We were in the middle of the Egyptian desert and the day had been perfect, so when we saw electrical storms on the horizon, we figured it was a pretty scene over the dunes. I woke up just after sundown to find that rain was flooding the road ahead of us …

As with any great adventure, it began with a carefully orchestrated plan. Funds carefully procured and squirreled away, third-world-travel immunisation shots and pills carefully administered, maps carefully studied and marked up …

I’m going to die, I thought sadly. The sadness actually surprised me more than the thought itself. I wasn’t panicking, I wasn’t stressed. I wasn’t kicking and screaming with every ounce of energy I had to prevent my untimely death. I’d simply accepted that I was going to die.

It was a Sunday, and I was almost twelve. It started, like many weekend adventures do, with a phone call. “Mrs. Walsh, can Billy come out to play?” On the other line would be my best friend Ronnie – my chum of chums, and the ringleader of our little troupe of troublemakers …

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