A Day in The Desert

A very special guest essay written by my late Mother.

An angel in Landi Kotal, Pakistan (1979).

The first two weeks in May always seem to sneak up and sucker punch me right in the gut. As we all know, from the current marketing campaigns and gift guides, Mother’s Day is next weekend. The day that likes to waltz into my life and knot my fragile emotions into a special little bow. Since tomorrow is the anniversary of my Mother’s passing, and Tuesday would be her 68th birthday, I often struggle with the conflicting emotions of these three events happening all at once.

In honour of this week (26 years later), and the many ways it reminds me of the woman who made me, I’m sharing an article she wrote for an English 100 class several decades back. The following is a true story about the journey my parents took from Nepal to England in 1979 (in the back of an army truck with 23 other passengers).

This essay was written in 1994 but I only came across it five or six years ago. I was going through an old box and found a few papers titled “English 100”—which prompted an immediate call to my Dad to inquire further. He told me that after my brother and I were born, my Mom decided to take an evening class at the local college. He said she was feeling self conscious about not having post secondary education and wanted to make sure she could set a good example for my brother and I once we got older. Just writing this brings tears to my eyes.

Sharing this story feels important to me and I cannot thank you enough for giving me the space to do so. My only goal in circulating this article is to keep her words alive and her memories sparkling. My Mother didn’t have nearly a long enough life but she packed her days full of meaning and intention. With a glimpse into her beautiful mind, and film photos taken by my dear Dad, I hope you enjoy this incredible excursion.

A Day In The Desert

Written by Leisa Burkitt
Photographs by Craig Burkitt
Edited by Lauren Neufeld

Taking a trip away from home allows us to see more than just a change in scenery. Each town and city holds its own energy—some relax and refresh us, others excite and challenge us, but each are sure to help us develop new ways of thinking and being. We’re not always aware of the outlooks and attitudes we possess until we’re faced with unfamiliar surroundings and encouraged to look through different lenses. Sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone also means stepping into a new frame of mind—at least that’s what I experienced spending 75 days travelling on the back of an army truck with 23 strangers.

Several years ago, my husband Craig and I decided to quit our jobs, put our belongings in storage, and travel the world for a couple of years. A portion of our trip was with a company called ‘Exodus Expeditions’. Every two weeks, they took groups of twenty-five passengers and two drivers on the back of old army trucks for two and a half month excursions. Starting in Kathmandu, Nepal and ending in London, England. Although most of our friends and family thought we were nuts, we put our names on the list and couldn’t wait to meet our new truck-mates.

Twenty-five passengers and the truck they would call home. Mom and Dad are bottom row left.

The day we all met in Kathmandu is still clear in my mind. The ages of the passengers ranged from 18 to 45 and the group was a great mix of Americans, Australians, British, Dutch, Irish, Japanese, New Zealanders, and us two Canadians. Some had dedicated their summer vacations to this trip while others, like us, had been travelling and backpacking for several months already. Everyone was on edge, passing glances at one another and not sure what to say. However, the reality of the environment that lay ahead for us had us all laughing and talking in no time. We were about to be sardines in a tin can (in this case, a metal truck) so we might as well get friendly. The diversity of our backgrounds didn’t stop the common bond that quickly formed with our fellow travellers. We all shared the same anticipations, curiosities, and excitement.

Once on the road, we divided into groups of three. Each group was to shop for food and cook one day, then wash dishes and clean up the next day, and then have six days off (while the other groups took their turns). We were all very reluctant at first, not knowing what type of meal would be placed in front of us. It didn’t take long until we become competitive with each other though. Each group tried to see who could be the most creative with the limited resources we had. Four pots and two Coleman stoves to feed 27 hungry individuals didn’t leave a lot of room for culinary genius, but we made it work.

The truck was a converted troop transporter that we collectively decided to name: ‘Mothertruck’. It was designed with a flat-deck back and had two long benches running down each side. It was constructed with a metal body, wooden side panels, and a canvas top. There were heavy-duty tarps rolled up on all sides that could be easily dropped when it rained or became too dusty. With the lengthy stretches of road, it didn’t take long before we had made ourselves at home and started getting to know one another. The conversations changed from life history and career highlights to personal opinions and emotions. We analyzed the world and its problems, made plans for the future, and recalled past experiences that had long been buried in our minds.

Each day was packed full of new sights, sounds, and smells. We were seeing places we had only ever read about in school as children—watching our young dreams come to life before our eyes. Taking in these new experiences each day kept us present in the moment. Being exposed to the elements of our surroundings allowed us to really absorb the energies of each place we passed through. We submerged ourselves into a world so foreign from our own and yet, we were starting to feel like we were a part of it.

After crossing India to Pakistan, we were faced with a decision. There was talk of fighting in Afghanistan and we were unsure if we would be able to enter. Circling around Afghanistan would have meant seven to eight days on the Pakistan desert. After voting amongst ourselves, we decided to take the chance and continue with the original plan. Three days on the Afghanistan desert sounded much more appealing than eight days on the Pakistan desert—considering Mothertruck didn’t come with air conditioning.

As you might imagine, with the change in terrain came a change in attitudes. On the desert there were no longer sights to see or towns to stop in. The days were terribly long and the temperature reached 50°C (122°F). We had talked each other out and were no longer interested in entertaining anyone’s opinion. After sitting all day, we became irritable and foolishly snapped at one another. On the desert, the water was rationed for drinking and washing dishes. It didn’t take long for our hair and faces to become coated with dust. We were exhausted from travelling and somehow the excitement we felt at the beginning of our trip had been long forgotten.

Camel train in Kandahar, Afghanistan.

The last day on the desert was the most difficult. We left Kandahar at 4:30am to get a head start on the heat. I was still in a dreamy state as I watched a camel train pass in the distance. When the sun finally rose, a blanket of heat enveloped us. The temperature of the drinking water was no longer able to cut the dryness from our throats. Out of nowhere, Lana bent over in pain. “I’m going to be sick, stop the truck!” she yelled. Someone rang the buzzer to indicate for the driver to stop. As we slowed down, she staggered off the end of the vehicle. Someone asked if she needed help, but we all knew there was nothing anybody could do. We had all felt the pain of dysentery at some point during the trip. We gazed at the floor or open ground, trying to give her privacy in a place that had none. Out of the silence came screams, “No, go away!”. With that, Craig jumped off the end of the truck yelling at Lana. “Get back on the truck Lana, NOW!” he yelled. Two nomads were running towards her and throwing rocks. Craig was trying to head them off. In seconds, the truck started moving and Craig was pushing Lana onto the back, pants still around her ankles and tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. The dreamy state of the morning had left and we somehow seemed alert for the first time in days.

By early afternoon we had reached a pass in the foothills. The military was stopping anyone from going further. Someone heard them say the Russians were attempting to gain control of the pass. I remember thinking to myself: “Why on earth would the Russians be here? There must be some mistake.” After waiting two hours we were formed into a convoy with two other buses and four military jeeps. Two armed guards were stationed to the back of our truck. The seriousness in their faces scared me. They each had machine guns aimed and ready, constantly scanning the hillsides. Unexpectedly, the truck came to an abrupt stop. The bus in front of us had a flat tire. At the same time came the sounds of gunfire. The guards motioned for us the hit the floor and jumped off the back of the truck. There was more gunfire, followed by a period of silence. We glanced at one another on the floor—many of us were laying on top of others due to the extreme lack of space. Our faces showed confusion and concern but, with a long enough silence, our frustrations returned. Throughout the trip we had already dealt with the seemingly slow armies of India many times. Each border crossing tested our patience further with their foreign formalities and policies. Somehow, in this moment, we assumed this was just another one of those formalities. We chose to focus on our personal problems, whispering amongst ourselves about thirst and discomforts. Finally, our guards returned to inform us it was safe to continue. When we reached the city of Herat late that evening no one felt like eating or talking. We had crossed the desert successfully but the celebration would have to wait. We were mentally and physically drained.

One of the guards stationed to protect their truck.

The last few weeks of the trip turned out wonderful. As we neared the western world, and a lifestyle more familiar to our own, spirits lifted. Laughter and cheerfulness replaced our frustrations. When we arrived in London, the group was buzzing with joy at the expectations of receiving mail from family and friends—and the sheer fact that we had all survived what was likely one of the most challenging journeys of our lives to date. It was hard to imagine how we were going to incorporate these new versions of ourselves back into our old routines.

While collecting our belongings, one of the drivers climbed into the back of the truck. “I have some bad news”, he said reluctantly. “Word has come through about the truck travelling two weeks behind us. They were attacked while travelling between Kandahar and Herat. Three passengers were killed and several others were severely injured.” The silence was deafening—it felt as though someone had dropped the side tarps on the truck. The bustle of the brilliant city around us was no longer there, all that remained were the faces of the individuals we had spent the last two and a half months sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with. The faces of strangers who we laughed, cried, struggled, and grew with—the twenty-three faces we now considered family. We felt the same about our fellow travellers in the truck behind us. Even without meeting them, we took this journey together and we felt their pain as our own. We had no idea how close to danger we really were that day. It felt unimaginable to form words. We took that moment of silence, in honour of those left behind, and knew this would be a memory we would never forget.

Saying goodbye to Mothertruck.

Even today, decades later, I still have flashes that bring me back to moments from our travels. Someone will say something that triggers it, or I will hear about the people of Afghanistan on the news, and I am transported to that moment laying on the truck bed complaining about being thirsty. I took home more lessons from that trip than I could comfortably fit in my suitcase. Be kind to your neighbours, look both ways when crossing the street, try more foreign foods, practice gratitude, and don’t be afraid to challenge yourself. But maybe the most important of them all is that life is too short, and sometimes unexpected, so make the most of each moment you have. Surround yourself with the people you love and chose the actions that bring you joy. Don’t get caught wearing the blinders of a busy lifestyle and missing the moments that matter most. Step out of your comfort zone and see the world through a new lens. Travelling brings out parts of you that you didn’t know existed. It’s a wise and cunning teacher. If you’re lucky, a trip will not only reveal the beautiful landscapes and diverse cultures of your new surroundings, it will allow you to see yourself.