1 minute read
Towards the Algerian Border / alaina bainbridge
Towards the Algerian Border
Man with a Koran charm on the rearview drives us further
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into the Sahara. Sandstorms happen midday, most days. Can’t open the windows
even though the Jeep smells like mint and sick. Stop for a herd of sheep. Stop
behind a truck full of hay, about to tip over in the radio static. Pull over
to wipe up the vomit. Right off the road, a fruit stand. But the olives are rotting.
Nowadays, the good oranges get sent to Spain. Buy two stones instead. Turquoise and coral, both from Gibraltar,
the man says. Hands me a compass. It points six directions at once,
but only at dusk. Keep driving North. Past a guarded hotel. Past three blondes,
wrapping their hair in scarves, posed inside a broken down Hollywood set:
like fish against the sky,
stars appear. Land is flatter at night,
windy. Fire and sparks
move in strange ways this far out.
Stop for light stones laid across the road. A man with a fake gold watch, waving his hands, points down to a single red trip wire.
How much charge can desert stars absorb?
