We drive very slowly. I'm in the back of the truck with two adolescent boys and two large women in their late teens or early twenties. A middle-aged man, a very old man, and a woman with an infant ride in the cab. The boys in back wear little turbans, but they're too young to veil their faces. The women have covered everything but their eyes. They sit on the burlap sacks, which, it turns out, contain dates. Every once in a while they reach into the bag and take a date or two. As they chew, they have a weird way of whistling rhythmically under their breath in a very slow pattern. It's a single note, repeated twice every few seconds over and over, almost like a baby bird call. After simultaneously giving me once- overs, they ride along, unconcerned about my presence. About a kilometer outside of town, we stop. There's a well. In the setting sun, we watch the silhouettes of people gathered, pulling water. They work hard and fast. This isn't work, this is survival. The moment one bucket's out of the well, another is immediately thrust into the hole. It's a long haul. The water must be fifty feet down. The sight of the spillage near the lip, the muddy area, the bare feet stomping around in the wet sand--it's the only image of coolness I've seen for 2,200 miles. Here, near the water, despite the rush to get it, the tension of thirst and privation seems to diminish. The temperature starts to drop. I can breathe now. All my fear, my numbness from feeling trapped and sick, it's all falling away. The Tuareg take the opportunity to pull out their mats, get down upon their knees, face Mecca, and say a prayer. They finish by touching their foreheads to the ground. They roll up the mats and pile them back into the truck. They don't bother competing with the crowd at the well. I figure they must know what they're doing, so I don't get any water for myself. I have about a liter, which will last until we get to Aguelhok later tonight. When it's time to get rolling again, it turns out that the truck has no starter, and must be push-started. I wish I had noticed this when we left the Douane. I get behind the truck with the two boys and the old man and push it while the middle-aged man (whom I gather to be the clan chief) and his wife stay inside the front. The two largish, whistling women stay in back. It's pretty hard to push with everyone still in the truck, but after a couple of tries, the engine coughs to life. As we take off I get a final glimpse of the silhouettes at the well, surrounded by dazzling sunset golds and purples and pinks on all sides of the horizon. The land appears to rise in all directions. For a few moments, I feel like I have left the earth entirely. I am neither happy nor sad about this; it feels fitting. If I'm not in good hands, I'm at least in interesting hands.