yet again with a petulant toss of her hair. She huddles against the seat back, looking more and more like Cia again by the moment-- her features less angular, with an ingenue's doe-eyed luminousness-- even as she's not looking outside anymore. Whatever glance she'd gotten, though she might like to have escaped the set too, it has her turning inward instead of outward: these aren't idyllic running camels (that she's not close enough to smell) and beautiful blue robes anymore.

The other problem is, it's hot in here. Now and again, even sitting still, she pants for an extra breath. Those not-just-a-little-wide eyes turn to Eva. For once, she doesn't say anything; instead, her shoulders hunch and her hands go up in a worried embodiment of: ¯\ (ツ)/¯

Thanks what does it. Maya — no, Jules — stares out the window as the transformations take place, simply watching for several long seconds. Those seconds feel like minutes.

The Maya-ness of the photographer starts to fade. It’s still Maya’s dark brown, delicate hands that clutch the camera, but her features are resolving into Jules, skin tone lightening, the details of her face revealing themselves the longer she sits and stares.

“Well fuck me,” she says at last. There’s a look at Della-Cia first, trying first to place her and then to assess her. “Drink some water. Deep breaths,” she advises her, listening to that shallow panting. “Put your head between your knees if you need to.” Then, with the least with-it among them hopefully sorted out, as much as she can be, Jules turns her attention up front.

“Una?”

Una's relief is so obvious: stark in features that have always been hers, just shaped in different ways, Eva's cocky confidence vs Una's easier equilibrium. "Jules."

The rest of what she says is for both of them, a hint of Eva in the Una: "We're ok. We're going to be ok, right? They're not trying to shoot us. And if anyone tries to... we'll damn well shoot them back, right? Or we'll..."

"Wake ourselves up."

“Yeah,” Jules says with far more confidence than she feels.

Pause.

“How do you think we do that?”

"... Not sure," Una allows. "Just: don't throw yourself in front of a bullet. I'm pretty sure that just results in actual death or dismemberment."

It takes a moment or two for Cia to realize maybe-not-Maya's talking to her, even, but at the advice she automatically reaches down and-- that weight against her foot, by happy coincidence, it's a water bottle and not a grenade. As the other two talk, it takes not-Della a couple tries to uncap it, much less drink from it, a little of the water spilling down her chin; she sighs, low and wet. But, just before she lowers her head, "You look different."

“Cool.” Now Jules sounds sarcastic. She tries to gentle it when she turns back to a Cia, who she’s reasonably sure is their third housemate. “Do I? That’s okay. It’s the spirit world. Things shift.” She lifts her chin to indicate the faux-massacre taking place out the window.

"You're fine... Cia. Don't worry." Don't worry your pretty little head about anything. You won't remember anything afterwards... right?

Una's hesitation over the name is pretty clear, but she's otherwise echoing Jules' gentleness.

"...The spirit world." It's a dream; Cia's pliant, wrung out, free hand dangling low. Another happy coincidence has her lifting her eyes long enough to glimpse not-Maya's gesture, though it takes her long enough to decide-- head down like before? head up like now?-- that it's not-Eva's reassurance that makes the difference. Up it is, then, looking at the... television show... taking place outside. And downing another gulp of water like so much popcorn.

Somehow, Captain Poulet manages to stay alive. He circles the wagon -- er, bus -- on his white horse while the once-blue, now-white Arab horde shoots their assault rifles at him. When he does retreat, it is to the sound of a somewhat shriller bugle signal, and with considerable haste, a few other survivors galloping along.

One might call the man, uh, well, chicken, to leave his men lying in the sand, bleeding and dying. Except, well, he doesn't. Because every single one of them waits for no one to be looking their way, then hobble off towards the dunes. And not a single one appears to be actually injured when they don't think anyone's looking. A fallen Arab appears to be borrowing a light from a fallen Legionnaire.

Cartoon violence. Cartoon sense. Cartoon --

-- the world is bleeding colour.

It's a dawning realisation, the kind that politely waits until you're not too busy, and then taps you on the shoulder with a soft little 'ahem'. The world is very much bleeding colour, shifting towards black and white. Not towards grayscale -- but towards everything being drawn in black ink on white paper.

And out there, the lead Arab raises his rifle and yells, "C'est le bon moment pour se réveiller! J'ai déjà été mécanicien au Caire!"

Now is a good time to wake up! I was once a mechanic in Cairo!

"I'm--" Una stops. She stares at the fiction in front of her. And then?

"Ok, I'm out."

And evidently it is, in the end, just that easy: goodbye Eva Evans. Sorry about the million dollars, not to mention the drugs.

Una is gone. There's an almost audible pop as she disappears.

Black ink. White paper. Still-mostly-Cia, her expression more figuratively drawn, tilts her head in fascination: it's better than TV. She could watch this... practically forever. Or impractically.

And yet somewhat-Cia reaches back, as though to hand the water bottle to not-Maya, only her brown hand is bare. Reaching back, reaching out.

“Oh shit,” there goes Una. “Shit, I can’t leave her here!” Jules tells Una’s disappeared self. Her voice is starting to rise a little, towards alarm.

It’s up to her now to shepherd Della through this, when she hardly knows how to handle it herself. Jules clasps the hand that’s offered her and tries for a brave smile. “Close your eyes. Let this disappear. Find yourself.”

"But it's beautiful," not-yet-Della murmurs. "I'd love to draw it." Her hand is warm, and part of the increasing unreality is how it's not sweat-sticky, though both Cia and Lucia had that lovely unchipped manicure. Della undoubtedly would have had more argument, however soft-spoken, but still-not-Della complies with this advice the way she had about the water.

Or, at least she tries.

There's no instantaneous disappearance.

The ink's drying on that white paper, all set to smudge.

The warm dry hand has to re-adjust a time or two; there's the faint sound of licking dry lips, and then again because they're dry.

The wind picks up, stirring the sand in flutters of dots, periods and commas and the tiniest of dashes.

"Oh!"

She's gone.

"Sortez! Qu'est-ce que tu es stupide? Si cette histoire vous surprend, vous tournerez en rond pendant une éternité! Regarde moi! Je me souviens de Rommel!"

No one's really listening to Souri-turned-nameless-Arab chief any more. No one needs to know about that time he met Rommel.

Jules keeps her eyes on Cia, steadfastly ignoring the cartoonish scene spooling out before them. She allows herself a pleased smile when the other woman disappears, along with a sigh of relief. Then, finally, she’ll look out the window again. “Je vous quitte maintenant,” she tells the man on horseback, looking at him just as he asks. “Merci.”

Another word is spoken then, in an entirely different language, one that belongs to salty coastal waters and damp forests, not this desert land. It is always wise to thank the spirits and treat them politely.

She closes her eyes to all of this, focusing on the word and all it conjures, letting it ground her. Goodbye.

Poor Souri. No one ever wants to hear about Rommel.