Oh to be young and foolish

Wednesday night began ecstatically with a drawn match that helped us book a semi final berth. From then on it was an incredibly humorous night, complete with unfortunate events.

It was 11 p.m. by the time I left the stadium. This of course meant dinner would have to be bought at a 24-hour petrol station. By this time I was tired, lazy, hungry and sleepy. Taking advantage of this misery, my brain helped itself to some harmless mind games. ‘Should I take the 10km long road to reach home or just cut through the desert?’ ‘Should I eat right here or eat at home after a shower?’

While these questions were juggling around in my head, I found myself convinced that the ‘shortcut’ was the best route in the given circumstances. Ten minutes later, my car tires were firmly imbedded in the water-like sand of the Arabian Desert. Acceleration in either direction produced a fountain of sand rising 10 meters or so. What just happened?

I got out of the car to analyze the situation

• It was past midnight
• I was stuck in the middle of very fine loose desert
• I was driving my cousin’s Peugeot 307, which has trouble accelerating on a straight road let alone the desert sands
• It was as hot as a furnace laced with 90% humidity

As my heart rate began to climb, my brain assumed the role of the ‘cool-as-a-cucumber’ dude. I could see “Do Not Panic” signs being flashed with the same frequency as said heart rate. With hands on my hips and feet planted in the sinking sand I couldn’t help but snicker. “What the f*** were you thinking, mate? It’s a bloody match box-car thing not an SUV. Hmph, okay, big deal, we’ll get out of this.”

I started digging out the sand (with my strong capable hands) from around the left front tire which seemed to be locked in a loving embrace with the desert. This is when I learnt the true meaning of ‘fine loose sand’. It was almost as though the sand was mocking me. With every scoop of sand I dug out, a newer batch of sand would belly dance its way back. So approach number one was abandoned.

Okay, simple. Need to search for a plank like thing to place under the left tire and smoothly reverse my way out. Haha, right! Approach Two was abandoned too.

Then I tried the following, in no particular order – pushing the car with all the energy I had left, accelerating like a madman whilst simultaneously steering violently (think F1 warm up lap), lifting the car (haha).

All these brave attempts lasted a full hour at which point I decided to walk back to the 'Oh PLEASE God let it be a' 24 hour Petrol Station. I briefly explained my predicament to a few idle passersby and attendants. This was followed by – “A Peugeot 307? Really? Are you crazy?” I was then handed the telephone number of a vehicle recovery ‘specialist’. This is how the conversation unfolded

VRS: Which is car?
FS: Peugeot 307
VRS: [hahahahaha]
FS: Just off Emirates road
VRS: 250
FS: 150
VRS: 200
FS: 160
VRS: 180 is last
FS: Okay, be here in 10 minutes.

45 minutes later he arrived. He checked the car, turned to face me and said something really profound, in his Pakistani accent of course “Aisa risk kabhi nahi lena chahiye”. I sat quietly inside the car, which was dragged out with relative ease by the VR.

And that was how Wednesday night, I mean, Thursday morning unfolded.

Moral of the story – ‘If you see a short cut, ignore it.’