Gobi Trouble!
International Christian School, Karis Hsu, Fiction: Group 2
D
usty swirls of wind blew into our faces. Sweat poured down our sun scorched skin.
Somehow my feet kept moving, although I didn’t understand how. I was part of a
documentary film crew reporting on the recent discovery of Buddhist relics that
belonged to Master Danzan Ravjaa, but had been hidden to preserve them from
destruction by the communists in the 1930s. One by one my fellow reporters weakened, but they
still trudged on, even to the point where they had nothing in their entire bodies to keep moving
except will. Heavy equipment pounded on my shoulders. I could see a car in the distance, but as
the team and I ploughed through heat and sweat, the car seemed to run farther and farther away,
until it totally disappeared in the vastness of the Gobi. Was it only a dream?
Anna seemed to be ghost-like, floating around, careless, and creating mischief. Was it a mirage
or was she trying to keep us from meeting Sarah Barkley, a curator for the British Museum? She
didn’t want us to know something, something that Anna wanted to hide, deep down inside.
I didn’t trust her. I didn’t trust anyone. I was in the middle of nowhere, with no one to rely on.
This interview was crucial and my team had been replaced by Oliver, Brandy, and Anna. I knew
nothing about them except that Anna had a sly mischievous side.
At night I had seen Anna fiddling with the car, making use of a rusty old toolbox’s contents.
The very next morning found me walking; the Jeep was gone, broken. All I could do was press on
and dream of vehicles.
I started thinking about the interview and its purpose. Someone had stolen something
precious. Perhaps Anna was trying to stop something from happening. Someone was lying…..
The walk lasted four hours until a faint structure of a yurt was visible ahead, even through
dust and swirls of wind. A yurt is a Mongolian sheep felt tent that nomads live in as they move
around. It seemed to be coming closer, and closer, until the soft fabric rubbed my weary face.
Soft, soft comfort.
Children played outside with camel dung, a woman was tending to her baby and a man was
milking a tiny goat that was covered in pure white fuzz. Nobody set eyes on us until the woman
lost a piece of rope that she was tying her baby up with. She looked up, dropping the small baby
on the rough Gobi sand. “You foreigners, what are you doing here? Can I get you some fresh goat’s
milk?” I couldn’t feel my legs walking toward the tent, but then there I was, sitting in front of a
steaming mug of goat’s milk. My taste buds found the nourishing goat’s milk yucky. But I drank it
anyways because my slender throat was as bumpy and rough as sand.
The nomadic family generously offered to take us to the office of Sarah Barkley since they
were moving in the same direction that we had to go. We accepted. Cameras were loaded heavily
at the back of the caravan. Our backs were soaked, not from exhaustion, not from labour, but
from walking in the heat of the Gobi. Hot sand pierced my eyes. Heat burned my skin, but still I
kept marching.
Days later we were eating with the family near Sarah Barkley’s office. I gobbled down lunch
from an old classic restaurant in about five seconds, not minding my manners. The meal was
excellent, everything I could ever dare to dream of. But the time came when it was time to pay
respects and go. I owed my life to the nomadic family, everything. The woman was crying and
