I have the illusion that no one before has set foot in this world whose harmony dazzles me and whose violence terrifies me. It matters little, anyway, whether I am the first person to follow an invisible path that leads to nowhere and goes on to infinity. What matters is what I am experiencing within this harmony, Filled with an almost religious respect for the sand’s virginity, I am careful not to pollute its immaculate surface. But it is a sin of pride to assume that my footsteps might pollute this purity: this virginity cannot be corrupted. “Walk straight ahead, like the first camel in the caravan,” the nomads’ proverb advises. Who can know what lies in wait beyond a dune, at the end of the day, at the end of the trail? It is the will of God. Inshallah. Charles de Foucauld knew this; he lived on dried dates and roasted barley, and mortified himself until his feet bled, without exhausting his passion for the desert. Leading his steed by the bridle, reciting litanies, and passing a large-beaded rosary through his fingers, he said that there was no place in the world where it was easier to hide.
By now, the spirit of the nomadic life has taken hold of our little group. Alone and several days’ journey from human habitation, we enter a state of listless contemplation and wallow in ascetic voluptuousness. As the acacia wood fire makes the horizon quiver, the sound of our drivers’ fifth and last prayer of the day gives rhythm to moments of utter simplicity.
Jean-François Chaix, An Intimate Vastness
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