Word: Haboob

haboob

[ huh-boob ]

noun

1. a thick dust storm or sandstorm that blows in the deserts of North Africa and Arabia or on the plains of India.

 ******************************

“We must stop and set up shelter here.” The expedition’s guide, Kabir, said. The man had stopped, seemingly at random at the top of a sand dune. The rest of the expedition stopped behind him and looked at him quizzically. 

“Why? What’s happening?” The head of the expedition’s research team, Dr. Carwell, asked. 

“There’s a sandstorm coming. We need to set up shelter now, before it comes.” Kabir said. 

Dr. Carwell looked around. The sky was clear, the sun was hot, and save for a gentle desert breeze, there was no sign of such a thing. Still, Kabir had proven himself trustworthy many times. He nodded and gave the signal for suitable sandstorm preparations to be made. 

“What’s the hold up?” Came the heavy, slow voice of the man bankrolling the whole expedition, Owen Fields. The man huddled under a parasol as he lumbered up the side of the dune. “Why have we stopped.” 

“There’s a sandstorm coming.” Kabir said. “A big one. We need to set up shelter now.” 

“What? That’s ridiculous. Look around, there’s not a cloud in the sky. Setting up camp now, in the middle of the day, will put us behind schedule.” 

“Better late than dead.” The guide said. “Desert sandstorms can arise suddenly, and are very dangerous. My knowing how to tell one is coming is what makes me so well respected.” 

“Bah.” Owen said. “You’re obviously full of it. There’s no sandstorm coming. And even if there was, so what? It’s just a bit of sand.” 

“Uh, actually,” Dr. Carwell said. “Desert sandstorms are known for being extremely dangerous. Deadly, even. Especially the big ones.” 

“And this one will be quite big. Not the biggest I’ve seen, but large enough to kill us all if we don’t take shelter.” 

The portly man looked between the two of them. “The desert’s gotten to you both, hasn’t it? You’ve all gotten heat madness. Get under some shade, cool down, and let’s keep going.” 

“Sorry, but no.” Dr. Carwell said. “Kabir has earned my trust in these matters. If he says take shelter, that’s what we’re doing.” 

“Let me ask you something: Who’s in charge of this expedition.” 

“Depends on who you ask.” Dr. Carwell replied. “All the bureaucrats back home will say you are.”   

Owen smirked with pride. “That’s right. And that means--” 

“But if you ask everyone actually on the expedition, in other words, all the people currently present, it’s me.” 

Owen stammered over the interruption. His eyes widened and his mouth worked over unformed words. He looked around at the other men, who had paused their efforts to set up camp to look at them. None of them looked thrilled at the prospect of listening to the man. 

“Listen up,” He called, trying to see what support he had. “Our guide here says there’s a sandstorm coming, when there’s obviously none. I say we keep going and reach our destination sooner. What do you say? Listen to someone who’s obviously wrong, or me?” 

The only answer he got was the men going back to the task of setting up sandstorm shelters. Owen sputtered and grumbled at the lack of respect he was getting.  

“Fine. Listen to the desert rat instead of someone with an actual education. See what happens to you.”  

He stormed off, flopped down onto the sand and sulked. This, thankfully, allowed the men to work in peace until they were finished.   

*******************************

Don't you just hate dealing with people who think they know better than the actual experts?