A paleontologist and an adventurer describe their experiences with the brutality of Gobi and Sahara Desert sand storms, respectively, and reveal some of the psychological effects of being in one.

I could hardly breathe. Seemingly a raging devil stood beside my head with buckets of sand, ready to dash them into my face the moment I came up for air out of the sleeping bag. There was something distinctly personal and living about the storm. All of us felt it. It was not just a violent disturbance of the unthinking elements. It acted like a calculating evil beast. After each raging attack, it would draw off for a few moments' rest. The air, hanging motionless, allowed the suspended sand to sift gently down into our smarting eyes. Then with a sudden spring the storm devil was on us again, clawing, striking, ripping, seeming to roar in fury that any of the tents still stood.

… when the camels, craning their long necks, sniff high in the air and utter a peculiar cry, the garfla (caravan) men know well the ominous signs; far off on the horizon, creeping higher and higher, the sky of blue retreats before a sky of brass … high in the air great flames of sand reach out, then the lurid sand cloud, completely covering the sky, comes down upon the garfla. The torment at times is indescribable, and some poor fellow, like the camels, will run maddened into the hurricane. […]