His traditional white Arab tunic is no longer very white, and he gives off the odor of someone who's slept in his car for the past two days in the baking heat - waiting in line.
Each had its own way of moving through the land and each had its own odor of passage: the railway tracks cut straight ahead, asking no questions of the bedrock through which it sliced, the wrought-iron rails smelling of axle grease and the wooden slats of rancid, licorice-scented shellac.