Intro
It is said that the desert is inhabited by Djinns (جِنّ), these mystical and supernatural creatures. They are sometimes told as shadows, slidding on the dunes or under the stones, in silence, at dusk, in search of a soul to vampirize.They are feared as the thirst that dries up travelers, like the sun that burns the retinas, there, where the Nothing takes all its dimension, there, where time and space seem distorted. VERSION FRANCAISE
Macro Waves
On the road to the coast, Morocco, still to the south for a few days. The more I advance, the more the word is no longer just a projection of my mind created by the images that have been given to me. It is true, one could be bored, alone, static, in the middle of this big nothing where one tells the monotonous landscapes. In fact, there are so many nuances that we have no time to get used to and we are already in another picture. Sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, it is sometimes flat or wavy, "and what are these little things that grow there ...?". The nights are cold and the days... In reality it is not so much the heat under the layers of clothes and the cheche which is difficult to support. Neither the intense sunlight that makes the darker eyes clench, no. In the worst hours, one becomes aware of another factor. Independent of the indications of the thermometer or the number of candelas taken in the face, it gives the impression of acting on the brain as a microwave would do on a pocket of water. Even though hydrated, as I push Mysty, I remember tickling dementia as one can play caressing a lazy flame with fingertips. In unfortunate conversation with myself, I voluntarily let the tone go up ... curious to see where all this could lead me. At the same time aware of the absurdity of the situation but also more and more annoyed by these systematically provocative answers coming from an upper floor ...: "... Are you done ? Have you finished your monologue? " "No, I still have a lot of useless things to say to make you waste your time and your patience. Why, what are you going to do? " "I propose that we stop it there, we have smarter to do right now, don't you think? " "(Sings loud and of key) LALALALAAAALALALALALAAAAAAA! " "Shut up would you ... you tire me, really." " Oh yeah !? Monsieur is tired? Whoua, too strong the adventurer, I knew he would not go very far that one! Are you giving up!? "Can you stop transforming everything I say please? " "WHAT 'R YOU GONNA DOOOOOO ??!!" A hudge punch came off Bashful's moisted right hand, whom, by his indisputable victory over Grumpy at the same time abandons what he had most precious and dearest. By the fact of having succumbed to this too obvious violence, Bashful had in fact offered himself to Grumpy who was jubilant, his eyes exalted, his mouth wide open, tongue out, a long sigh strangled at the top of his throat. He had just offered him full power over my soul ... I absolutely must stop. NOW ! RIGHT HERE ! What also changes a lot with the vast expanses of nothing is that there are almost no landmarks or distractions on the side of the road. So many excellent excuses that usually invite to stop to recover or simply lounging by immersing yourself in an orchard, a tree, its engraved rock, sanctuary ... While here, grazing the asphalt that ripples under the burns, waiting for the mirage that never happens, it is easy to exceed the reasonable threshold by rolling more than we would have. Fortunately the Wind is here. Hello God, be praised, thank you for coming. Mostly by my side and powerful since Laayoune, he is as ruthless and frank as the sun, he decides if I have to suffer. He gives the rules. Difficult, if not impossible, to escape completely from his indefatigable stream. Where does all this power come from, who would only think of defying such a force?
Crusty...
I would call him Dimitri because I do not remember his name. From very far I still think to wander, closer ... It is clearly a two-wheeled upstream. Too small for a moto. A small motorcycle ? Impossible, it's been a long time since the last fishermen are behind, the next camp is too far for these small styles of Solex. Shit ... It's a bike! Its enemy of the day rolls by my side, the wind is of such force that might be at 25km / h while hardly pushing. We stop at the same height, the black strip of road tar separates us, as laid on this sterile white decor where nobody but us, the stones and silver ants can now relate this meeting. I am captivated ... We stay a few moments, like that, the honest and pure smile of these great children who have one day sworn to do nothing like the others. He goes through, he is not very tall, rather thin. Pepper and salt short, face and skull discovered, not shaved since at least the last time. The holes and hollows of his burned-out figure remind us of the condition of the travel bags hung on his old bike. The eyes as sharp as the whips of the caravaneers, he inspects the cart, then the sail, then the skates. Exalted he is, not crazy, it's easy to see. None of our respective dialects allow us to communicate clearly through words. He is obviously Polish. He explains that he is returning from the Mauritanian border some 500km from here, where he was sent back for not being able to pay the entry visa. Since then, he has been riding against the wind, going back in time, insulting the primary logic of natural forces because God wanted it because he accepted to be his servant. Professions of faith are never reasonable for those ones. Who knows where he went. Did he know himself? Is it important ? The sand is everywhere. After Laâyoune I find myself for good in the Sahara. I meet a new people, the Saharaouis. On the paper of the cards, they are very Moroccan because the territory has been annexed since the end of the Spanish domination in 1975. I put a little time to realize the sensitivity of the subject. Great human suffering transpires on this land of treasures, this land of wealths, both terrestrial and marine. The gold of the sultans seems once again to have bought, for a time certainly, the bravery of the great tribal chiefs who, formerly it is said, knew how to defeat an entire army. While many Saharawis, such as the hard-nosed children of golden sand and silver moons, still live in great incense tents and camels branded with iron, Morocco seems firmly anchored in the area. After all the Dakhla peninsula, up to the Mauritanian border. Here and there we come across villages of settlers and bases, families of soldiers and persistants that guarantee the sovereignty of a kingdom. Domination silently disputed in these almost secret meeting points where the shadows under the oil lamps recall the atmosphere of pirate landmarks in the north, foggy and mystical. However musics and dark turbans, as if toning the night with a note of kohl, would bring us back to those nocturnal tales that we stopped counting. Hidden behind this wooden panel, it is the only point of supply to 50km round, it is time to sleep, since long.
