Malang

The August sun blazed with kingly terror. A proud dictator who reigned in silence over his scorched earth empire. It was exactly a week since Chris had left Herat and the cool shade of the fir oasis had given way to bare mountain rock, and thence to burning desert sand. Most of the time he spent flat on his stomach by the roadway. The rolled up sleeping bag served as a pillow and he used his arm as a shield from the powerful ultra-violet radiation. He remained absolutely motionless. Any exercise would have meant sweating, and sweating would mean the loss of precious body moisture. Moisture that was necessary for the maintenance of life. He wished desperately for something cool to quench his thirst. Strangely enough the first image to come to mind was that of water. It was strange because a four day bout of amoebic dysentery in Persia had enlightened him to the danger of drinking Asian well water. The natives had developed an immunity over several thousand years. As a white European, Chris had no such immunity. He had learned his lesson the hard way and since then he had maintained a strict inner discipline of drinking boiled tea only. That inner discipline had slowly been eroding under the cruel sun. There comes a time when water is worth its weight in gold. That time had come and gone several hours ago.

cover design based on a painting by Angela Johnson