Imagine landing at the starport on Tattoine, making your way through customs, which, by the way, consists of a single Toydarian who will not let you pass until you slip him a few credits, and then setting off on those little streets with ramshackle houses that look as if they were made out of sand and clay. Aliens scurry about your feet in hooded dress, chirping in some barely comprehensible tongue. What do you imagine this feels like?
It feels hot, really fragging hot.
Yes, you are no doubt aware that Tattoine is mostly desert; you have heard of its twin suns; and you have perhaps heard of the outrageous price water fetches in this corner of the galaxy. Still, you have not the slightest idea of just how scorching it is until you walk its streets with your own feet.
My first thought as I left the starport was that it was nearly unbearable. My second was not so much a fully formed thought than an urge to tear off my clothes and throw them to the ground. My third was to wonder if the Jedi or Sith have some technique, some mental art, to disregard the extremities of heat or cold; but it seems it was not my fate to know of such things.
Steeling myself as best I could, I began to make my way through the maze of a city before me. No doubt you seek to interject that Anchorhead can barely be called a village, let alone a city; still, I assure you one can easily get lost in it, for all the landmarks have a certain uniformity. It might be a fractal of sorts, looking identically from each vantage point.
I spent some time helplessly wandering through the little streets. Mostly deserted - no doubt most of the sentients were sheltering away from the suns inside - they gave the feeling of an abandoned ruin made of clay. Finally, I began following each street in the direction of a slightly larger one, eventually coming out into a large open space. A big square, demaracted with what must have been shops, or so I surmised from the alien writing. Across was a large gate likely leading into the desert sands beyond. Stalls with awnings that promised some much needed shade beckoned.
"All blasters 50% off, first come, first serve…"
"Dusty's Dreadful Droids! Brand new robotic battle-mates for the discerning adventurer!"
"Want to see a Jawa without clothes? Come to Penelope's Prurient Pleasures!"
Averting my gaze from the shop-window at Penelope's, I made my way to the blaster merchant. The wares for sale were laid out on a table in front of the stall: cheap, used, of unknown provenance. I did a quick calculation, weighing the coins in my pocket against the listed price, before deciding to browse in search of a better deal.
But no sooner had I taken three steps away from the stall that I found myself face to face with a Rodian who jumped in front of me. I could not recall seeing this Rodian ever before, though I must confess that all Rodians look alike to me, speciest as that is of me to say. I sighed, dreading what was to come, for this man likely had no reason to talk to me, and turned on my translator.
"...a fearsome warrior such as yourself! I knew immediately this was the man I need."
I should perhaps add some context at this juncture, for on the day I stepped foot on Tattoine I had been alive twenty standard years; tall, scrawny, wearing some light armor I had received as bounty, under no stretch of the imagination was I fearsome.
"You show your fangs, human!" The Rodian misinterpreted my smile. "I assure you my intentions are purely noble! Hear me out, fearsome one."
"Say your piece, sentient," I said abruptly.
He launched into a long story, most of which I did not follow. The gist of it was that his transport had crashed over the desert; that he was rescued by a few members of the hunter guild, who stripped his ship bare as a form of compensation; that there was a hidden compartment in that ship, containing diamonds, rubies, other precious jewels, which they did not find; and that he was offering half of this bounty to me, the fearsome warrior who would go out into the desert and retrieve his treasures which, by the way, were unique and priceless and, by his description, would fetch enough to buy a small moon somewhere.
It was all so transparently ridiculous that, several times, I thought of simply walking off. It was the sort of scam where the ridiculousness of the pitch is part of the point; it is designed to entrap precisely those who are stupid enough to find it remotely believable. So you might think, reader, that when he finished, I told him to shove his face up a bantha's anus. In fact, I had told him, in prose as floral as I could muster, that I agreed to his generously given quest, that I would retrieve his treasure while nobly fighting off any who sought to harm me and do my species proud.
He looked about as surprised as I was.