A World in a Grain of Sand

Prologue

Provence

Let me introduce you to my cabanon in Provence. It has two small rooms, a red-tiled roof and very thick stone walls. In one room there is a hearth where once upon a time the peasants tending the vineyards used to cook their midday meal; in the other room a goat or a donkey would be stabled. Outside, two lovely tilleul or lime trees provide a restful shade against the summer glare.

From the doorway a wide vista spreads out. Provence is a land parched by an implacable sun and swept by the Mistral and the Tramontane. The Mistral is a cold dry wind that sweeps down the Rhône valley. It can blow for days on end and strongly affects people’s nerves. The Tramontane is a north wind, from the Italian meaning ‘over the hills’.

Provence is a part of France touched by the gods in beauty, where in ancient times a great diversity of migratory tribes paused, left their trace and passed on: Phoceans, Ligurians, Romans.

Imagine a land of sloping hills with vineyards, côteaux as they are called here, hemmed in by dense forests of cork oak, stunted evergreens and pines. Restanques, dry stone walls, fence in the ploughed fields of blood-red clay out of which grow small gnarled olive trees. Sloping terraces are cut out of the hillsides and shored up by large boulders. Here in fantastic shapes the twisted stems of vines are laid out in rows on each terrace. Beautiful old bastides, one-storey houses, dot the countryside in various stages of decay, or renovated past recognition. And everywhere the tall Florentine cypresses, abode of departed souls, spear the sky and give a vertical slant to the low undulating scenery. Wild clouds scud across the azure expanse, and the wind – always the wind – with icy cold breath or scorching blast according to the season, sweeps across the hills consuming all before it.

At times it is like being on the open sea, there is a continuous low rumble of wind through the forest, a rustling and murmuring and undulating movement reminiscent of great waves, luring one on to travel the wind’s road.

In this land of contrasts none but the hardiest plants can survive the harshness of the climate. Some struggle in sheltered areas, others thrive under the hot rays of the sun. Temperatures are freezing in winter, baking in summer, and lack the softness of intermediate seasons.

When spring is here, all over the patchwork of ploughed fields a faint shimmer of tender green indicates where the wheat is sown, the blood-red clay is heaving with a host of upthrusting little shoots.

In Provence the country roads seem to carry you along with them. Their soft meanderings through hills and vineyards have a charm all their own. But motoring is full of hazards for the unwary driver. Perilous ditches line the roadsides and the serpentine nature of the country routes brings surprises at odd corners.

Top a gentle rise emerging from the shadows of the cork forest and you find a sweeping vista of vineyards stretching below. Some of these are so small they climb halfway up the hillside, the rows of vines slanting at an angle to accommodate the rising ground.

Lizards sometimes slink across the tarmac, large in size and their skin a vivid green. These are geckos. In the winter they like to sneak into the house and perhaps hibernate behind an old garden hat hanging on a rusty nail. There they will stay, unless disturbed, until the warm season wakens them.

As summer temperatures gradually soar, the bees are the first to arrive and begin ravishing the lavender. Their furry little bodies dart into the flowers, sucking out the hymen. The chirring of crickets starts to be heard and then come the cigales – the sharp insistent scraping of the cicadas, scraping away with their transparent wings, their camouflage so perfectly blending with the bark of the trees it is impossible to distinguish them. But one hears them all right! They never abate until darkness falls, and then another sound takes over. A subtle, strange sound this time, so subtle it is hard to focus on it. A gentle invading humming, the humming of a great multitude of insects filling the night with ripples of sound, elusive yet ever present.

When winter evenings draw to a close and the bare branches of the tilleul and almond trees stand naked in a cold but not unkind landscape, it is pleasant to seek refuge indoors where a warm glow beckons from the open fire. Its flames play on the rough texture of the white-washed walls and light up the heavy rafters. The burnished terracotta tiles of the floor become alive with colour and their varying tones reflect the warm firelight. A log of juniper wood gives forth a sweet aroma. Potatoes and onions are roasted in the ashes and grilled meats are enhanced by a handful of fresh rosemary or thyme strewn on the embers.

From the roof beams hang an assortment of herbs: bundles of dry sage and bay, tresses of the streaked violet garlic which preserves longer than the white variety. Dried pomegranates, still retaining their reddish hue, are bunched together hanging from the odd nail.

Outside, the blaze of a winter sunset fades into palest green as night falls and the shutters of the cabanon are bolted and barred against the invading darkness. Sometimes rustling sounds are heard around the little house as a few boars, sangliers, make their presence felt by snouting at the foot of the oak trees looking for truffles that are only rarely found. In the mornings a hoof print in the ground betrays their visit.

As the day spends itself, the turmoil of the wind on the hill quietens and the pines are hushed. Only a slight swishing of the branches is audible as twilight wraps valley and hill. A haunting memory comes to me of another sound – oh so distant. A sound made by the slithering of millions of grains of sand moved by the winds on the crest of the great dunes of the Sahara. The singing sands.

The present is slowly fading, fading slowly into the past. The years unravel and roll back, I am reaching across time …

The Sahara

The Empty Spaces: Tassili n’Ajjer, Hoggar, Niger

Already at an early age I felt the wanderlust take hold of me. From my home in the South of France my eyes would strain over the blue waters of the Mediterranean, my imagination taking flight as I wondered what strange lands lay beyond. I have always been attracted to arid countries, deserts fascinate me, barren wastes conjure up feats of endurance, and I passionately admire the exploits of the early explorers. The time came when the urge to up and go in search of new horizons became an overriding obsession that had to be fulfilled.

When I started off on my travels, I found it far more satisfying to do so on my own. The decisions were mine, I was tied to nobody else’s whims, and being alone I found I was constantly looked after. Contrary to friends’ gloomy predictions, I was at no time exposed to any danger as a woman. In the Sixties and Seventies, wherever I went, the striking thing was the extraordinary welcome extended to me and the generosity with which I was received everywhere. People had time for the lone traveller and the desire to know how other countries and nations lived. The visitor was an honoured guest with whom to exchange ideas and compare customs. Guest and host both profited by the contact and parted from each other having gained much.

In the winter of 1973–1974 the lure of the Sahara could no longer be resisted. I decided I would cross its great expanse south to the Niger, then retrace my steps back to the north.

I begin by taking a little night plane from Algiers to Djanet, a small town at the foot of the Tassili n’Ajjer, a massif in the centre of the Sahara. At 6:00 a.m. we are approaching our destination, and in the bleak light of dawn a wondrous sight unfolds beneath the aircraft. I discover an immense void extending as far as I can see, and yet still further in my imagination. The several thousand square kilometres of the Hoggar and Tassili Plateaux are a lurid black volcanic mass, with the most curious pinnacles shaped and worn over millennia by the erosion of wind and sand. Dried river beds course like the veins in a leaf through abrupt canyons, while far out beyond rise the great sand dunes, beautiful yet frightening, offering little more comfort than the arid mountain ranges. It is all desolation, a scene so devoid of life that my first sensation is one of panic. Never have I seen such an unforgiving landscape. Indeed, the word Sah’ra signifies void or emptiness. This is a place that inspires awe and makes one reflect on the mystery of such a grandiose handiwork of nature.

The airport at Djanet was non-existent, just a strip of hardened sand with a pathetic little row of jeeps awaiting the passengers. The cold was frightful. Everybody seemed to be met. My presence, as a lone traveller expected by no one, was an anachronism. However, I was able to hitch a ride into the town, ten kilometres away.

Town is a big word. Djanet is merely an oasis: there are a few stone houses, lots of bamboo huts (zeribas) and palm trees. On my first day I strolled through the oasis, along sandy lanes enclosed by bamboo fencing and mud walls, then out into the desert beyond, a world of ochre sand and black rocks with, in the distance, an imposing mountain formation. The Touareg people are most friendly and courteous. Wherever I was walking, they all wished me a polite bonjour, or if a jeep went by, stopped to offer a lift. These are the Blue Men from the colour of their robes, a rich cobalt blue. The women also favour strong colours: reds, greens and yellows. The men are tall and very handsome, they have their heads and faces swathed in black or white turbans, or the more traditional indigo veils whose dye stains their skin. After experiencing the bitter wind that cracks lips and freezes noses, I can understand why they veil themselves so heavily. Part of their attire is a belt, a dagger and a pendant hanging from their neck, which is sometimes purely decorative, made out of tin or silver, or it can be a leather pouch for money, crudely decorated. The women are renowned for their fair skin which is considered highly desirable in a bride, so they take great care to protect their paleness.

I was here in the hope of going on a three-day expedition up on to the vast Tassili Plateau to see the prehistoric rock paintings. The difficulty at Djanet is finding food. Bread is very scarce. Otherwise there are only tinned goods, mainly condensed milk, jam and sardines. Dried dates of course abound. In the end I had to resort to sardines, dates and several packets of biscuits and chocolate. Since there was nothing organised for this kind of trek, I joined forces with a young German visitor and we managed to secure a Touareg guide.

On the chosen morning, departure is at 5:30, it is still dark and very very cold. Rising early is my bugbear but I endure the discomforts stoically in anticipation of what is in store. We are taken by jeep fifteen kilometres across the sandy plain to the foot of the Jebel, the escarpment where we are to ascend. A herdsman awaits us with two little donkeys to carry our few possessions. The beasts are grossly overloaded with large jerry cans of water, and thus we set off.

The track winds up loose slopes of rubble and shale to the Col de Tafilalet. I’d been told it was a strenuous climb, but the going is quite easy. Over our heads tower huge pinnacles of red stone cracked and split into millions of pieces due to the sudden violent changes of temperature. It is an extraordinary, cataclysmic sight. Eventually the stones and enormous boulders break off from the rock face and go to augment the pile of rubble around the base. We slowly zigzag up, the path is not too steep, our two Touaregs are veiled up to the eyes. They never stop talking, half in Tamachek, the Touareg language and half in Arabic. They take turns beating the donkeys – they whack the poor beasts as a matter of course – but these don’t seem to take much notice and it certainly doesn’t make them go any faster.

Up and up we climb, then come to a pass through a gorge where a ‘mouflon’, an almost extinct race of wild sheep, suddenly bounds across the track and vanishes down the slope. Here we part ways with the donkeys who take a more roundabout route, while we proceed to climb straight up the face of the cliff.

The heights are so jagged and eroded that it is quite an easy matter to go up, as footholds abound, but the rock is alarmingly brittle. When we finally reach (panting!) the top, the view makes me gasp. All around are range upon range of these strange pinnacles of rock and lunar formations, the pink of the stone fading to mauve and blue in the distance. Far away and beyond is the golden expanse of the dunes, some as high as mountains. As we proceed, the track is marked out by little piles of stones. The plateau is littered with boulders by the thousand. It looks as if a cosmic upheaval has scattered them in all directions. Then we come to a barren stretch of flint – black chips of stone making the landscape very sombre.

After four hours of trudging we finally reach our destination: we are in the midst of crags shaped into weird pillars, like huge chimney pots that have eroded in layers leaving a little cap of stone on the top. The limestone is soft and easily eaten away by the gritty impact of wind-driven sand. This is Tamrit, our camp, chosen because of its proximity to a ‘guelta’, rainwater caught in the hollows of stones. Our donkeys turn up an hour later, trotting along quite blithely, apparently none the worse for their trek. We settle down for a meal and a rest, somewhat hampered by the scores of flies that stick to one’s face, the inevitable travelling companions of donkeys. A nasty chill wind adds to the discomfort, despite the sun. Fortunately for me, my companion has an unlimited supply of provisions – sausages, tinned mayonnaise salad and black bread – which he is willing to share. I think there must be at least a week’s supply in his large bag, so we won’t starve!

After a casse-croûte we set off again to see the rock paintings that date from between 6000 and 4000 BC in the location of Tamezrine. They were originally discovered by the Frenchman Henri Lhote. The paintings are scattered over a wide area and would be quite impossible to find without a guide. The scenery now becomes a sort of folie de grandeur, giant boulders and platforms on which are perched stones in fantastic shapes, some doing a balancing act, defying gravity. Again, due to erosion, rock pillars are often wider at the top than the bottom. All is fissured and cracked, it looks as if it only needs a push to bring the whole lot down.

The paintings are often hidden under low shelves of rock, so that you have to go down on all fours to see them, others are terribly exposed due to the overhangs having crumbled. All are dispersed at varying distances from each other. Cattle and antelopes, wild sheep and bovine animals are outlined in burnt sienna and filled in with white. There are herdsmen and running hunters with bows and arrows, crudely executed. The outline of an elephant is suddenly revealed, stately and beautiful. A drawing of a lotus boat dates these paintings from a much later Libyan-Egyptian period, about 1500 BC when the Sahara was still a jungle.

Night fell by five o’clock so there was nothing to do except doss down after a cold meal consumed by torchlight. With two jumpers on, a sleeping bag and a blanket doubled over, it was quite comfortable at first. The nook was reasonably sheltered under an overhanging ledge, but as the night wore on, the cold wind infiltrated my sleeping bag despite having zipped it right over my head. The moon rose, riding the few clouds and lengthening the shadows of the rocks into eerie shapes, and an icy temperature crept over us. At 6:00 a.m. I woke chilled to the bone on a bed of sand that had frozen hard.

A drink of hot tea restored both body and optimism.

An hour later we set off for Tan Zoumaïtek and Ain Itinen. Now we are walking through halls of columns and chimneys of red rock. As soon as the sun rises it becomes very hot. Down in the desert it is the silence that impresses on the mind, but up here on the high plateau it is the sound of the wind as it sings and sibilates through these pillars of stone, while on high comes the harsh caw of the crows sweeping the air.

We pass a quarry of black flint and then more twisted rock formations where imagination could picture a cathedral or a tower or a perfect natural arch. The ground is largely covered by sand drifts blown here by the wind, and very unpleasant too, with each footstep sinking in. The extra effort required soon tires me and I lag behind, which causes annoyance to the men – of course!

This time the prehistoric paintings are more grouped. It is like a display of street graffiti, with walls of rock on either side where each artist has done his own individual decoration. The paintings are from the Garamantes period, 1000 BC, the ancestors of the Touaregs. They are a white race, depicted with war chariots. There are more drawings of bovine animals and a funny looking white sheep with a single horn protruding from its head (the origin of the unicorn?). Towering over all these scenes is a huge figure outlined in white with a rounded head like a helmet. This has been referred to as the Martian, it recurs several times and has much mystified archaeologists. A later period 600 BC, depicts camels in red sepia, dating from the time of the first appearance of the Touaregs, but these show a decline in skill. They lack the exquisite artistry of their forebears.

Passing a deep canyon with a superb view down the gorge, we come upon a valley of incredibly gnarled cypresses, 2000 years old. Their trunks twist into tormented shapes, splitting into many ramifications as they cling to the edges of rocks in desperate search for water. There are lots of tamarisk bushes and a small kind of wild marigold. We did a four-hour tramp this morning and my lips and throat were completely dried up by the time we returned to base camp.

Talk about an expedition of pleasure!

The sun has disappeared, rain threatens and the usual icy wind adds to the enjoyment. I am writing this rolled up in a blanket, seated most uncomfortably in a hollow of sand under an outcrop of rock, hands and nose rapidly congealing. It looks promising for the night. It will be a problem finding a dry patch of sand under a shelf sufficiently large to offer protection.

A flock of goats followed by two Touareg women suddenly appear out of the blue. Considering how high and isolated this plateau is, their presence is incongruous. A lively altercation follows as the goats, bleating loudly, invade our camp. Shouting ensues, sticks are brandished and our guide, roused from his siesta, actually surfaces minus his all-enveloping ‘chéchia’, an unheard-of event. (A chéchia is a felt cap topped by a turban.) A little beige-coloured bird keeps hopping around me in a friendly manner. My German companion has rolled himself up in his sleeping bag, the picture of misery, but he won’t stay there long as a trio of goats has sighted him and is rapidly bearing down on his recumbent and unsuspecting form.

Later in the afternoon, to keep ourselves warm, we wandered a little way from the camp, but were hauled back by our guide who told us sternly that we must on no account venture away from the base because everywhere is so similar that it is very easy to get lost. The Touaregs orientate themselves from the position of small stones and the texture of the sand which has different colouring in various places.

On the third day we descended from the plateau starting off at 6:00 a.m. and making much better time than when we went up. It was a pink, luminous morning shedding a glow over everything, with dramatic storm clouds in the distance. I for one, was almost reluctant to leave this spellbinding lunar landscape. Then we were scrambling over mountains of black lava rubble, slithering down and down the craggy pass. Impossible to do more than snatch brief glances at the stupendous panorama unfolding below, towering red pinnacles and, way beyond, the sand dunes. Arriving finally at the foot, we had a long wait for our donkeys who had had to make a big detour. When sighted at last, it was a touching scene: high above us on these huge mountains of shale, two little donkeys and one lone figure were slowly wending their way down, dwarfed by the massif above them.

The jeep then arrived to take us back to base.

It is surprising how clean the desert is, I was barely dirty after three days of camping out.

The next day I move on to Tamanrasset by plane, road transport being non-existent. There are about 800 kilometres between Djanet and Tamanrasset. Jeeps again to Djanet airport full of Touaregs magnificently gowned in their Sunday best for the trip. I am full of admiration for these men. Very tall and proud of bearing, they are gorgeous in their floating pale or dark blue robes, ‘kisas’. These robes are split down the sides to the ankles and just caught together at the extreme end. They billow out like sails when there is any wind. Huge indigo turbans are wrapped like a halo round the head, covering half the face as well. White teeth flash and so does the gold: watches, rings, gold-rimmed dark glasses, accompanied by a strong whiff of musk or amber.

This time we are flying low over a long stretch of great dunes – an ‘erg’ – rippling under the action of the wind. Soon the desert reverts to the black stratified table mountains, masses of volcanic rock lapped like waves by driven sand. The contrast between the black rocks and the drift of golden sand gives a strange, almost eerie effect. Dry riverbeds, ‘wadis’, snake their way through these formations. As we enter the Hoggar massif, darkness begins to fall and out of the blue mist appear the cones of extinct volcanoes, needle-like spires and sugarloaf peaks. These form part of the Assekrem Range.

Tamanrasset in the Hoggar is in the middle of a featureless plateau, swept by bitter cold winds. The Hoggar is the native country of the Touaregs. This is where Père de Foucauld spent the last years of his life (1906 to 1916) compiling the first dictionary of the Touareg language. The spoken language is Tamachek and the written script is called Tifinagh. It is one of the oldest of North African alphabets, dating back to Carthaginian times and possibly derived from the Punic or the Phoenician. Sadly, Père de Foucauld was assassinated by Algerian guerrillas.

Tamanrasset is an enchanting little desert agglomeration. The houses are of mud bricks coated in burnt sienna, which is plastered on in vertical stripes. The whole place glows with a rich rust colour, enhanced by vivid blue doors and tree-lined streets. The houses are enclosed within openwork lattice palisades.

But food, not surprisingly, costs a fortune. There is a complete penury of fruit or vegetables. The few meagre shops are stocked only with sugary goods. If all else is missing, at least there is no lack of apricot jam, cocoa, biscuits and Nestlé’s condensed milk. When crates of beer are brought in by plane, people will pay exorbitant prices for a bottle. In the souk (market), all one can find are very dry dates and fly-encrusted meat. The one and only hotel costs a bomb. As for wanting to visit the nearby Assekrem peaks, the jeep for the day costs more than the air fare from Algiers! There is a large garrison here of legionnaires in their white képis. Here too I encounter some foreign visitors and if one passes an untidily robed and turbaned figure looking quite ridiculous, it is sure to be a hippie.

I have found a lorry going south to the Niger, skirting the Ténéré Desert. Destination: Agadez, 900 kilometres away. The trip should last three days. The lorry driver is taking a group of traders and a few Europeans, we are nine strong and we have to ride in the back on top of piles of sacks of dates. It’s going to be more than grim with the cold there is and, moreover, the driver is charging a high price for the transport. But lorries are the only means of conveyance for anybody going south. I was the only woman in the party, which turned out to be lucky for me because I was given a place inside the cabin.

There followed the usual interminable wait and endless talk before anything happened. First the men gathered up their robes and hunkered down on their haunches to bargain and chew the matter over; then came the police formalities and finally we got off at ten o’clock, although the departure had been scheduled for eight. I was tightly (and warmly!) ensconced between the driver and an elderly Touareg, while another who combined the offices of mechanic and cook rode in the back with the gang. The lorry was a sight, loaded sky high with baggage, jerry cans of petrol, spare tyres, boxes, kettles, water skins hanging from the sides – and men. Along the way we also collected pieces of dried meat from various Bedouin camps which were added to the hanging exhibits.

We simply crawled along, not exceeding thirty kilometres per hour on account of the atrocious condition of the track as well as our top-heavy load. There is no road, only tracks made by countless vehicles crossing the desert. At first we were still up on the high plateau, and we wound in and out and up and down arid slopes, now and again crossing dry wadis, where there was a sprinkling of bushes and grass. Here one sees the flat thorn trees, so typical of southern wastes; also a brightly coloured rubber plant with big vivid green leaves. Suddenly, a lovely little gazelle springs across the track. At a particularly deserted spot, two women appear out of nowhere. This is a typical feature of these empty spaces, there may be desert as far as one can see with no habitation in sight, yet a person will suddenly emerge from behind a rock!

We halted to gather some wood for fires, as later on there would be no further vegetation. Now we have huge boughs protruding from all sides of the lorry, adding to our ramshackle appearance. As the morning advanced we drew out into a wide plain with the mountains gradually receding into the distance. At a well, a mere hole in the sand, we stopped to eat.

The provision of three days’ food was no easy task. I hadn’t the faintest idea what to get and anyway the shops in Tamanrasset offered very little choice. However, I settled for round loaves and tins of sardines, dates and condensed milk. This was to be my main diet supplemented by biscuits, jam and chocolate, the latter unlikely to melt as temperatures were so low. Somebody gave me a plastic water bottle, so I was all set up. My provisions were not improved by being sat on by the gang in the back, the bread and biscuits reduced to pulp!

A couple of hours later we set off again, moving progressively into an expanse as flat as a pancake. Our vehicle has seen better days and is constantly overheating, so we have to make several stops throughout the day for the motor to cool down.

And then we got stuck in the sand.

There was plenty of enthusiasm for digging the wheels out as all the boys were frozen stiff and glad of the exertion. I don’t think I would have survived if I had been riding in the back. The lorries are well equipped for such emergencies: they carry long metal grids that are slipped under the wheels, then everybody heaves-ho. As twilight began to fall we got stuck a further four times in succession.

All around us were hundreds of miles of emptiness. We were now in the hammada – or ‘reg’ – the flint desert, hard sand and black gravel. When we stopped for supper the driver built a lovely warm fire around which we all huddled. It was pretty ghastly, with again a cold wind blowing in gusts and of course I caught a chill and had the runs all night. I slept as best I could in the cabin of the lorry, terribly cramped, but at least reasonably warm. By dawn I felt too wretched for words, but after one of the men had heated milk for me over the fire, my natural stamina reasserted itself.

Desert travel does away with all one’s inhibitions. What to do when nature calls, when there is no cover in sight and one is the only woman in a party of men? Well, the first day, out of modesty I hung on until darkness fell. The second day matters became desperate. Finally, waving all prudery to the winds, I set off with a roll of toilet paper to walk as far as possible from the lorry, then squatted. I needn’t have been so bashful, nobody took the slightest notice!

The desert people are fortunate with their long robes, when they squat the tunic billows out around them like a tent and ensures privacy in a kind of way.

As soon as the sun came up we struck camp.

We were now crossing the starkest scenery I have ever seen, a naked waste, not a blade of grass, not a single rock to relieve the monotony. Lorries follow tyre marks of former vehicles, or make their own path, so that the surface of the desert is criss-crossed by a multitude of these tracks. It is a mystery to me how they know which track to follow. When we do not encounter sand, the surface is a hard grit in ridges that is agonising driving over because it causes terrible jolting. The only way to alleviate this is by driving very fast, which our cumbrous vehicle could not do. That morning we reached the Algerian border, a long line of barbed wire extending nowhere. A couple of mud houses were the soldiers’ barracks where two solitary trees endeavoured to provide shade for a herd of camels.

Just before reaching the border we passed a cluster of huts and some black nomad tents, goat skins stretched on V-shaped poles, the sides enclosed with woven mattings. One of the huts had a large sign proudly stating: Bar-Restaurant. I would have liked to peep inside and see what was provided in this wilderness, it looked so absurd!

After the Algerian frontier post came a nasty stretch of sand and inevitably the wheels sank in again. Fresh enthusiasm for digging us out. A little further on we came upon a solitary veiled Bedouin lost in the flatness of earth and sky, but he neither motioned the lorry to stop, nor gave any sign of life at all.

There was something uncanny about this impassive figure.

Soon we were arriving at the Niger border and had a meal there. Surprisingly there was a hot spring gushing forth an abundance of water, an extraordinary sight in view of the solitude all around us. Everybody stripped for a thoroughly good wash. A little band of enchanting dark-skinned children gathered around us begging for biscuits and chocolate. The little girls were as delicate as fawns. The soldiers stationed here came up to squat and chat and the customary inertia descended upon all. After an interminable time we finally made a move.

The colour and texture of the desert suddenly becomes like the top of an enormous chocolate cake, but by the end of the day one’s eyes are longing for something to look at to relieve the monotony. Even the sight of a tin can becomes an event; so many tin cans litter the Sahara, it is quite disgraceful. The Touaregs get their revenge by making jewellery out of the tin and selling it back to the tourists. For their own adornment they fashion an image of the Southern Cross out of silver, called the Cross of Agadez.

We are continually seeing mirages of shimmering water gleaming on the horizon, the Fata Morgana. The air takes on a translucence as the vapours of an image rise above the ground becoming a ghostly lake. Night falls as a purple robe on the same endless wastes. It descends very suddenly like a curtain, then the sky becomes gemmed with stars, incredibly bright and seemingly very close. They are like the falling remnants of fireworks, encompassing the desert like a tent. In these latitudes the Southern Cross is clearly visible, and what a sight it is! Under this dwarfing immensity one is supremely conscious of humanity’s insignificance.

The silent desert.

During the day the temperature has been getting steadily warmer, but freezes again when the sun disappears. I am unable to eat much this evening as my tummy plays up again, but tonight I am no longer shivering in my sleeping bag. As we set up camp, torchlights flash in the distance and some nomads come up begging for tea.

The evening meal is simple: our Touaregs light a camp fire in a pit scooped out of the sand, a handful of thorn sticks are thrown in over which they lay one of the metal grids used under the wheels when stuck in the sand and on this rest the kettles and saucepans. The cook then proceeds to make ‘tadjela’, unleavened bread. He mixes the flour and water into a round cake, then when the fire has burnt down to red-hot coals, he makes a ring in the middle and deposits the bread on to the sandy bed. He covers it with more sand and then piles hot coals on top. After fifteen minutes he carefully removes the baked bread, brushes the sand away, washes the surface with water, and it turns out to be quite palatable.

Third day ‘on the trail’. I woke to find there was actually some vegetation around us, small thorn bushes with a little yellow flower. There were also several nomad camps and flocks of goats. After the ritual brewing of little glasses of green tea, we were off again. All too soon the few thorn bushes disappeared and we were back in a parched expanse. We passed carcasses of bullocks and goats. Later, we saw corpses of camels half-buried in the sand, or sometimes a heap of blanched bones from which soared some vultures, white with black-flecked wings. Now is apparent the effect of last year’s drought, with carcasses of camels appearing every few kilometres, then every kilometre and finally every hundred metres. Within a span of 200 kilometres it became quite perturbing. At one place two bullocks were lying pathetically back to back.

On rare occasions we would encounter a few Touaregs with a couple of camels heading north or south, minute little figures silhouetted against the infinity of the horizon.

At last we begin to travel through less arid land. Camel thorn, flat-topped tamarisk trees and the desert mimosa make their appearance. This is the savannah. Swathes of brilliant yellow grass cover the ground in patches, then it becomes so dense that it is like driving through a country lane. It is all soft and billowy. Here grows the little desert melon, too bitter to eat. Then come tussocks of vivid green grass. Ironically a dead camel is lying beneath one of these mounds. Two donkeys looking surprisingly plump dash alongside us, competing in speed. A pretty little gazelle is pursued by the lorry in a mad orgy of jolting and yelling and is, of course, shot. The carcass is then added to the motley hangings from the lorry.

And then we break down.

Inevitable really, given the rickety condition of our vehicle