The Atlantic route South was beautiful, desolate and eerie.
One especially beautiful morning I awoke to the strange guttural clicks and whistles of a goat-herder trying to dissuade his 100-strong ensemble from eating our bikes and gear.
He was polite and relaxed, seeming very content with his wandering through the seemingly endless desert with his herd, and we asked him all about where he lived, had come from and was going.
Once they were gone, and without a care in the world I went for a morning pee on a bush I thought could do with a good watering. As soon as I started and without any warning my boxer-briefs filled instantly from the back with a sickly, hot, liquid ooze.
In total shock I tried to carefully and quickly get back to camp containing the dribbly, gushing warmth in my underwear. It was no good and the brown gunge was trickling down my legs from the seams by the time I retrieved my toiletries.
I found a convenient hole in the sand, and after a whole pack of cucumber-scented baby wipes (thanks Mum!) was left with a clean body and a very messy collection in the sand. I knew the matches in my wash-bag had a purpose, and I knew this was it. A single match and the polyester pants were blazing and making an acrid smoke which I tried not to inhale.
I walked back to camp and said, laughing, to Laas:
“I just burnt my pants.”
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