I didn’t plan for it the night before, just woke up on that day and packed my tent. When asked, my mouth formed the words:
“I am going to Ouadane.”

Without me knowing, my mind had made itself.

I looked into Sidahmed’s kind eyes while pressing bills into his hands, my backpack mounted, the spot under the tree empty as if my tent had never been there.

The walk into town was long but it was morning and not too hot. I enjoyed the walk. In the busy bus- and car terminal – one small office crammed with packages constantly being brought in and out, re-stacked and thrown around – I asked for the price to be taken to Ouadane. The man behind the small desk, communicating through three phones at one, spoke English with me. Only four-by-fours drove there. Next one would leave at 15.

Not happy with the price and the waiting time. I set out along the road leading out of Atar, gradually more and more quiet. Surely there must me someone I can hitch with, I thought. At the crossroads I asked which way would lead to Ouadane and the military man pointed me in the direction of the sand tracks branching away from the asphalt. I went there to wait.

No one was passing.

Some cars did stop for me with curious people returning from work for their lunch breaks, asking me what I was up to. Boys riding a donkey-cart smiled and waved at me. One small boy came walking up to me and showed me the contents of his plastic bag, something he wanted to sell in there. I peeked down as he drew in his hand and lifted up a rooster by his legs. The bird looked around, confused, its world upside down. I declined. I watched the boy move on to the military who inspected the rooster, debated the price. Another car slowed down and guy my age greeted me through the window. He invited me along to eat lunch with him and after the few hours I had passed fruitlessly waiting, I gladly accepted, relieved, getting out of the heat.

He brought me to his house, a single room in the outskirts of Atar, the fences hanging at an angle and chickens strolling free. He asked me what I wanted to eat and pointed to a plastic box where he kept his food. In the end I was the one who “cooked” for us; mixed his canned tuna with onions and pepper, spread it onto bread, cut tomatoes.

He was busy playing a game on his phone, steering a small space ship, somehow winning money from the steering. Between pauses of concentrated silence he explained the game to me. I strained my French to understand and focused politely before his voice trailed off and he sank into silence again. From time to time his focus was broken by bursts of swearing: him losing money. Ah, I realized; gambling addiction.

He told me of his work as a guide and how he relished the moments sleeping outside in the desert. His eyes rarely left the screen but I recognized the flashes of fantasy on the occasions they met mine with his repeated words: you can stay here. I noticed him enjoy my polite curiosity, there to meet him the moments his gaze was off the screen.

My cue.

I thanked and rose and wore my shoes. He protested, offered to call friends and arrange a ride for me. The hospitality so easily turned to binding me in place: I could stay as long as I wanted (so why was I leaving?).

The lunch had been nice, the rest well needed. Now I wanted to leave the boy there, in his room, playing on his phone. Continue on separate ways.

…

I returned to the heat and the dusty empty road. It had become afternoon and some four-by-fours passed me, mountains of luggage tied to the trunks.

In the end I paid to scale one such stack of luggage and held on, exhilarated. We approached the horizon with the plateau. Finally.

First the edges became distinguishable, gained shades, came forth from being blurry-blue. Gradually it started rising around us, then it was us rising into it, car following the narrow turns, the road steep now, wind dying down in the folds of rock, the air getting colder. We ascended through a crack in the earth itself, an allowance up to the highland, held safe from the wind between the cliffs. At the top the wind ripped into us again, the landscape flat.

At the top the sky was clearer.

At a military checkpoint I changed cars and paid to scale another stack of luggage for the remaining way to Ouadane. It turned out to be a good two hours. I didn’t mind the ride, on the contrary. Holding on through the bumps in the sand tracks I sang at the top of my lungs, watched sand rise behind us and the sun turn the clouds the colors of fire, wings of phoenix painted over the sky.

…

Dusk had turned dark by the time the village made itself known by a small collection of lights in the mass of desert-darkness and I saw it by craning my neck. We slowed down. We were stopped by the military checkpoint outside the village walls. I was greeted, showed my documents and told to come by the checkpoint later (I had told them I wanted to buy something to eat) and I said sure, of course, though with no intention of following through. Why would I? The car continued up a steep street into the village.

We passed doors bolted for the day, others open toward the street and I glimpsed people sitting inside on carpets, their bare feet resting, children playing. It didn’t take too many turns to arrive at the center of the village. I entered the only shop, lit sharply by naked light bulbs, waited my turn behind the broken grid separating the counter while running my eyes over the vegetables laid out. I asked for bread; they were out of bread. I asked for flour then, water and a little salt, remembering the bread I’d seen baked in the sand under a campfire a little over a week ago. I got my flour, water and salt and made my way out of the village again.

People’s voices were the only sounds between the houses; no engines, no machines or music. I made my way down the hill again and set my aim for one of the spots of complete darkness, cross-referenced with Google maps so as to not end up on a cemetery. My plan was to find a spot where I could pitch my tent, make a fire, bake my bread and watch the stars in peace. I was not afraid; my only worry was stray dogs, but dogs, I thought, would fear the fire. I would be fine.

With the help of the torch on my phone I gathered the wood. I had no problem finding a spot or starting a fire; I cupped my hand and dug a little pit in the soft sand. The sticks lit easily, as if wanting to burn. Inside the plastic bag I added water to my flour, chipped off small pieces from the big salt crystals I’d bought and mixed it into a dough. Outside the range of the fire all was black. The sky was exactly as starred as I had hoped for it to be. The fire crackled, few distant voices were heard from the village. I leaned back and felt peace. Happy to be exactly where I was.

A car stopping and voices on the nearby road caught my attention then. I kept my eye on it thinking it would be someone only passing, but two sharp flashlights started making their way toward me in the darkness. Two voices; men. I hoped that they would pass me but they made it straight for me; maybe, I hoped, they were just curious locals attracted by my small fire, wanting to say hello and then they’d leave me alone? But as they stepped into the line of light I saw them dressed in uniforms and tensed: they were the military.

…

(This story told in pictures and video part one, two, three and four.)