I have been immobilized in the desert for two days. It is very hot. There is nothing in sight. The horizon, all around me, is wrapped into an imperceptible vapor that distorts the landscape and creates mirages. I am in panic already. The sun tortures me, consumes me slowly. I could not manage to drag out the vehicle from the sand. All these efforts just to move a few meters and falling again, into the same liquid, the liquid sand.











Why did I undertake this crossing of the Sahara all by myself. I knew the dangers of such an enterprise. I was warned. To contradict these internal voices which beat me ceaselessly that life was dangerous, this internal consciousness inherited from my mother, I wanted, stubbornly, incorruptible adventurer, to do it knowingly, to express my own freedom.






Depart from Agadès three days ago, I lived with unsuspected difficulties on the tracks of Aïr and now those of Hoggar. My main task was to hold the stay on the track, the real track, not being tempted by the treacherous ruts that escape the track, that evanescent track which scattered like a frivolous wife, to the left, to the right, avoiding the dunes of sand to the right, by-passing dried river beds to the left, the fields of sharpened stones, the cart tracks dug by the ceaseless passages of lorries, go out of the track to the left to avoid pits to the right, which track to go on, and at the end of which would be the dead-end, the track erased by the breath of the simoon, the liquid sands, the hard track, Tamanrasset, the comfort of the oasis, paradise.







Why did I undertake this crossing alone? For life! For freedom! Not to let me die! To circulate, to speak, to shout, to love, to live, not to let me live. Not to let me put asleep by life, by others, by bureaucrats, by mothers, by spiritual advisers of all sorts! To shout my life, to flee the beguilers of life, the seekers of comfort, the bureaucrats of conformity, the tribal stout women! To refuse being a number, a docile candidate of the food-dispensaries of the social democracy, to refuse an insurance on life, the crutches, dependence of any sort. I wanted to be alone to fight for my life, to get out of breath for love, to flee the priests, the priestesses, the inquisitors, the moralizers, the Gorgones of the National Assembly, the defenders of the tribal morality, the possessive mothers, big brothers............ I wanted to be free as a Tuareg.








And I am here, immovable, after another day tortured by the omnipresent sun. Days loosing my spirit, to shout my freedom against the oppressive tribe, to experiment with my freedom. Another day to hope for help, the humming of a lorry, a caravan, garamantes chariots, and what else? I had to hope for something, to have the courage to get myself out of it. I hoped for some help and I was nevertheless there, by obstinacy, not allowing myself to sleep in the comfort of the tribe, the quiet dependence of the tribe, and I was there, hoping for help, I who always refused help of any kind, matriarchal, patriarchal, tribal, institutionalized, the sweet assurance of the providential state.


I move slowly in my task of getting the car out of the sand, I had an urgent desire to go to sleep for ever.




Night will come soon, the salvation night, the infinite sky as horizon and tomorrow will be another day, another day in hell, and as all other nights, I will refuse to abandon, to allow myself to go to sleep for ever, to finish up with my life. Stop fighting, refusing to fall asleep, go to rest, to die, never! Tomorrow will be another day. And I will only count on myself to save me out. I was still under the lorry. I duped the unstable ground under the wheels of the vehicle taking advantage of the sweetness of the end of the day. The sun began to fall on the horizon, the short twilight emerged.

I heard noises in the sand. It looked like a light rustling in the sand, almost imperceptible, furtive noises. It was doubtlessly a small animal, which went out of its den to take advantage, with me, of the sweetness of the night. A friend, to survive or to die with me. I raised my eyes slowly.



There was barefoot planted in the sand just a step away from the vehicle.

I jumped with surprise, my head collided violently the metal structure of the vehicle. I swear and I said in a malevolent tone unfit for the circumstances: - "Who are you, where are you from?"

He did not answer at once. He was a small and mysterious person. A child of the desert. He was dressed in an ample tunic of a blue color that showed up on the surrounding grayness. Only his wide eyes were visible through a slender opening of the turban rolled up around his head. It was the traditional garment of the Tuareg people. He looked at me fixedly as if he had always looked at me, as if he had always knowned me, spied on me, watched over me, he was imperturbable and silent. He was there, he appeared from nowhere as if extracted from another planet, from another time.

- "Why do you look at me like so, and where do you come from?"


He bent and sat down on the back of his legs as to better watch my actions and gestures, he was imperturbable.

- "Answer Me, where are you coming from?" - "Come and play with me." He says finally.







I had the impression of losing my spirit. I had to prick myself to wake up. He was there, ready to play, I who worked desperately for two days to avoid dying.

- "Don't you see, I need help, I need you to help me, I want you to tell me where you are from, to help me find assistance."

- "Will you Come to play with me?"

Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Contes et légendes arabes, translated from french, mars 1997, revision avril 1998) © 1996 Jean-Pierre Lapointe