I remember an expanse of land which, as far as the eye could see, in every direction, was completely flat- The ground was a light tan color creating a defined line between the heavens and the world which I found myself wandering in. The sky became a delightfully organic canvas providing the only change to a view which I would become accustomed to for several days. The changing shapes of the clouds reminded me of people; their faces etched ever clearer into my memory. I began to remember things I had said and done in my life which only an undefined expanse of time and space could to allow me to do. Memories caused me to cry or laugh inexplicably- my guide Lamana often looked puzzled when this happened as hours of silence would finally be broken to the bizarre sound of a chuckle amid the gentle plod of camel footsteps. Guilt welled inside me; I thought about all of the mistakes I had made and the people I had hurt along the way; the lost loves of my life became prominent in my mind often. The solitude that the desert was bringing me felt like a reflection of the emptiness I had long denied to acknowledge in my heart; I knew truly how alone in the world I had come to feel. At first this made me feel very sad- I had ended up in the the most deserving place in the world to pay for my sins- the Sahara desert. Was I punishing myself deliberately? I wasn’t sure, or perhaps ready, to consider that. I had chosen to go on this journey in memory of my god father, Wilfred, a man who I wish, so desperately, I had taken more interest in when he was alive. Again, the guilt returned and, with it, tears which would dry and solidify on my cheeks- sand encrusted tear streaks printed on my face told a story in itself. I remember later, as we were close to Tauodenni, the sand was a red color and Lamana, on one occassion, mistook my dried up tears for blood- the Tuareg blue of my clothing and head dress eccentuating my sanguine teary stains.

My favorite sky view was at dusk; sand caught in the wind off in the great distance created an effect; an atmospheric filter for the light, the purple hue of a few scattered clouds reached up like boney fingers clawing onto the day they so desperately wanted to keep, if only for a few more moments. The sun, massive and molten, would become obscured behind the sandy mist of the desert horizon- an irritating ocurrance as I had so desperately tried to film the day’s fair-wells to that punishing heat that had pounded and invaded my lungs and senses for so many hours. The heat of the day can be trying- make no illusion of that. The wind carried a dryness which felt as though a hand dryer was constantly blowing in my face; every ounce of moisture in my mouth would be stolen away if I dare breathe through my mouth for too long, this taught me the truest pleasure of water; the feeling of my mouth soaking up each sip like a sponge before it could even allow moisture to go down my parched throat. Water is a truly remarkable substance.

I would watch Lamana recite the holy prayers of the Quran, it seemed to give me a sense of peace and direction; his accuracy and physical articulation in the movements of his hands according to the prayer ritual was beautiful to watch. He spoke the words almost silently, save for an occasional murmur as he would raise himself onto his feet and down again; humbly resting his forehead on the sand which may have touched the foreheads of so many other wanderers of the world in a time unknown- a little dot of sand stuck to his forehead, something which would always make me laugh to see. I sensed that he prayed for different reasons, some more than others; we were traveling through a potentially dangerous area of the world, for me more than for him. The Sahara desert, especially in the region we passed through, is trafficked by an established network of drug dealers, gun runners and kidnappers. I felt at times that he bore a burden for me, his thoughts and prayers were an important component to our safe passage. I prayed once; the day we were preparing to leave the town Arouanne, I gazed out onto the giant dunes in the far distance, their silence concealed a phantom pool of thoughts and fear which I had, thus far, not allowed myself to listen to or think about. I had started to realize something profound about myself and my attitude toward life; had I never truly considered the repercussions of my actions until this point? I believe that as I looked out into my, potentially fatal, future I could see something inside myself which had never been so defined and certain before- I loved life, I truly loved life.

That flat expanse of land we walked through seemed to last forever- as it was, it took us 4 days to cover that almost featureless expanse. On the second day I noticed, what I thought was, a tiny sand dune. I exclaimed to Lamana “Lamana, regarde! il ya un petit dune, devent! ” but his wry and tortured response confused me. “c’est pas petit! C’est GRANDE! C’est treeeees GRANDE!” his leathery index finger pointed to the heavens as he expressed this fact. What I started to realize then, which took the next two days to comprehend, was that we were looking two days into our future- my sense of time and self in reality changed after we passed that enormous sand dune.

What is it about the desert that I love? Well, many things. I must wonder how much time would have passed in the alternative world I live in- cities, masses of people buzzing and whirring around with agendas and “purposes”, noise and fumes, before I could finally hear my inner voice and, thus, understand myself better? Who knows, perhaps that might never have happened… I am thankful I found the desert although, sometimes, it feels that it has, in fact, found me. Alhumdoolila.

What can one man do to change the course of our future? Well, some might say that one man is capable of doing only what he is made to do in this world and no more… others might say that it only takes one man to change things which will affect everyone’s lives forever. Take a look at Adolf Hitler, for instance; he was a pretty twisted person, to say the least, but his motivations, his passions, drove a nation to bring the world to its knees. It makes me wonder, what (if any) limitations do we have as individuals, to do good, or bad, in this world?

I am not religious, per say, but I believe that there is definitely something larger than ourselves and this “reality” that we live in. I feel, I believe in something, which could be linked to the wise words of grand master Jedi, Yoda: “luminous beings are we, not this crude matter!” After all, the universe is made up of positive and negative energy, who’s to say that we are not also part of this positive and negative process of division? In that division, does it not also unite us eventually as well?! I would love to know what the Dalai Lama has to say about this…

What concerns me is that we as a species behave so self-destructively, as though ultimately, there is no consequence for our actions. Is it that we simply don’t care, or that we think that our actions as individuals won’t make a difference in the world that we live in now, or later? Is it that, ultimately like the dinosaurs, we know that our existence is destined to end? Either way, I wonder why we choose to spend our time, whilst we have it, fighting, killing and betraying each other. Obviously there are lots of good people in the world as well and we all have a part to play, but still… it brings me back to my earlier quote: “A king might move a man, but only the man can move his soul”. Why are there so many individuals out there doing what they are doing?!

I guess that all I can do, personally, is to move my own soul, hoping that there are enough forces in the world that are convicted to do the same. In the mean time, I will do what I can to promote forgiveness and love over hatred and destruction.

Stay in control of your soul and let men move themselves as they might! Over and out,

Dylan of Arabia.

As Youssef has his dream of visiting the “Land Of The Free”, to stroll up and down the streets of that urban marvel, I also have a dream. In my case, I find myself wanting, more and more, to return to the middle east where I was born. It’s a feeling that I liken to having a phantom limb, it’s a part of me, but at the moment I can’t seem to connect with it in the way I want to.

Youssef talks of the warnings and concerns that people have for him should he go to New York. As an Arab in America, one has to be prepared to be met with an elevated amount of suspicion and caution- it’s just the way that it is now, sadly. Even I was treated with with an unwelcome meeting by police once in LA airport because my passport states that I was born in Saudi Arabia. For those of you who don’t know me, by the way, I am blond, blue eyed and very fair skinned- hard to mistake me for being of Arabic ethnicity. Ironically,this is a very similar issue which I am now confronted with as an aspiring traveler of African and Middle Eastern countries. I am constantly reminded about the dangers that lay in my path, should I choose to follow it; kidnapping is on the rise as a black market commodity helping to fund terrorist activities further, and worse still, their area of influence is spreading like wildfire across Africa to boot. I am left with a choice: “Be safe, stay in Britain & Europe and eat Macdonalds, or, take a risk (with my life) and go do what my heart is telling me to do- travel in the Middle East and Africa like my heroes of times past.”

My godfather Wilfred knew all too well about this, he could see the times ahead were going to be rough for all of us. He was also restricted from traveling in certain places, in the end by age, but also  because of the growing instability and social unrest between the West and East; at least he got there for “last orders”. I remember, on more than one occasion, Wilfred telling me that taking risks is an important part of building meaningful life experience. “Be careful, of course, but get out there and challenge yourself!” These words echo in my memory now, I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s right, despite the genuine concerns my friends and family have for me.

Last year I decided to reconnect with my phantom limb; I decided to return to Tunisia, this time alone, to learn how to ride camels and be in the desert. I started there because I know the country and I can speak some basic French. Instantly, from the moment I arrived, I felt at home. The funniest thing I have started to notice about being in a different place is the smell. As I stepped off the train platform in Sousse I could smell the overwhelming aromas of the sea and all the creatures which had been taken from it in the nearby fish market. It wasn’t a pleasant smell at all, but it was different and I liked it, it made me feel alive and I felt connected to the place somehow. I got myself to Douz, “The Doorway Of The Sahara” and immediately went looking for someone to take me into the desert.

Ali Ben Belhassen Ben, my guide, was an extraordinary man. He had an uneven handle bar mustache sat on his leathery face which always made me smile to look at. His ability to reassure me without using a word was fascinating. He had a look in his eyes which told me all I needed to know- he liked me and I trusted him because of it.

We would walk side by side, camels dutifully following, sometimes for 3 hours into the desert before stopping to prepare our camp for the night. After the first couple of nights, I had learned the routine and had happily demonstrated my knowledge by mucking in; we would collect fire wood- strange I know, one thinks of the desert as being a place without wood on account of it being so arid, but there’s always a nearby bush with nice dry roots to burn. After that, we would get a fire going and start to prepare our dinner. One of my favorite parts of the dinner process was making the bread. Ali would mix some flour and water together and press it out into a large, flat disc about the size a pizza. He would then turn to the fire, which by this time had lots of embers, and would plop the bread into the middle of it. Covering it over with sand and embers, we had our very own bread oven.

Ali loved to sing in the desert. I noticed during the time spent with him and his family, that singing was an activity he took part in when he was away from them; I have always felt that, to him, his family was his music, that their company, or the lack of it, was the cause of his song.

After dinner we would sit on the sand dunes and gaze up at the stars, their light and brilliance unchallenged by the man made lights of cities, now far away from us. We would talk about our lives and things that we cared about. I asked him once, having read my godfather’s account of assisting one of his friends to go to Mecca, if he had ever gone on his own pilgrimage? This is one thing which any Muslim holds most sacred- to go to this Holy place in Saudi. He shook his head and said no, he believed that he may never go because of the expense and time involved in making the journey. I hope that one day, I can return to Douz with the money needed to make the journey to Saudi Arabia, my birthplace, and to go with Ali on his pilgrimage- and perhaps, on a pilgrimage of my own…

Ali invited me to attend his cousin’s wedding, an honor, as I realized later- I was the only white man there. People looked at me curiously, at times I felt very self conscious, but never unwelcome. Ali and his brother both agreed that I needed an Arabic name to introduce myself by. Phonetically it sounds like:  Be-Tiab. I was told later that it means “The Source Of Kindness”, a name which I am honored to receive from such decent and kind people.

I was there merely two weeks, but the transformation within me was astounding. I came back to England with a rediscovered sense of self and capability that I had long forgotten; I felt as though I had a force field made of energy and light around me. I had stopped drinking alcohol all together, sure I smoked cigarettes more than ever, but I felt cleansed and happy. Slowly but surely, my energy has been depleted. I feel that the looming gray light and winter chill of England is ebbing away at my spirit.

What’s my “Arabian Dream”? I guess it’s simplicity. I am most content when I am left with the sound of wind on the sand dunes, camels’ footsteps behind me and hearing my friend sing a song that makes him think of his loved ones.

Tunisia is a fascinating country, smaller than its neighbouring states, but truly diverse in its landscape, and its cultural tolerance of westerners. We were neither Arab, nor spoke Arabic, which was problematic, however, being an old colony of France, they did speak French as well. This was advantageous to us as my mum had been a fluent speaker of French for most of her life.

Money for the trip wasn’t abundant, which meant travelling needed to be as economical as possible. For this reason, we bought our plane tickets as part of a standard package from a travel agent. These packages are altogether frightful creations in my opinion, as they are a contributing factor in the cultural segregation of modern travellers and the people who live in these countries. They organise cheap airfares and accommodation for the everyday westerner, who otherwise, may never reach such exotic locations due to economic restraints. Upon arrival, you would be herded onto a bus and be taken to one of several sprawling hotel destinations, designed solely to accommodate western tourists, and their somewhat flatulent expectations. For most, and I admit, in my younger years was the same, they expect beaches, table service, free/ inclusive meals and booze. This was enough to appease a person’s hopes of having an enjoyable holiday abroad. We had come to Tunisia for other reasons- I had heard of great roman ruins scattered across the country, a time and people, which has always captivated my imagination. My mother, being a cultured woman, wanted desperately to get us as far away from people “like ourselves” (I realise now, that she meant westerners as described above) and to immerse us in the real Tunisia.

We arrived at the airport in Tunisia around midday if my recollection is correct. As with many places considered to be inferior, or should I say, poorer, the airport lacked certain conveniences one might expect in a place like England. In this case, I refer to the lack of boarding bridges used to usher passengers from the plane to the main airport buildings. Again, as I was younger, and thought above else, about material wealth and the display of it as the utmost importance, I felt arrogantly disappointed when we were met, not by a futuristic bridge, but a simple set of stairs leading use to the ground below. This was however, a temporary disappointment for me, as I promptly felt the warmth saturating my senses, the smell of the air was salty, almost dirty. It is an immediate and definite way of knowing that you are somewhere else, unlike your own place, by smelling the air, I find.

Having waited for our baggage, we collected ourselves and left the pack of westerners, which until now, we had been forced to remain with. I don’t remember weather we took a bus, or taxi, but either way, we didn’t get on the bus the package operators had provided!

We stayed for the first few days in a hotel in Tunis, the capital city. By all definitions it was a pleasant enough place, providing all the modern luxuries one might expect; swimming pools, clean rooms with en-suite bathrooms, televisions with satellite channels playing music videos and such. It was so similar in many respects to any other place, that it was boring and a bit disappointing.

Tourism guides are a pickle to understand. They provide so many options, suggestions and information about a place, that they can almost strip the adventure out of going to a place in the first place. After a long discussion, we decided on the simplest and surest choice, first we needed to leave the capital.

The weather in northern Tunisia is markedly better than it is in England, for example, even during that time of the year. It does however have a grey and damp spell, which is undoubtedly necessary and welcomed by the farmers of the region, but was still not as warm, or sunny, as we should have liked. With this in mind we chose to head south, as a flock of birds might do, to find the weather we desperately craved.

With us, was a Tunisian man from the north. I forget his name now, something that indicates to me, my residual annoyance with him to this day. He wanted to help guide us through the country, although I felt it was always on his terms. During the time he was with us, I remember him acting very much like a child might, churlish and petty, sulking whenever we disputed a travel arrangement he proposed. He was a young man in his mid twenties, an adult by ageist definitions, but as I say, childish in the way he behaved. I was relieved when we finally parted company with him. I fear I’m getting ahead of myself a bit.

We journeyed south, stopping from time to time in places to rest or look around. One such place I found particularly interesting, was a in the mountains which divided the cool, green north from the arid expanses of the south, and beyond, the Sahara… The mountain region was very different to anything I would have expected. It was green, the hills and mountains were covered in pine trees, which poked their fuzzy heads proudly out of the mist, clinging to the landscape with a mysterious determination, something that I would expect to find perhaps, in the woods populated by elves and orks in Tolkien’s stories. We were in wild boar territory.

When I was a boy, I didn’t enjoy reading books as a rule. I have been told by both of my parents, that since before I could walk, I’ve had a pencil in my hand. I have always loved drawing and looking at other people’s drawings. The Asterix comic books were a constant source of entertainment to me because of my love of roman history and for the drawings. The wild boar in these books were a prized source of food and sport to the heroes Asterix and Obelix, and having learned of the boar’s existence in these mountains, I had become greatly excited. Sadly, I was unable to go boar hunting as I had hoped, due mainly to the seasons, and I assume also because of my age. Either way, I hope sincerely to return one day, to experience the primal pleasures of hunting, the art of patience, and the use of my human wits to catch and ultimately kill my porcine prize…

Wilfred used to meet us at the door of the lift, in the building on Tite St where he lived in London. This was situated in a part of London, which very much felt like a part, unlike the rest of the city. My mother and I used to travel to his home to visit him when we could. To say that we’d travelled almost seems a farce, as the only burden of getting from a to b, really, was taking the time to do so. For Wilfred, travelling involved neither car, nor plane, nor train if he could avoid it, and taking the time to cross a desert or a country was a part of the experience, or indeed the essence of travel.

Around this time I was this time I was 10 or 11 years old. I had become obsessed with anything electronic, which required the incessant bashing of buttons, and unconditional attention to the television upon which these trivial games and films were displayed. I would spend countless weeks playing game after game with my friends, much to the dismay of my mother and father who had always encouraged me to read books and paint pictures in my spare time. I considered it to be a chore to go down to London to visit Wilfred, something that I am ashamed of when looking back on those moments, few and special as they were. We would arrive at the door to his building in Chelsea and ring his bell. An old, quiet voice would ask: “Hello?” to which my mother would always reply: “ Hello Wilfred, it’s Jane and Dylan.” Shortly after this brief exchange of dialog, we would hear the rattling, mechanical noise of the door unlock. Again, for me now, I understand the subtleties of such things, which as a young lad, I didn’t notice. Wilfred utilised such conveniences only to a minimal extent, I suppose he found no need to stand and chat over an intercom when the essence of conversation lay only moments away, a few floors down. The building he lived in was strange to me- a word that I frequently thought of when referring to Wilfred at the time. It possessed a quirky charm, which, to the visitor, felt like one was stepping back in time to the beginning of the 20th century. Light switches on the walls were made out of metal with dainty, ornate details which modern ones lack. The carpets in the foyer had a burgundy red floral pattern, reminiscent of a tapestry made by William Morris. A narrow, dimly lit stairwell, allowing only the slightest amount of daylight, spiralled around a lift like an anaconda strangling its prey, which by modern standards again, would be unheard of. It was no more than a box big enough for 2 or perhaps 3 people to fit inside of, which appeared to be made out of cast iron bars. I recall musing how painful it would be if you got your hands or fingers caught in the sliding door. Despite its cold, hard appearance, the thing worked remarkably well. It made only the slightest sound as it creaked upwards to his apartment. Because the lift was effectively a cage, you could see out of it, something which will remain vividly in my memory from our visits as, approaching the top floor you would always see Wilfred standing quietly, waiting to greet us.

As people do when they grow old, Wilfred appeared curved, like a long bow. He always dressed elegantly in shirts and ties with regal tones of burgundy and olive greens or browns. Everything used to appear a little too baggy, or loose, should I say. I take this to mean only that at one time, this giant man must have been even bigger, or that, he found little if no concern in having such clothing on had he had the choice of being elsewhere.

When I was four years old I met Wilfred Thesiger in Maralal. I can’t recall exact details of the place, or of him as such, more than I can the subtle undertones of a child’s way of seeing the world. Having been born in Jeddah, I had always felt comfortable in hot climates, and on this occasion, I believe I was wearing my favourite safari outfit. It was a matching pair of kaki green shorts and a button up shirt, which had a print of a giraffe on the left breast pocket. I remember proudly strutting around in my little outfit imagining myself to be a great explorer, or hunter out in the wild. I had a very vivid imagination as a boy, which allowed me to conjure unlimited sound effects and imaginary beasts as I saw fit, allowing me to while away hours and hours of the day, completely on my own.

The air was different here, how so I wasn’t sure, perhaps it was that there wasn’t the same dryness I was used to back in Jeddah. This however, was a detail of little consequence to me, as I was thoroughly excited to have trees and terrain to aid me in my current game. The Land had many more contours, boulders and such, which loaned itself to my scenarios. I jumped on and off of great rocks into puddles, which were more or less muddy craters, spattering my boots and outfit, thus helping me create a more authentic look to my otherwise pristine ensemble. As little boys sometimes do, I recall feeling vexed, and as such, chose to grumble when my parents summoned me to come over and introduce myself to this strange man. I was after all, right in the middle of a fierce conflict with native warriors, how dare they interrupt such an important battle! I think I had recently seen the film Zulu you see, and I had allocated myself the role of one particularly grizzly Dutch settler fighting along side the British soldiers in their dashing red coats and white hats. Little did I know that the man stood proudly before me had experienced things similar to this in a world and time before my own, which I had only seen through the eerie window of a television screen.

I was four, so was still rather small as you might expect, and looking up as if at a mighty tower or castle, saw Wilfred’s face. He put out his hand to shake mine as gentlemen do when greeting one another. His hands were massive, with veins bulging out, contours on his browned skin which I can only liken to the dunes of deserts he had crossed, purple in colour like rivers and streams illustrated in maps of far off places. Elderly people tended to scare me as a boy. Perhaps it was that same fear all humans experience when faced with something, which is unknown and strange. It was his voice, which drew me to him, deep and strong, yet gentle and comforting. I have always loved animals and feel that instinctually, as a cat or dog might do, I sensed a kindness in this man that no word could accurately describe. This is my clearest memory of that day, the hot sun warming and surrounding my senses, the sound of wind tickling the tree’s dry branches, and Wilfred.