There are probably few accessible places on the face of theglobe where one can get less comfort for his money than the Sahara. It is stillpossible to find something flat to lie down on, several turnips and sand,noodles and jam, and a few tendons of something euphemistically called chickento eat, and the stub of a candle to undress by at night. Inasmuch as it is necessary to carry one’sown food and stove, it sometimes seems scarcely worth while to bother with the “meals“ provided by the hotels. But if onedepends entirely on tinned goods, they give out too quickly. Everything disappears eventually – coffee,tea, sugar, cigarettes – and the traveler settles down to a life devoid ofthese superfluities, using a pile of soiled clothing as a pillow for his headat night and a burnous as blanket.
Perhaps the logical question at this point is: Why go? The answer is that when a man has been there and undergone the baptismof solitude he can’t help himself. Once he has been under the spell of thevast, luminous, silent country, no other place is quite strong enough for him,no other surroundings can provide the supremely satisfying sensation ofexisting in the midst of something that is absolute. He will go back, whatever the cost in comfortand money, for the absolute has no price.
(Since this piece waswritten, the Algerian war has changed the Saharan picture. Now the hypothetical warrior would probablynot go back, because without special documents it is very unlikely that hewould be allowed in. The Sahara is noton display at the present time.)
From: Paul Bowles, Their Heads Are Green And Their Hands Are Blue. New York, Random House, 1963.
Key: Grand Erg Oriental Desert (top); Assekrem (second); Algeria/Libyan border (third); Algerian Sahara (fourth)
From: Paul Bowles, Their Heads Are Green And Their Hands Are Blue. New York, Random House, 1963.
No comments:
Post a Comment