Powdery sand flew up over the windows and for a moment the inside of the car was almost completely dark. Then the 4x4 swung in the other direction, the sand was shaken off and the view cleared. The manoeuvre made all the passengers except HP burst out in rollercoaster whoops. Twenty minutes of dune-rallying and he already felt like throwing up. Hash and beer really weren’t a very good warm-up combo for a desert safari. Fuck, he felt rough! To make everything even worse, Vincent had squeezed him into the little seat right at the back, next to the bags, where both visibility and the lurching were at their worst. The Frenchman had put himself next to Anna A, who naturally spoke perfect French. The pair of them, plus the other Frenchman in the car, had chattered like polecats on acid almost the whole way out here, leaving HP feeling seriously excluded. But he had at least managed to pick up a bit of it. Evidently Miss Argos wasn’t a Miss at all, but a Mrs, seeing as Vincent and the other bloke started calling her Madame.
