All the world's a sandpit

Spak-Spak stopped and squatted by the puddle that had once formed part of what must have been a lush oasis, plush with the verdant shade of flowers and foliage, and temporary harbour to those desert critters - she now numbering among them - as they paused for respite on their wanders under the magnified spotlight of the sun. She slipped her thong past her swollen ankles and dowsed the meager thread, occasionally dabbing it on her brow for relief, and then wrung it dry with her weather-beaten hands. The chorus of nomadic chanting was a tad distracting, but certainly not as much as travel-stiffened underwear. Rather the chanting than chaffing.