Corpus Civilization

Algeria

Sliding through the sand under clandestine clusters of rock moved many vipers, unleashed from their prisons by the blessing of the moon. 

Nocturnal fiends, the horned desert vipers were known amongst desert dwellers as an indefatigable nuisance that was less to be battled than it was to be avoided. A single bite from one of these vipers meant certain death. The ghastly slew of poisons a single fang puncture could inject into the bloodstream in milliseconds invoked caution in the neat little outcropping of people in the North Saharan Desert, yet did not hinder them from completing daily tasks.

Living under the immense heat of day and dry conditions would not be possible if not for the nearby oasis. People out here worshiped the oasis as much as they worshiped the feet they walked upon. Life certainly would not be the same without either aspect.

Ramy discovered this early on in his position as a travel guide. Water was essential for his caravan, and tourists were under the impression that Ramy had holy powers when he would remove the filled canister of water from the backside of his desert Jeep.

"I'm not special." He always told the foreigners in his best English. "I just have water."

But to them, Ramy was special. His knowledge of the ins and outs of the vast desert and his attachment to the rolling sand dunes astonished them. He hosted a wide variety of tour events, from helping Algerians trek across the Sahara on business to serving as a tour guide for smaller excursions. The desert and its characteristic charms were precious in the world of media. Swarms of people visited to capture, shoot, or vlog as they stood under the broiling sun, their fair skin burning within an hour if they were not careful.

Ramy grew accustomed to the outsiders' ways during his twenty years as desert-dweller, yet he could not expect the circumstances under which he would garner his first and last snake bite.

"Here! Let's do it here!"

A group of what seemed to consist of very attractive, lively Western models came to Ramy in his outpost of sand, destined to film some kind of dance film for their company. As always, Ramy treated them with the utmost respect, leading them to a relatively quiet portion of land that had the most beautiful scenery. The sun was setting, offering a hazy glow over the horizon. Since the nature of this visit was to complete physical activity, the group left at a later time.

In this miniature clan of foreigners was about eight people. Some were louder than others, cheering as they hopped along the sand in outfits that were definitely not suited to their environment. The director of the film, a swarthy individual who sweat like a pig, kept calling out to his crew and demanding minor fixes and alterations to the dance.

"No! Not like that. Again, again!"

Ramy did not understand every single phrase that was shouted and cawed, but he got the gist of them. Standing there and monitoring the visiting crew was beginning to get painful. Not because of the heat--he was well-accustomed to the sun and heat, they felt like second nature to him--but because the group's leader was reprimanding and screaming so much.

Any more screaming and his voice will dry up. Ramy thought to himself. Already, the group had gone through three vessels of water. Most of the dancers had sweat through their clothes, and the sun was falling lower on the horizon's sandy belt. Ramy knew that they would have to wrap up the shoot soon, before nightfall.

"AGAIN! WRONG! AGAIN!"

Ramy felt a pang of disappointment that this man was pushing his crew of young people so hard. He tapped his dark fingertips against his hip, idly watching the sun. To his sides, sand tossed and turned with the flips of a light wind coming in...the same wind that beckoned night in. Minutes passed, and Ramy began to grow wary. This group had overstayed their trip by fifteen minutes, and the man was still barking orders at them with weakening vivacity. Since his voice was growing weak due to the dust, this only seemed to make him more angry.