Dull-eyed men who clear desert roads
The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 41
We were traveling west across the Gobi desert when a great wind arose from the south. Carrying with it a mass of sand like a swarm of stinging locusts, it descended upon our convoy and halted our progress. A great roar erupted as the storm hit our vehicles, and for all we could see the definitive lines that had made up the world had been erased. All there was to see was a bleak orange, in a way: a timeless site, but in no way one that could accommodate us as beings who drew breath.
We struggled to seal the vehicles tightly. We tried to speak, but above the roar no sounds could be heard. We were rendered mute. The motions of our hands, in that crippling darkness, seemed slower than before. Time bowed to this terrible force.
Minutes lumbered past. As we sat, as if in a fever, the noise of the storm began to subside. The roar faded. All was quiet.
We glanced out of the windows of our vehicles. The world was naught but orange fog. Surrounding us, suspended particles of sand at once impeded and refracted light. The neighboring cars of our convoys were nothing but shadows. Craning our necks downward, we were dismayed to find that the road was completely blocked by a massive dun set right in front of us on the road. It had arisen during the storm, like a snow drift in a wintery climate, though heavier, more ancient, more apt to persist, less to melt, subside, or fade.
We could not move.
Minutes passed and then hours. At first we spoke of our predicament, then we spoke in jest, then sat silent. The ghostly fog around us persisted. Orange. Other worldly.
As silence gave birth to despair, we heard a rumble behind us. Though we could not see through the suspended sand, it sounded like a large diesel engine, one perhaps powerful enough to move us past our predicament. We exited our vehicle to wave the driver down, to beg for assistance.
Those in our convoy acted in a similar manner, so there were many raised arms to greet our savior as he appeared out of the gloom. Yes, it was a large frame, sturdy wheels and a raised driving platform: a tall dump truck. We whooped with joy at the thought of rescue.
We were just as easily silence, however, as the truck rumbled up to the back of our convoy, moved right to avoid the trailing vehicles, then began to pass us. Those who had been passed dropped their arms, dejected, sure that we would not receive help this day.
As the climbed back into their vehicles, the truck advanced to the front of our line and rejoined the correct side of the road. As it reached the dune which blocked our path it slowed, and with a whine of its brakes and a release of exhaust, it came to a crunching halt.
A long moment passed as we waited to see the driver’s next move. He climbed down form the truck’s cab, and without saying a word, moved through the dusty air to the back of the truck. He climbed the chassis and released the hatch. It screeched and clamored downwards. Silence followed.
Thought he air was still thick, we could make out human forms emerging from the back of the truck. Ragged men, in dusty, worn jumpsuits. Their skin was made leathery and thick by the harshness of the wind, their faces were lined with deep canyons which were the result of days spent squinting against the sun, the dust, and the sand. Without saying a word, they dismounted the back of the truck, and assembled on the road.
They each carried a shovel. In number, they were over thirty. Silently, they began shoveling the sand away from the road.
A slight wind began as they pursued their work, but they did not uttered a word. Nor did we. The only sound to be heard was the scraping of shovel and the falling of sand.
When the job was complete, they rentered the truck, like automata, like ghosts. Their eyes were dull. It was difficult to distinguish their features, though as the hatch was being shut they looked at us in our eyes. The noise of the truck’s latch echoed to the back of the convoy, and sent a shiver up our spine.
The driver again climbed into the cab, and the engine sputtered then rumbled to a start. The wheels whined, and the truck moved off into the distance. When it vanished into the murk, we were awakened, as from a dream or from a spell. The truck, no doubt, advanced onwards, and our host later told us that trucks like these roam the desert clearing roads, often without human contact for weeks at a time.