"Ray, do you think he'd mind if I took his picture?"
"Be right with you, honey. Who?"
The Bedouin was standing across the road from her husband, having apparently walked out from between two dunes. One minute he was not there, the next he was.
"Dunno", Ray Walker said. "Guess not. But don't get too close. Probably got fleas. I'll get the engine started. You take a quick picture and if he gets nasty jump right in. Fast."
Maybelle Walker took several steps forward and held up her camera. "May I take your picture?" she asked. "Camera? Picture? Click-click? For my album back home?"
The man just stood and stared at her. His once-white djellaba, stained and dusty, dropped from his shoulders to the sand at his feet. What little skin of forehead and eye sockets she could see was burned brown by the desert.
She raised her camera. The man did not move. She squinted through the aperture, wondering if she could make the car in time should the Arab come running at her. Click.
"Thank you very much", she said. Still he did not move. She backed towards the car, smiling brightly. Always smile, she recalled the Reader's Digest once advising Americans confronted by someone who cannot understand English.
"Honey, get in the car", her husband shouted. "It's all right, I think he's OK", she said, opening the door. Ray Walker's hand reached out and hauled her into the car, which screeched away from the roadside.
The Arab watched them go, shrugged, and walked behind the sand dune where he had parked his own sand-camouflaged Land Rover. In a few seconds he, too, drove off in the direction of Abu Dhabi.
* * * * *
Frederick Forsyth, The Fist of God, pages 40-41. Some sections omitted because they're redundant to the humour & text altered slightly to flow smoothly.
Incidentally: the 'Bedouin' turns out to be Major Mike Martin of the Special Air Service - a British army officer.
"Be right with you, honey. Who?"
The Bedouin was standing across the road from her husband, having apparently walked out from between two dunes. One minute he was not there, the next he was."Dunno", Ray Walker said. "Guess not. But don't get too close. Probably got fleas. I'll get the engine started. You take a quick picture and if he gets nasty jump right in. Fast."
Maybelle Walker took several steps forward and held up her camera. "May I take your picture?" she asked. "Camera? Picture? Click-click? For my album back home?"
The man just stood and stared at her. His once-white djellaba, stained and dusty, dropped from his shoulders to the sand at his feet. What little skin of forehead and eye sockets she could see was burned brown by the desert.
She raised her camera. The man did not move. She squinted through the aperture, wondering if she could make the car in time should the Arab come running at her. Click.
"Thank you very much", she said. Still he did not move. She backed towards the car, smiling brightly. Always smile, she recalled the Reader's Digest once advising Americans confronted by someone who cannot understand English.
"Honey, get in the car", her husband shouted. "It's all right, I think he's OK", she said, opening the door. Ray Walker's hand reached out and hauled her into the car, which screeched away from the roadside.
The Arab watched them go, shrugged, and walked behind the sand dune where he had parked his own sand-camouflaged Land Rover. In a few seconds he, too, drove off in the direction of Abu Dhabi.
* * * * *
Frederick Forsyth, The Fist of God, pages 40-41. Some sections omitted because they're redundant to the humour & text altered slightly to flow smoothly.Incidentally: the 'Bedouin' turns out to be Major Mike Martin of the Special Air Service - a British army officer.
Comments