Circumnavigating the Western Desert: Part Five–Imagine.

Imagine a metalled road piercing the heart of the desert for miles and miles, treading along a path that the most courageous of the courageous falter to venture.

Imagine somewhere a patch of concrete hugging the two sides of a road for half a kilometer. Concrete which house the miniscule of modernity that the vicinity sees. Concrete that houses a small lodge of Mohammed Homda, the friendliest person I have ever met.

Imagine his little lodge- that sits atop an Ahwa (Egyptian coffee house), serving Shai (Egyptian black tea), Ahwa (Turkish coffee) and Sheesha (Egyptian smoking water-pipe) to the weary travelers and locals, that has a small television with a dish antenna- the only one in the area- that catches some modern channel with titillating images of Nancy Ajram, Haifa Wahabi and Ruby- that is flocked by the village urchins- salivating over the images.

Imagine the little lodge that consists of three rooms, clean yet barely comfortable and yet Homda makes it seem like a second home, where people stay for days and days together paying as little as three Egyptian Pound for a cot on the roof top and imagine meeting a Korean who has been staying for three months over there. A Korean, in a remote desert of Egypt!!!!

And imagine meeting Eric, the Dutchman- colloquially addressed as the Desert Man, who has been living in that place for 27 years- who has to his credit, traveling from Siwa to Baharaiyya on foot, treacherous desert that claimed the entire army of Cambyses when they charged towards Siwa to destroy the Temple of Oracle- who does not need camels to survive, who survives in the desert with his will power.

Imagine a scrapbook lying at the gate of that lodge, with some 300 pages of testimonies- from people far and wide- from Latvia, Chile, Brunei, Swaziland and off course the usual travelers from Europe and America and South East Asia- having given testimonies in languages, which I had just heard of. Everywhere, but India.

And imagine writing the first word of Hindi in that scrapbook.

Imagine two dirt paths on the either side of that metalled road- one leading to an old mud-brick village and another leading to lush green fields.

Imagine the mud brick village, so beautiful that words fall short to describe- with people still living there, as if time has stood still or as if they refused to be swayed by the moving time, perhaps recognizing the wisdom of their forefathers. And imagine lanes and by-lanes within the village, where the heat of the desert and the harshness of terrain mellow down- imagine seeing some stones used for construction that bore hieroglyphics- bearing the testimony of its existence since time immemorial.

Imagine seeing a mud brick kiln, of the same type which our forefathers used to use- one that uses date tree leaves as the fuel, instead of leeching mother earth of its constituents for living today and forgetting tomorrow. Imagine being led there by an old man, who refused baksheesh for guiding me, when ever since I have arrived in Egypt I have seen baksheesh as a rule than an exception. And imagine him saying "Anaa Aamak" (I am your Uncle).

Imagine seeing black smithy shop- as it is in the villages- far from the mass production shops of cities that create a lot of production, in addition to Marxian aliens. Imagine seeing a small little museum that depicts the life of that mud brick villge in an interesting manner using clay models. And imagine buying a straw hat, which still accompanies me, reminding me of that place. And imagine seeing a 500 year old Nasirudin mosque made up of mud bricks.

Imagine being surrounded by a swarm of kids, who urge me to take their pictures and display the most beautiful smile when they see their photo on my digital camera. Imagine seeing the most beautiful girl, Hend- 10 year old, whose photo I preserve till date and relish. Who would have led Shakespeare to say yet again that "there is a language in her eyes, her cheek….nay her foot speaks".

Imagine a village, where no automobiles exist- where a donkey ride is the mode of transport. And imagine me doing just the same.

Imagine crossing the metalled road and visiting the farms of the villagers. Imagine lush green farms, where the horizon suddenly turns brown- sandish brown- announcing the advent of the desert, yet again. Imagine a horizon where the green of vegetation, the brown of desert and white of chalk hills meet, giving a scene so surreal and haunting, perhaps representing the hide and seek we play with life, perhaps the varied emotions we feel in it.

Imagine sitting beside a spring, that turns the place into an oasis, that gives life to this patch of land against the odds of a heartless desert. And Imagine seeing many a birds, frolicking in its water- the cranes, the Herons, the Flamingoes, the Ducks- some I could recognize and some I could not. Imagine feeling incomplete for not being an ornithologist.

Imagine picking up ripe dates from the ground and tasting them, and plucking raw olives from the trees and wondering why I tasted them.

Imagine returning back to Homda, who offered me a wonderful Egyptian meal. Imagine sitting with him and Eric on roof top of his lodge and talking for hours about girls, desert, our lives and world politics. And imagine seeing the Milky Way after a long long time.

Imagine being waked by Homda in early morning to catch a bus to Farafra. Imagine Homda preparing fresh Tamaiyya Sandwich for me, in the dawn.

Imagine the most wonderful day spent.

Imagine Al Qasr.