Part 13
The next day we finally met Pedro, the viceroy of the ‘tourists’, as we were named. We agreed to work for board, lodging and 30 Israeli pounds a month, approximately 45 euros. And now of course we first had to go back to Eilath to fetch Carol’s stuff.
We were hitch-hiking just outside Ber-sheva when, in a cloud of dust, an enormous lorry started to brake. We ran to the cabin, I pulled open the door, no point in asking, there was only one way to go, and wanted to get in.
‘No, no’ and he pointed at Carol at which we reacted disappointed but resolute:
‘Oh no, no way!’
Again he slammed upon the seat beside him and pointed at Carol. With my hands and feet I made it clear to him that I was going to sit next to him or else: ‘No go!’
He yielded with a gesture of ‘suit yourself’ and we got in.
It was a ‘King of the Road’ kind of truck that had spent its first life upon the American highways in an era in which on steam locomotives you could see on the outside how the wheels worked. The lorry probably had been acquired by the grandfather of the driver via an international charitable lucky dip/grab bag and a few black markets. The dashboard would suit an aeroplane and the gearbox, a multitude of buttoned and bent bars, seemed to sprout from the floor as an impressive proliferation.
We did not go very fast, but with a steady certainty and because the options of conversation with our host were decidedly minimal, we limited ourselves to pointing and cooing.
I noticed that from the plains we had entered a more pronounced terrain and that our driver had to do more gear shifting. But just when I thought ‘Wall of Death’, he grabbed a hitherto unused stick, pulled it full force and banged it thunderously into my crotch. I doubled up and convulsed towards the driver. He, with his shoulders, made the international gesture for ‘I did warn you’.
Then the penny rolled on and dropped with Carol, but there was no time for parallel reality, as another hill of the same calibre came up. With my hands I made a ‘soccer wall’ and he only trashed the air out of my lungs. During the rest of the journey I watched the topographic course of the road with the utmost interest. And when Carol later laughingly asked:
‘How was your trip?’, I growled something like:
‘Not my ballgame!’
Jan Ploeg
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