"What makes the desert beautiful is that, somewhere, it hides a well."
She quoted Antoine de Saint-Exupery's The Little Prince, sipping the last of her tea before finally closing the book and kissing me goodnight. Little did she know that those words would continue to reverberate in my head decades later, no longer lulling me into a child's slumber, but rather thrusting me vigorously down a dusty road at the start of a solo adult adventure. Shifting into four-wheel drive, I began to feel the tension of rubber and the friction of sand beneath my leather sandals. Tying the loose end of my shesh and exhaling, I floored the gas and broke away from the highway, away from the security of pavement, away from the set path. I entered the desert.
For many, the desert is but a barren wasteland of little value or significance, a spiritless void of silence and utter desolation. What could a dry scorching Hell offer that would make it remotely attractive to anyone? It is easy to denounce this type of terrain as realms of death; what's harder is learning to acknowledge the life that it preserves. And throughout the world, there are quite a few people who actually call the desert home.
Gazing out towards Saudi Arabia from Wadi Rum
Palm oasis in the Sahara of Southern Tunisia
Kazakh yurts congregate on the edge of Karakalpakstan
Wild vicuñas roam the Atacama near the border of Peru and Chile
Possessing ancestral ties to the Mediterranean rim and North Africa, one of largest deserts on the planet has always felt to me simply like my massive, fence-less backyard. Family camping trips and camel treks within the vast Sahara played memorable and meaningful roles in my early youth, developing in me a sense of appreciation for the landscape and a pride in the peoples that thrive where others would surely perish. The older I grew, the more I wanted to expand out from nomadic experiences in Tunisia, Morocco, and Egypt. I wanted to discover the nomads of a dozen deserts and see life through the eyes of such resilient human beings. With Berbers, Bedouins, and Banjaras, I've shared gritty glasses of tea stretching from Rabat to Rajasthan. I've felt Mongolian geniality in the Gobi and tasted Kazakh generosity in the Karakum. Whether ambling through the Atacama or trekking around the Taklamakan, I've come across an almost unprecedented wealth of culture and hospitality from extraordinary indigenous groups, all of whom were like life-infusing fountains in bleak seas of sand.
Roaming the Sahara with Uncle Ahmed "El Touareg"
Riding the trail of Lawrence of Arabia, with Uncle Salim
Dining in the Karakum with Mama Ranod
Camping trip near Erg Chebbi with my family
Of the many fascinating nomadic tribes I've fallen in love with over the years, one in particular has continued to permeate my psyche from a very young age - the Kel Tamasheq or Imuhagh, known more popularly by the exonym, Tuareg. As mighty warriors of the Sahara, the Tuaregs have succeeded for centuries in taming the desert and imparting a facet of civilized life to an otherwise hostile environment. Traveling with their roaming caravans, they've used their knowledge of the desert to independently dominate the gold-salt trade between North and West Africa, facilitating the spread of both monetary and intellectual wealth. Even as wandering nomads, they've progressed towards developing attributes typically associated with complex sedentary societies, including their own written alphabet, extensive oral literature, and rich musical traditions. Their culture has long possessed a powerful influence on neighboring Saharan peoples, and my interactions with them in the Maghreb and Southern Tunisia have always rendered me deeply inspired. Despite not being ethnic Tuareg myself, I have always felt an intangible connection to them as a nomad in my own sense, sharing the same giant sandbox.
In 2012, four days before my birthday, my long overdue plans to reconnect with Tuareg culture and my desert roots after many years came to an abrupt halt following the outbreak of civil war in Mali. Still plagued by the stress and stagnant lifestyle of a graduate researcher, I desperately sought the familiarity and sanctity of a desert to (unconventionally) take refuge. When the Southern Sahara suddenly couldn't be reached, I turned to the next best option - Southern California.
Joshua Tree National Park of Southern California
Cacti sprouting from an alien landscape
Loading my '99 Jeep Wrangler with nothing more than a tent, backpack, and stove (considerably less than what most Tuaregs load onto their camels), I set off towards the deserts of Joshua Tree National Park on the eve of my 26th year. Leaving the urban sprawl of Orange County behind, a three-hour drive through narrow valleys and over mountainous passes ultimately plunged me into an entirely different kind of sprawl. A vast open landscape of rocky outcroppings and iconic trees spread for miles in a Martian playground of epic proportions. Jumping out of the vehicle, as my bare feet sunk into the silky abrasiveness of fine powdered sand, I exchanged my fitted t-shirt and jeans for the free flowing tunic and trousers of the nomads. Traditional attire is a crucial facet of one's ethnic identity, and it felt delightfully refreshing to shed a modern shell and return to something far more ancient. Finishing off with a black shesh (turban) wrapped tightly around my head, I set off on foot for a full day of wandering alone in the wilderness. This surging motivation to step solo into the unknown drove me to reflect with each step upon the indescribable displays of courage made by the earliest nomads, who took their first steps with literally no idea how long would pass before coming across water or sustenance. Embarking into the desert with the thought of potentially never returning to friends or family must have been as terrifying then as deep space travel is to us now. But both the will to survive and the desire to explore have always been qualities that proudly set humanity apart.
Luckily for me, I knew when and where I'd next find food and shelter. I returned to my self-reserved campsite to discover that a slight mistake on my part had resulted in a couple of French climbers sharing the small space. It was serendipitously ironic, given how the French were our ancestral colonizers in North Africa. Rather than contesting my presence, I was overwhelmed by their unexpected welcome as they gave me a spot beside the fire and poured for me a cup of piping green tea. Had their faces been concealed behind three meters of fabric like myself, I would've easily mistaken them for hospitable nomads in their own right. Something about the desert's isolating conditions seems to propagate a beautiful aura of unity and kinship when lonely strangers within it eventually meet. On one of the coldest nights I've ever experienced, I silently contemplated the elusive yet heart-warming concept of human altruism, a sea of stars above mirroring grains of sand below.
Composing poetry out in the open wilderness
Orion's Belt shimmering over a Joshua tree
Taking the Jeep down a prohibited path
A humble campsite shared between a Tuareg and two Frenchmen
As eye-opening as my time in Joshua Tree was, I still longed for something more remote, a true escape in search of genuine introspection. Three months later and emotionally distraught over my unexpected departure from graduate school with only a Master's degree, I set off south again in the same fashion. Reaching the tiny, barren village of Borrego Springs on the edge of a vast hamada, I already knew that the deserts and ravines of Anza Borrego State Park would be exactly the mental medications that I needed during my retreat. Unlike Joshua Tree, the most spectacular topography and recreation cannot be accessed by paved road, a good sign in my eyes that limitless exploration and real isolation were indeed within reach. Shifting into four-wheel drive, I turned off of the lonely highway onto an even lonelier unmarked Jeep trail, blindly plowing forward with no idea of what lay ahead.
Rule number one when it comes to 4x4 off-roading: Never go alone. I won't deny the fact that what I did would be considered foolish and irresponsible by many. But given the context of confusion and disappointment that was festering in my mind, I knowingly took a risk and drove mindlessly onward in some desperate search for clarity. Nearly getting stranded in sandy pits and wrestling to drive my tattered vehicle over rivers of giant stones, the journey deeper into the gorge in many respects emulated my personal struggles over the previous years. Not knowing what to expect on the trail or whether I had the necessities to overcome a potentially dangerous challenge, I couldn't help but see the recent events of my life metaphorically play out in parallel. Having nearly tipped the car over, I had my first realization: We don't always have control over what Life will give or take from us, but we do possess the choice to pause, reason, and seek the best of any circumstance. When Life decided to take away over half a tank of gas, with no petrol station within at least 70 miles, I realized it would be wise of me to stop and reevaluate my situation... on multiple levels.
One of many times the Jeep nearly got stuck in sand
Cutting through the wadi got shady in some places
Arriving alone at an unmarked ravine reminiscent of a Saharan wadi, I came across a concealed cave formed from piles of megalithic boulders. With fierce afternoon winds ripping through the empty valley, the sheltered enclosure served as a blessed haven for making camp. In keeping with timeless nomadic traditions, I unrolled a carpet on the virgin ground, brewed a hot pot of sweet mint tea, and sang ancient ballads to an insentient audience. Feeling like the last person on Earth granted me a redefined perspective on what I consider to be beautiful in life, as well as what aspects of existence that are normally taken for granted should instead be cherished. As a radiant silver moon slowly revealed its face, I thought deeply about the loving people that grace my life, missing intimate moments with family and adventurous memories with friends. I thought of the struggles my parents endured to provide for me, as well as the endurance my best friend provided for me in my struggles. The silence of the desert was nothing short of purifying as my lonely soul was ultimately overcome by a tearful cathartic release. But at dawn the following day, feeling uncannily like an awakened Muhammed, I emerged from the dark cave remarkably unburdened with reaffirmed gratitude for my blessings and a novel sense of direction. The Tuaregs refer to themselves by the name Imuhagh, which translates to "free men". After a night in the desert, I felt free.
More than a full day of off-roading, I finally found a petrol station. My tank was completely empty.
The massive wadi cutting through the desert cliffs
Setting up camp inside the rock cave
The little shelter in the evening moon
Catching the Milky Way in one of the best designated "sky parks" in the US
I eventually did get my chance to fill up on Tuareg culture, right here in my beloved California. Road-tripping with my best friend, Matt, to Los Angeles, we spent an energetic evening in the company of Tuareg blues by Terakaft. At the Coachella Valley music festival, I also bumped into Tuareg rock sensation, Bombino, one of the most gentle and jovial men I've ever encountered. However, nothing could compare to seeing live in concert the internationally-acclaimed group and my absolute favorite Tuareg band, Tinariwen. Coincidentally, they had just recorded a new album while in Joshua Tree themselves, taking refuge from the ongoing war back in their homeland.
The hall was dark and quaint, but certainly not still, as bodies
intimately packed in and pushed forward towards the illuminated stage.
There was a silent tension in the air, the vibrations of anxious fans
quickly building up while Ibrahim slowly picked up his guitar. Then, the
breaking point - twang! A massive roar of cheers, whistles, and
exclamations rang throughout The Chapel, an appropriately named venue, as the
evening proved to be more of a religious experience than a concert.
Ibrahim's bluesy vocals, accompanied by Abdallah's electric guitar and
Hassan's wave-like dance moves, permeated the audience like a warm
desert breeze on a cold San Francisco night. Dressed in traditional
robes and turbans, the men brought the ambiance of the
vast Sahara to the humble chamber with deep resonating chorus lines
echoing off the walls. With every flowing guitar riff, my mind
itself flowed like a meandering river through an oasis of memories, everything passing through my head with both bliss
and torment, pleasure and pain. In a crowded room, I felt completely
alone again, in that state of excruciating longing for the most beautiful
moments of my life - all moments that Tinariwen happened to be present
for. Swaying with the djembe's rhythmic bass line, I closed my eyes and
moved with the overwhelming energy that was gradually filling my core.
When the tempo tripled, I completely lost it, crying out a high-pitched zaghareet (traditional
tongue ululation) that was even felt by the illuminated
musicians during their encore. Meeting Tinariwen after the performance gave
me a chance to express to them personally how their music has
invigorated me during my best of times and comforted me during my worst.
Tinariwen performing songs from The Joshua Tree Sessions, live in San Francisco
Ibrahim and Abdallah
Baba Hassane
Baba Hassane showing me the Tuareg variation for tying a traditional Saharan shesh
A comical tri-lingual chat with Bombino
The Little Prince was right. Despite being a place that isn't always understood or admired, beautiful things do in fact exist in deserts, with life-saving wells being among a number of many other concealed wonders. Likewise, even in the most dire of situations, something salvational can always be found if one is determined to search hard enough for it. But in the course of my desert wanderings, I also discovered something additional - wells of culture, spirituality, and self-discovery - elements that define one's unique life in ways just as essential as the water that sustains it. We ourselves are all individual deserts, with hidden wells of knowledge and potential beneath our surfaces that are just waiting to be tapped.
Join me on my mini desert road trip through Death Valley through my video!
Learn different ways to tie desert headscarves through my video!
Sightseeing. Recreation. Indulgence. Rest and Relaxation.
Different people have different motives for travel, with few ever stepping onto a plane without possessing at least some vague goal or aspiration for the exciting excursion ahead. Verily, no one can deny the wonder of travel as a force for exposure and a foundation for experience, an escape from life's routines and a means to explore new horizons and potentials. Yet for some out there, travel can serve a far more complex and mind-altering function, marked by that metaphysical moment when vacations morph into voyages and jaunts turn into journeys.
Probably the oldest purpose for travel in human history has been the concept of pilgrimage - the quest in search of God. For millennia, Man has felt an inner calling to migrate towards sacred sites and supernatural centers for the sake of understanding himself, discovering truth, and communing with the Divine. Whether shifting with the sands towards Mecca, flowing along the Ganges through Varanasi, or pouring like baptismal waters into the Holy Land, people throughout the world have undertaken long arduous missions to prove their piety and attain the elusive yet overwhelming sense of spiritual bliss. With a notion so powerful waiting at the journey's end, it is no surprise that both the largest migrations and largest gatherings of mankind on the planet are the products of such unbelievable displays of devotion.
Uzbek woman recites from the Quran at a mosque in Samarqand
Ethiopian Orthodox priest takes a rest in Lalibela
Romanian grandmother conversing with a saint
A traveling Tibetan pilgrim passes a shrine at dawn while chanting and spinning a hand-held prayer wheel
In light of my skepticism, I certainly have not been an exception among the world's faithful, having myself dabbled in nearly every available religion over the course of my life and travels. Through the hallowed sights I've seen, the pious communities I've met, and the ritualistic cultures I've faced, I have dipped my feet into countless oceans of wisdom in the meandering search for genuine transcendence. From the Bible to the Quran, from the Vedas to the Sutras, the written works of prophets and sages have all found their respective niches on my sagging bookshelf. Their fundamental promises of enlightenment through good thoughts, good words, and good deeds, continue to echo repeatedly in my head... identical messages merely written in different languages.
In my mystical wanderings, I've humbly answered the muezzin's call to prayer from towering minarets. I've openly confessed my sins to friars deep within vaulted cathedrals. I've prostrated alongside ascetics before bejeweled idols, as well as left copious offerings at age-old ancestral shrines. Whether through meditation with monks or ceremonies with shamans, my mind and body have both spanned the spectrum of consciousness from listlessness to liveliness, all in the hope of grasping any remote feeling of an omnipotent presence.
How blind I was.
Peruvians light votive candles and offer Christmas prayers at a cathedral in Arequipa
Cambodian family offering incense at Angkor Wat
Praying at a mosque in East Turkestan
Statues of Buddhas and ancestral spirits decorate an altar concealed within a sacred cave in Northern Vietnam
While many sought refuge within the confined sanctuaries of
imposing monuments to offer their prayers, I internally longed for the
vast expanse of an imposing and monumental earth to offer my gratitude. As others surrounded themselves with devout friends in some
communal effort to find intimacy with God, I
felt I was simply surrounding myself with different gods in some personal effort to find intimacy with friends. What apparently imparted spiritual fulfillment to others seemed to do nothing remarkable for me.
Rather, I began to contemplate and draw profound inspiration from more subtle moments during my adventures, rendered speechless by the view of a primordial landscape or touched by the generous gifts of a hospitable people. Bringing that introspection back home, my developing transcendental awareness began to give new significance to simple routines, warmed by the spicy flavors of my mother's daily cooking or invigorated by cycling alongside my best friend. The entirety of Life for me suddenly became a pilgrimage in itself, yet without need for a final destination. My homage would be paid to the physical journey - the ephemeral present - along with my immeasurable appreciation for the natural wonders that subdue me and the compassionate characters who sustain me along the way.
Inside Istanbul's Aya Sofiya, an ancient sanctuary for both Christians and Muslims
Jesus gazing down in a Sicilian church
Buddha gazing down in a Burmese temple
I am not a religious authority. I am not a philosopher. But I firmly believe that we all must discover for ourselves our own unique truth, a search that could very well divert us from the over-trodden pilgrim trail. We should never fear our ability to question the route to spiritual bliss, even if it means walking it alone. I am a traveler. Travel paved for me a new outward path for my inward passage.
So in the end, does God actually exist? No amount of travel may ever be able to answer that question for me. But while continuing on this life-long pilgrimage, I have come to realize for myself that a divine power won't be found in churches or mosques, temples or shrines. It is so much larger, so much more universal than that. Divine power exists everywhere around me, in the moments I live and the people I love.
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