Liminal Space in the Desert

A convoy of four-by-fours sped out across the dusty plain of packed sand, a highway coursing between undulating dunes, and kicking up fine particles of orange dust as they slalomed around the few trees that were sufficiently robust to survive in the barren climate of the Wahiba Sands. I was one of the passengers in this convoy travelling from the village of Al-Wasil to a small remote outpost deep in the desert. Most envision scenes from David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia – a placid sea of rolling waves of soft orange sand – but the truth is that most deserts are vast stretches of grey barren rock. Idyllic fragments such as these which captivate the imagination are rare and, as I had come all this way, I could not pass up the opportunity.

The camp was a collection of modest tents each with its own outhouse – a small square roofless concrete enclosure outfitted with a flush toilet and a shower – with two large communal tents (one at either end of the compound), one for orientation and the other for meals and social activities. The accommodations themselves were tiny square forts of carpet held up by metal posts on a mat made of tarpaulin. Inside was a rickety queen-sized metal cot covered by a drab mosquito net and a small wicker side table. A solar-powered lamp was hung by the entrance but did little to light the room.

Upon arrival in the late afternoon, the members of the convoy were greeted with coffee, fresh fruit and dates, before being informed of the schedule of events and being escorted to our respective tents. With the day waning, the only activity on offer was an excursion on camelback out into the desert. Camels smell wretched and I reckoned I would be able to cover more ground travelling alone and on foot so I grabbed a bottle of water and hiked up into the dunes.

The outpost was nestled into a valley and it was only upon climbing up the ridge that I was finally treated to the sight I had been in search of. There it was: that endless ocean of sand stretching on as far as the eyes could see. Even a few hundred metres from the outpost there were small metal shacks and other signs of human life – who would choose to live out their days in so unforgiving a climate I can’t rightly say – but beyond: nothing.

I walked out in a straight line as far as I could without risking becoming hopelessly lost. Perhaps it was a kilometre (perhaps less, but I think more). With the scene of orange sand and blue sky endlessly repeating in all directions it was difficult to say for certain how far I had actually travelled, but what was clear was that I wandered a sufficient distance to see or hear nothing but that endlessly repeating scenery. I tried to keep my path straight and focused on memorizing the curvature of the hills and the angles between them and the sun. I kept track of the passing minutes in my head and noted the rate at which the sun appeared to be descending into the hills and continued to calculate how long I had until sunset. I needed to be mindful not to be out exploring for too long or run the risk of getting lost in the desert at night or, worse, missing out on supper. During my walk I happened upon the occasional pile of bones and each small graveyard was a reminder not to take my whereabouts for granted. One false step and one error in judgment could mean a slow and gruesome end.

When I felt I had walked long enough in one direction I turned to the left and began to follow the sandy ridges back toward the outpost which was now some way out of sight. There was a moment over the course of this excursion where the sun appeared to linger in the sky and time became irrelevant. I became acutely aware that there was nothing in my field of vision but sand and sky and not another living soul. The air is mostly still over the desert during the day and but for the occasional passing breeze, the silence of my surroundings was total. The landscape was rugged and I had already covered a lot of ground and, with no other distractions, the sound of my own breathing occupied every bit of my attention. I stopped. I grabbed my bottle of water from my satchel and took a gulp. I could hear the sound of the water entering my mouth and travelling down into my body as though it was being played over a loudspeaker. I sat in the sand to calm my mind and could begin to hear the sound of my own heartbeat reverberating in my chest and up into my head. I could hear the blood coursing through my veins and the desert air entering my lungs and expelling through my nose brushing past each hair in my nostrils as it went. The sweat as it left my brow and tracked its way into my beard where it was absorbed made a faint hissing sound like a snake. I had arrived at the boundary where madness and clarity bump up against one another.

Old stories wandered into my thoughts about the biblical minds and their visions after wandering in the desert. Would I happen upon a burning bush or be tempted by the devil? I could not have been out wandering for more than an hour before my mind began to stray out beyond my body and it was clear to me why that trope of the desert producing a spiritual transformation for the literary hero is so common. It is not the heat or the aridity that brings about the seemingly heightened sense of awareness, but it is, instead, the absence of the many small sounds that we take for granted. There are no rustling leaves in the trees, no low rumble of a jet flying overhead, and no tremor of a thousand feet stamping along a sidewalk. The sky becomes a void and the sand a massive baffle. If you wander deep enough into the desert, out of earshot of civilization to where not a single frequency can penetrate, then there is nothing to hear but you. With various centres of the brain no longer burdened with having to parse a near-infinite number of insignificant stimuli, all of its attention is turned upon itself. Anyone who has otherwise failed to induce the intended state of meditation needs only to experience solitude in the desert for a brief moment. I imagine that what could happen to the mind and to the soul after 40 days would be transformative to an extent worthy of basing a religion upon – but I am no messiah.

When the sun began to recede below the horizon, all of the residents of the camp made their way to the top of the ridge to bask in its glow and watch as the last few threads of light flickered away. Sunset over the desert is a sight one needs to undergo great pains to get to, but it is an experience worth having at least once. It is a visual feast where every shade in the spectrum between crimson and corn are vividly on display.

The entire camp is solar-powered and, by nightfall, everybody and their uncle sought out the few free electrical sockets to power up their smartphones. The staff fired up the barbecues and raced to get all of the food for the feast served because it would not take long for the whole camp to go completely dark. There was rice, vegetable curries, barbecue chicken and brochettes and a variety of salads, all brought in daily to feed the steady stream of visitors. Other than eating, there was a very apparent lack of things to do. We were like the United Nations: a trio of young families from Poland, a mother and daughter from Russia, best friends from Greece, a small group of surfer hippies from Germany, newlyweds from Brazil, and a half dozen other small groups of people from around the world. Like the UN, communication was difficult and very little was accomplished. As the only one travelling solo, the one thing that was clear to me was that, though we were in Oman, there was not a single Omani. I had met the owner of the camp at the office back in Al-Wasil and he was Jordanian, and all of the labourers at the camp, from the best information that I could gather, were Yemeni.

The desert is dry but the human body is mostly water and so the two stick to each other as though they are old friends. You don’t notice it during the day when you are out trekking along the dunes, but it is at rest in the stillness of the night in one’s tent that it becomes such a nuisance. Perhaps I had been the only fool to have wandered out into the desert and gathered so much sand that now formed into pools within the folds of the bedsheets, but I doubt I was alone in that regard.

There was nothing calm or relaxing, or even close to meditative, about the nighttime. Aside from choking on the occasional clump of sand, there were also the bands of mosquitoes that confidently strutted about the tent like street thugs. Bereft of green spaces, and with so little moisture, it is impossible to say how these pesky critters could have risen to such populations but there they were and the net that I had been outfitted with to keep them at bay was mostly for show. I may have slept for a short period, I will never know for sure, but when I decided that I had suffered sufficiently I decided to grab my satchel and ascended the dunes again.

The rise was only about one hundred metres, but the sand felt deep and I seemed to sink in it making two steps forward before falling back a step. I was not well-rested, and it would be hours before I would have my first coffee of the day, so the journey to the top of the ridge took its toll as I huffed and I puffed my way to the top. There was no joy in it and it was nothing but will and determination that finally got me to the top as I coughed and choked something fierce though by now I was out of earshot of the camp that was resting silently below. I was sweating from the climb and my heart seemed to be beating out of my chest, but as I began to calm myself I could sense that the temperature had dropped dramatically. The beads of sweat that had gathered on my body caused a chill to run through me. In the valley, there was nothing but the few dark silhouettes of tents and the faint twinkle of a few solar reflector panels that were eagerly awaiting the dawn.

Long minutes passed and I began to feel calm again as my body adapted to the cold. I could feel each faint breeze that passed over the dunes coursing along the hairs on my body and bringing small grains of sand along with it. The darkness was total. Though nothing could grow, the Arabian sea was near enough to have a haze of moisture descend upon this stretch of the desert during the night and blot out the stars above. I sat in the sand facing the east and turned my thoughts inward. There were family, friends, lovers, and casual acquaintances and every dewdrop of kindness that had ever reached me in my days; Long paths and wide highways through tunnels and over bridges from the far corners of every continent; Collections of joys and sorrows, twinkling cities and shining plains; Treasured memories and future schemes yearning to bear fruit – these are dreams too. When sleep will not come, the mind knows how to orient itself and traverse from that fearful hemisphere over to comfort. She will support you in every moment of uncertainty because the sun will rise and every bit of longing to see it will pull you forward.

From the darkness, a pink hue began to bleed across the sky as a speck of radiant orange light broke the line of the horizon. The haze of the night sky blunted the glow of the sun as it began its ascent where it hung like a ripe peach. Warmth surrounded me and the beads of sweat began to evaporate letting loose the grains of sand they had collected. This was the cleansing bath of the morning sun and with it came the promise of a new day, new paths and new highways, tunnels, bridges, memories and schemes. This was the desert and it was time to move on.