Unpacking earthly possessions after a house move has led to the discovery of archive material from encounters in desert scapes. Bittersweet reminders of adventure, particularly during this period when parts of the globe are still locked in, the ban greatly restricts freedom of movement and e-travel would have to do for now.
Nevertheless, the memory doesn't always get shackled and stepping over a dune surrounded by boxes I stumble upon a landscape of vast open spaces threatening to engulf me unannounced.
When the song of the desert is brought along by the warm wind, there is no denying the call to embark on an invitation to explore. Photos take me back along a dust trail on the African map to unceremoniously get dumped between snorting camels, a buzz in the soukh, magnificent silver jewellery hidden in a dark backstreet shrine to craftsmanship that curio hunters where I come from would kill for, women with embellished garments that catch the light and a boy on a moped chugging along between mud-brick structures lining the road.
The scene changes. From far they arrive on the back of camels and horses for a festival, exquisite faces painted and camera-shy. I stand astonished at the compelling presence of distance. You relate taking a caravan into the mass of arid land, trekking for two weeks with only the stars to guide you. Nomadic Tuareg of the Sahara. Your billowing boubou echoes the indigo of the shutters protecting the sultan’s house in town.
Despite the dexterity with which you tie the metres of black textile -obtained from the market - into a turban, it doesn’t keep out the sand particles swept up by the occasional swirl that hisses among the dunes. Bedouin tents offer shelter against the sudden onset of a cold spell at night.
There is ample time to marvel at the leather bags, antique locks and the adornments for sale at the entrance to the guesthouse that bemoans derelict after years of war. The geckos crawling the walls of my room hold no charm, neither the leak on the en suite bathroom floor, nor the shocking pink linen on the bed. The water mistaken for bottled relief in the heat leaves one sick for days. The same jam tin presented with breakfasts seems dubious. As do the meat cutlets in the open-air butchery and the Moroccan glasses with welcome tea served at the trader’s house. But I've learnt a golden lesson in Africa not to turn down any gesture of goodwill.
Backtrack to the land I once adopted as home, of the parched Kalahari towards the south adorned with vivid reddish brush strokes and the Namib along the coast dressed up in the colours of creamy decaf cappuccino. Each spectacular in a unique way.
Every step into another world adds to the pages in our weathered books of life, which we get to fill with marvellous and less magical experiences alike. Then one day the unenviable task of unpacking boxes renders the cross-over to fleetingly revisit a few destinations, causing a pleasant deviation from the main route.
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