In my second post about looking back at my memories of the desert, ahead of Electric Souk coming out in March, I’ve been re-reading the diary entries for my second month. I was still in the honeymoon period and it was a whirl of wild parties on compounds at the rubble edge of the city and champagne nights with charming men. Perhaps too charming.
I inhaled Sambuca smoke, and found myself at the dunes. The desert plateau was hard, grey and ugly. We jolted in our Land Cruiser over sharp rocks and empty cans. My heart slumped. The desert was cruel with its scorching contempt. Even the sky was dirty white. Road signs warned of wild camels.
At first the dunes in the distance were a wave of burnt meringue, blow-torched by the sun. We were fast upon them, and then they crested above us, licked by invisible giants. Burrowing up them, ripples of sand constantly slithering past, feeling like you weren’t moving at all. Sinking to your knees, ankles buckling. Caught in an infinity puzzle, gasping for hot breath. But finally reaching the ridge, as mauve blotched through the grey heavens, a whip-crack of gold, violet. The dunes shrugged, rolled over, stretched, warned of charming men, too charming and reached for the moon.