Blogging instead of studying

I am not ready to write about the weekend. I don't think it can be done. I can't write about a place where red and blue and hot and cold and stars have no meaning because the words don't mean enough, because the words taste insipid at the sight of these things.

I met my camel as she lay down at the front of our three-woman caravan. She had scars on her face that looked like the word الله. (It was not, it just looked that way.) I named her Scar, and when I ask the other caravans how to say this in Arabic they think I mean "star". Star is the name a private-school girl gives her first pony. Star is not the name of my camel. She is not pretty or twinkly or in any way ponylike. She is Scar. She is what is left of injury after it has healed.

Her life is not easy. It is clear to see that though the guides are kind men who probably like the camels well enough, the camels have been ridden too often and too far, fed too little and too poorly to be called happy. I do not think the man leading me into the desert with no shoes is to blame for this.

Anyway, we arrive. I can see Algeria from the oasis where we camp. Algeria does not look that different from Morocco. We climb the sand, recklessly, gleefully, sliding and panting and collapsing not halfway to the top. We play like children because we are in the desert and the sand is soft like snow. We play because we have no studying to do and no work to go to and no host families to please and even the heat doesn't seem so bad here.

The drums start after dinner. The drums are played in a way that tempts the untrained ear to listen and understand, if nothing else, that these drums are loved by the hands upon them.

I slip out from the crowd, ignoring the long shadows reaching for me in the firelight. I turn to the hills, and walk until the darkness is too thick to see. The sand is warm. I am not afraid of bugs, anymore. I did not think I would ever stop being afraid of bugs but in this moment I am not.

Above me the sky is not even fully dark yet and already there are more stars than I remembered possible. The cloudy arm of a galaxy spans above me and no moon dims the imposible brightness of these ancient suns. I believe in everything. I believe in life on other planets. I believe in God. I believe that all of us are pieces of the same whole. I believe that I see you walking alone in the dunes north east of me and that you see me lying in the sand, believing. The desert has taken my understanding of what is possible and twisted it, dried it out and polished it bright and foreign and beautiful. I don't realize I am asleep until I feel my body jerk upwards, resisting.

Eventually I return to camp. We sleep outside, on beds taken from tents and placed below the sky. Sleep may be a strong word. It is still dark when we rise and decide to try and climb the dune, the rising mountain of loose sand that will not suffer our clumsy steps. We call it climbing but you would not know it from crawling, likely. I pull myself to the top and collapse, gasping. The sun has just barely begun to bleed dark blue into the black of the horizon.

As the sun comes up I feel the others sitting beside me and believe (even as the stars disappear slowly) that we are all still pieces of the same whole. We stay in this state of oneness for a while, until the sun is full above Algeria and it is time to descend. We do not walk down, we drift, float, sink, slide all at the same time. The camels are keening in the distance, impatient for the ride home. Reassured of the living (both yours and mine)I depart as eagerly as I arrived, waiting with the confidence of another for whatever will come next. We wind our way out through the dune and I wonder if happiness is something that can be found in the desert and, more importantly, if it is possible to carry it with me on the way out.