Yesterday we drove through the northern part of the Sahara Desert, not far from Algeria, and were in a sandstorm. Not the sort you see in the movies where visibility is practically zero and Lawrence can’t see his hand in front of his face but one where I’m glad we were in an air conditioned pressurised vehicle and the sand scudding across the road was staying outside. And here’s a turn-up. It rained. Actually, if a few drops on the windscreen qualifies as rain, it rained. I’m claiming it. I’ve seen it rain in the Sahara Desert.
Seeing how people live out here can be quite confronting. Culture shock is a clear and present reality. First they have to put up with sandstorms. Then there’s the heat. The absence of creature comforts that we take for granted. The list goes on. Isolation would be a bit more of an issue if it weren’t for the electricity and phone lines that criss-cross the landscape and the occasional communications tower on a bare, craggy hill. But every kilometre closer to Timbuktu increases the IQ (isolation quotient).
But some things never change. We had lunch (Berber “pizza”) at our guide’s family home in Erfoud and his four year old son and seven year old sister proved that kids are the same the world over before they become culturally conditioned.
Actually, we’re all mostly the same all of the time if you can strip away that cultural stuff. Human nature and common sense are universal traits that reduce us all to the same approximate base line. These traits are however respected and abused to various degrees across all cultures. Man, where did that come from. Now back to normal programming.
Yesterday, after arriving at our desert camp the child bride and I went for a camel ride as the sun went down. Very romantic except when I got off the camel, I realised I should have been riding it side-saddle if romance was to get out of the dugout let alone to first base.
Notwithstanding, it was cocktail hour and Sex on the Beach (sort of) beckoned. Two uncold beers and a bottle of room temperature white wine – drinkable after the sun went down and room temperature was survivable – was as close as we could get to cocktails. I’m reminded of Frankie Boyle’s Scottish pub where an Englishman asked for a lager and lime and was told by the barman in a gruff, deep voice “we don’t serve cocktails”.
We did however drink in the serenity. I said to the CB “it’s quiet”. “Too quiet” she said. Then the drums started, slow and faint to begin with but gradually increasing in urgency and volume. I noticed a distinct increase in activity round our camp. “What’s happening?” I said, somewhat alarmed. “The dancing competition at the next camp down the road has started and we’re getting dinner underway”. “No worries” said I.
So we got up this morning at sparrow fart (5.30am in desert parlance) and headed for the dunes astride our trusty ships of the desert. The objective was to see a desert sunrise. It was about 6.45am before the sun put in an appearance and by that stage it was a few degrees above the horizon thanks to the haze. Our desert sunrise was like our desert storm the day before. But we’d been there for both and that’s 99% of the experience.