The Camp: One: Off The Plane

As I stepped out of the Boeing 747 passenger plane, the heat hit me like a tidal wave. The air was like an oven after wintery New York, which seemed like a world away. The sun blazed in my eyes, and I put my already sweaty hand on my brow, blocking the light. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the brightness and I surveyed my surroundings. Red dust covered the tarmac, which may have been black once, but not anymore. Some particles were swirling upwards, caught in the breeze created by the plane’s engines. Two grey buildings stood in the distance at the end of the runway and, like everything else in this place, were covered in a fine coat of dust.
The metal stairway made a clanging noise as my boots hit it, hard leather against aluminum. A car waited at the end of the stairwell. Well, not so much a car as a buggy, having only seats, a metal chassis, and wheels. When I reached it, a man sitting inside climbed out. He reached out a dusty hand, and I took it, feeling his strong grip.
“You must be David. I’m Michael, and I’ll be your personal guide for your stay here. How was your flight?” he said, letting go of my hand.
“Yeah, I’m David, nice to meet you,” my voice ran out into a wheeze, and I stopped to cough. Michael handed me a bottle of water. In one massive gulp, I drained half the bottle. I hadn’t realized how thirsty the heat had made me, as soon as I drank some of the water I wanted more.
As I finished the bottle, Michael said, “You gotta keep hydrated in this place, or else you die. Simple as that,”
I coughed again, and in a weak voice said, “The flight was nice,”
He laughed, his laugh was booming and infectious, soon I was laughing too. I couldn’t exactly tell you why, but it was still nice.