TransAfrica Contest 2007

First edition

Texto second awarded

A Day in the Sahara by Gina Kokes

I'm sitting on a rough rock ledge at the edge of the Djado plateau in Northern Niger. A short distance ahead, the earth disappears and the never-ending flat sea of the Great Desert flows towards a milky horizon.
I'm lucky to be here. I'm traveling with a wilderness tour group, an entourage of a dozen tourists supported by an equal number of staff. We eat together, camp together and bounce in old 4x4's together. We even pee together (with our backs respectfully turned away from each other).
But the togetherness is driving me crazy. I want to be alone in the desert; I want to experience the Sahara without hearing petty complaints ("I never get to sit in Mohammad's car.") unique needs ("I won't eat anything green or yellow.") or what items were on sale at the Pottery Barn before we left the States.
"I'm not going with the group today," I said to Susan, one of our tour leaders, after breakfast. She looked me over but didn't argue. I think she sensed my building frustration and okayed the idea.
As my traveling companions drove off, I could hear their questions drift out the car windows. "She's staying behind? Is she sick? What's she planning to do?" Anxiety marked some faces. Frequent world travelers are fierce competitors and there was a possibility I could do or see something this morning they would miss.
I lean against the rock wall behind the ledge and take a deep breath. I'm here; I'm finally in the desert. Solo.

The tumbled rocks and sand seem frozen as if they're posing for a photograph. There's no sound, no movement, no wind, no life. If I inch my foot into the sun, it burns. My nose and throat already hurt from the super dry air. I sound like Darth Vader when I breathe. To save my precious humidity, I wrap my cheche around my nose and mouth. I feel so watery, so alien. The old kindergarten rule—always hold hands while traveling—is made for this place. I look around for any sign of life: a dried blade of grass, a dreaded scorpion, even a couple of ants would make me happy. But there's nothing. Absolutely nothing, except reddish brown towers of worn rocks resting in lazy old sand.
A subtle tension moves closer to me. A shadow without shade. I sense the desert woke up and noticed me—a watery creature—sitting out in the open: unprotected and vulnerable. Like a cat sneaking up on its prey, I imagine thirsty tentacles rising out of the desert and searching for me, Ms. Mobile Oasis. I lean harder into the wall as if it will somehow protect me. A few minutes later, a strange sound drifts up from the behind the boulders.

Thump...thump, thump.
I place my hand on my heart but it's not the same rhythm.
Thump....thump, thump.
The guides told us small wild cats, caracals, live in the rugged ravines of this plateau. Between the camp and this ledge, I saw a line of fresh paw prints this morning. My heart beats so hard, it drowns the strange sound.
"Allô, Allô.”
I gasp, then laugh. One of the soldiers assigned to guard our tour is waving at me. He's wearing flip flops instead of his heavy black combat boots and thumps when he walks in the soft sand.
"Mammadou." He says in a serious tone and holds up an extra water bottle.
Of course. Mammadou is one of the cooks and was left in charge of the camp. He's a Tuareg from Mali. The Tuaregs are nomads of the central Sahara. For millenniums, they operated the great camel caravans which crisscrossed the desert with salt, slaves and gold.
Unlike some Tuaregs who are tall, thin, noble-looking men, Mammadou is short, pudgy and has the air of a frustrated church woman. In his world, there are right ways to do things and wrong ways to do things. And that's that. A puny white female wandering off into the Sahara is wrong. Mammadou tolerated the mistake for as long as he could and finally sent the army to bring me back.
The solider motions for me to follow him but my pride keeps me back.
"Vingt minutes."
He shrugs and accepts my wish for a little more time.
"Regarde," he says, pointing to our tracks. He wants to me to follow them back to camp and not take a creative route home. I nod.
After he thumps away, I feel a sense of failure. I came here to bond with Mother Nature, to feel one with my Ancient Mother, but she’s laughed at my impertinence. Back home she may be tamed, but here she’s a dominatrix.
I grab my pack, tighten the droopy cheche and start walking. It doesn’t take too long for Mother Nature to beat me into submission. The fiery sand torches my feet till they’re numb and my belly sloshes because I drank too much water too quickly. I feel like a cartoon character walking in slow motion unaware lead weights are tied to my legs. A tiny river of sweat intermittently cools me off, gives me hope and keeps me moving forward.
"Allez, Allez."

Mammadou appears from behind a rocky outcropping. He's come to fetch me. If the army can't bring me back, he will. Shaky from my short walk, I'm convinced the Tuareg church lady is right, Nirvana is not out here. Mammadou walks next to me and occasionally pauses so I can catch my breath. He’s a gentleman and doesn’t scold me.
When we reach camp, he points to a sliver of shade at the base of a huge boulder. I dive into the lukewarm sand. I plan to lie here forever. A few minutes later, Mammadou taps me on the shoulder.
He hands me a huge bowl of pasta. He must have known my grandmothers because they had the same philosophy too: eat, eat, food cures everything. I try to scrape up enough words in French to tell him I'm not hungry but Mammadou places the bowl in my lap and returns to the kitchen area.
After a few bites, my stomach feels like a bomb ready to explode. Using the fork as a shovel, I bury some of the pasta. Mammadou returns; he’s pleased with my hardy appetite. He takes the bowl and then reaches for my hand, pulling me into a standing position.

He points up. Up? There's a steep hill behind our camp covered with jagged volcanic rocks. I'm confused but follow him. He pulls my hand again and we begin climbing through the soft sand skirt at the bottom of the hill. We pass one soldier napping under an overhang of rock and another soldier resting on a small rock ledge across from him. Mammadou keeps pulling me till we're almost to the top of the hill.
Then he stops. There's a small cave sheltered from the sunlight. Mammadou rolls one of the sleeping mats out, hands me a gallon jug of water and waves. He's a happy man. I can see why. No one can travel up the hill towards me without passing the army and I can't go down the hill without passing them. I'm not sure if I'm a princess or a prisoner or a little of both.
There's not much to do in a cave in the middle of the afternoon. So I take off my cheche and long sleeve shirt and make a lumpy pillow. The floor is a hard but adequate bed especially with a mat on it. I wonder how Mammadou knew about this cave. Had he been here before? Spotted it from the camp? Maybe I'm not the first tourist he's tucked inside a cave on this hill. People like Mammadou, people of the Sahara, they speak the same language as Mother Earth. They've been talking and listening to her for thousands of years. It's only people like me, the non-natives, the wanna-be desert people who think they can wander off and enjoy the same type of intimate conversation.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. A huge sound fills the cave.
I look up into the sky. Two large black birds circle above the hill. Each time they flap their wings, it's like a small sonic boom. They drift and glide on the rising air currents of the desert. How can they be out there in this heat? Where do they come from? Why this hilltop? What kinds of birds are they?
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
They soar despite my questions. They float above the desert without providing answers.
I relax into my lumpy pillow and watch them. Circling...Circling...Circling.
I learn my first words in a new language.
A few rocks scatter below. A soldier shifts into a new position and then returns to his nap.
I believe this is what you're supposed to do midday in the desert.
The heat covers me like a soft thick blanket.
I close my eyes and join him.