Tea in Sahara - Part One

Part one of two:

I fulfilled a lifelong dream this year by traveling to the Sahara Desert.

Several years ago, I spouted off naively to Mr. Fresh Hell about this dream, a [completely nonsensical] notion of my spending three months crossing the Sahara with a band of nomads.

Oh, I could see it all so clearly, tethered as I was in a "Sheik of Araby romantic hazy dream", how I would travel across the Sahara with a tribe - oh no, no newfangled notions like an adequate 4 x 4, abundant water & gasoline for me - no sirree! That was the pantywaist version, and I would have none of that. I would test myself as others had done before me, and brave the hardships unaided by any Western trappings.

I would travel by camel, helping to pitch a tent at sundown. I would function within the tribe as an honored and protected guest, but also accepted freely as one of them, and by so doing match my fate to theirs.

I would be swathed in veils from head to toe, exotically adorned with gold and hung about with several sharp weapons, proudly riding my camel at a majesctic pace. The cinematography in my mind's eye was nothing less than magnificent.

My plan was rather hazy really, as it involved a vague notion of performing my camp duties [skinning goats? cooking food? making camp?], but primarily I would scribble by firelight my deep meditative thoughts about my desert experience, take excellent pictures with my handy digital camera, and, upon my return to civilization promptly sell both narrative & photos to a prestigious New York publisher, resulting in a glossy coffee table book which would of course sell wildly - the end result of my adventure would ensure that I would become the toast of the town.

Mr. Fresh Hell must be highly commended for merely gently smiling at my folly rather than laughing uproariously in my face.

For, as I learned this year, the Sahara, even in the poshest of circumstances, is
hard. And I, with all my privileged soft living, was not prepared in the least.