Thursday 16^th October

We are sitting in a hotel in Tripoli. We’ve been sitting here for some time and there’s no reason to think that we won’t be sitting here for some time longer. In the true fashion of all Arab countries our departure time, our strategy for the day is undetermined. We will be leaving for Sebha by minibus at some point. András will hazard no more of a guess than it will be “definitely after 10am”, which could mean any time in the next 24 hours. We have our minibus with our considerable gear packed into it, we even have our driver, that is not the problem. For the first time the Libyans seem to have decided to take a leaf from the book of their Egyptian neighbours, and are insisting that we be accompanied by a member of the tourist police for our entire journey, and he has not yet turned up.

Photo by Andras Zboray

This new regulation is really dull. At this rate there will be as many surplus Libyans on the trip as us. We are currently up to 4 drivers with the cars, a guide from Arkeno Tours who organised our visa invitations and now the tourist police escort, none of whom have the faintest idea what they are heading into or what our plans will turn out to be.

The 4-wheel drive cars and their drivers will meet us in Sebha as and when we get there. Unfortunately Sebha is still, at the very least, and eight hour drive away. There had been great hopes up until our departure that we might pick up an internal flight south, but it hasn’t proved possible and now we face a long day on the road.

We are all pretty tired, it’s been a long journey already. I left London on a 7.15am flight after two hours sleep and a 5am departure from home. Magdi picked me up from the airport in Budapest where we also collected Claus and Elizabet Stubiger from their Munich flight. We spent the day at the Zboray household catching up with András, helping with the last preparations, reading and cat-napping. It all felt very ordinary, we knew we had some long days travelling ahead of us and somehow it took the edge off the excitement. At 4pm Magdi collected Dora from school and as I opened the front door to them she ran from the car and launched herself into my arms in great excitement. The next few hours were spent playing with Dora while Magdi tried to finish the packing.

Elizabet very kindly brought Dora a present, a notebook with cats and rabbits on it and a matching pencil, rubber and ruler. They proved fantastically popular with our 6½ year old travelling companion, who seems limitlessly entertained by taking them in and out of her little bag of important treasures for the trip. The other treasures include sweets, strawberry lip balm, some scissors and, my own personal favourite, four tubes of different coloured glitter glue. This trip is going to be fun.

Raymond Bird, my friend and travelling companion, also from Newbury, set out the day before me and has already been here in Budapest for a day. Not that I had given it much thought but I find I am surprised at how patient and affectionate he is with Dora. Of course that’s ridiculous when I think about it as he has three grown up children of his own and a whole brood of grandchildren, so, of course, children are second nature to him. Nevertheless there will always be something of the bachelor about this unquenchable old trooper. At 80 I suspect he’s not so much reliving his youth as continuing an ongoing project.

Back in July András came over for a weekend and together with our other friend Kit Maxwell we all had the enormous pleasure of attending Raymond’s 80^th birthday party as organised by his delightful son Andy. In a marquee in the beautiful gardens of Michael and Daphne Dormer’s manor, next door to Raymond’s house, we joined a group of about 40 others to help him celebrate.

This is a man I have only known in the emptiest places of our lives, and as such I feel like I know the essence of him, but for actual facts about his life, feel like I know him as well as any of my closest friends. But on that sunny afternoon we had the pleasure of catching a glimpse of the whole man, the full picture. We met his children and his grandchildren and a whole troop of extended family beyond them; and his friends, old friends and really old friends and new friends like us. People of all ages, each with their own stories, their own affection. And what nice people, travellers and scientists and intellectuals; and warm people, good, honest, true people, each paying homage to the excellent qualities of our mutual friend, he who has collected us all, simply by displaying their own charming characters. I felt truly moved and privileged to be part of such a group. I remember it now as I watch Raymond switching between a few kind words to the little girl and a highly in depth discussion with Claus about the Second World War in North Africa, and I smile. Of course, the best friends, the best people, are the ones it would take a lifetime to know everything about, the ones who never stop surprising you.

At 6pm András collected Jarek from the airport also and the house started to rapidly fill up with bodies, bags and boxes. Jarek is about 30 with a pleasant face and an approachable manner. We were all rather tired and quiet so there wasn’t much talking last night, but I have a good feeling about this group, it seems to be shaping up well so far. Claus and Elizabet are in their 40s. He is a sociable and affable historical journalist whose speciality is the Second World War in Africa, he and Raymond are going to have hours of fun. He smokes a pipe and wherever we are out and about I find myself sucking in the drifting scent of his tobacco smoke, as sweet as apples, as comforting as home. Elizabet is a kindergarten teacher who cares for severely disabled children. I talked to her about it a little but she seems tired from her work and her back hurts from lifting them, perhaps she will say more about it when Dr. Desert has worked a little magic. She has been quiet so far, but shows a kind nature and smiles readily enough so we shall see what we shall see.

Leaving András and Magdi to finish their packing we all took Dora up to a hotel on the hill above their house for the most delicious ‘last meal in Europe’. I had the opportunity to work up an extra big appetite by running back to the house with Dora piggy-back, as she was clearly too tired to make it through the meal happily, and she asked so sweetly if she might go home that I couldn’t say no. I arrived back at the table, just as my starter did, completely ravenous. For the record I had pancakes stuffed with spiced veal in a creamy tomato sauce, followed by a traditional venison stew with a mountain of little dumplings, all washed down with a really good Cabernet Sauvignon. It was great. We were all still a bit quiet at supper, but I wasn’t too worried, I knew we’d all soon relax.

Back at the house we were joined by an old friend, Attila, who seems on fine form. He’s lost some weight and is looking great and immediately infused the group with the burst of enthusiasm we needed to start us off. At 9pm a pre-ordered minibus took us and our mountain of luggage to the airport and met up with the last member of our motley cavalcade, Ga’bor. Ga’bor is extremely tall and gangly, 6’6” I would say, and all legs. He’s very Hungarian looking with dark features and a big moustache, and this is almost certainly due to the fact that he is Hungarian.

There’s not much to say about the rest of last night. It was a flight. We dozed fitfully in the killer air-conditioning special to aeroplanes, and arrived punch-drunk and puffy-eyed in Tripoli at the miserable hour of 3am. Happily customs and passport control slipped by hitch-free and, all very strangely, even our minibus and guide were there waiting for us. Considering how notoriously difficult this country is to get into and the general fact that Arab organisation usually leaves everything to be desired, everything about this trip so far, from obtaining visas onwards, has been suspiciously pain free. The only real hitch has probably been a blessing in disguise, despite it leaving us sat in this hotel this morning. We were supposed to set off on the 770km drive to Sebha straight away on arrival last night. But Fadel, the guide who met us, told us that the police escort wasn’t happy about us setting off in the night and that we would have to meet him and leave in the morning. With only token protestation we were escorted here to The Gate Of The Sea, and plunged as a man into deep, deep sleep. As I lay on my bed in my dark room my last thought was, ‘Oh no, I’m not going to fall asleep.’ I remember nothing else.

So, here we are. Still waiting. András says this is true and proper waiting, as only found in Arab countries, identified by the fact that we have absolutely no idea what we are waiting for. Not 20 minutes later though we are informed that the minibus has arrived (we had all thought it was here already). We all head out front to find… no minbus. So we do some more waiting. András says this waiting doesn’t count because we now know what we are waiting for (the minibus). But I suggest that perhaps we are now experiencing the ultimate in Arab waiting, the terrible waiting tinged with anticipation, waiting where we THINK we know what we are waiting for, but in fact we don’t. Luckily, before we are able to consider the full unpleasantness of this possibility for long, the minibus does in fact actually turn up and at 1pm we are miraculously loaded up and driving out of Tripoli. Oh no, I‘ve written too soon, we are in fact driving around in Tripoli. Eventually, after much driving in circles, we stop at a house in the suburbs and pick up our delegated tourist policeman. Policeman seems rather a grown up term for the small, slim boy who climbs on board in jeans, a grey patterned shirt and a New York baseball cap. He appears to be about 16. He makes no effort to speak to or acknowledge any of us so we leave him to his own devices for now. I don’t even know his name yet.

There really isn’t very much to say about the next 11 hours, which is the duration of our journey to Sebha. We settle down into individual nests of bags and gear and while the day away. We read and write and talk and sleep. The expressionless landscape passes us by. There are uneventful checkpoints every 20kms or so where apparently good-for-nothing soldiers glance idly at our papers.

There are a couple of highlights to the day. Attila produces a bag of small, hard, yet delicious cinnamon and honey biscuits that his grandmother baked and offers them around generously. Later Fadel, our official ‘guide’ hands round some books of photographs he has taken in the desert. He proves to be a reasonably serious photographer and there are some nice shots.

In the early evening we stop in a dusty roadside café for supper. Dora and I spot some camels foraging about a little distance away and we go to investigate. As we get close Dora decides that she really isn’t sure about the big strange creatures. So I pick her up and ask her if she trusts me to go closer and keep her safe. She has a little think and then nods, so we move forwards. The big animals contemplate us disinterestedly from under their long lashes and then wander away chewing slowly. It’s a horrid place really. There is rubbish littering every inch of the ground and as we return I take a detour to avoid an open cesspit. People are disgusting.

The meal, however, is very good. The classic meal of North Africa, I have eaten it in every country here. A clear, spicy tomato and couscous soup with bread. Then flame grilled chicken and mutton with thin oily chips and rice and hot harrissa paste. Then even though we are already quite full we are served plates of spiced couscous and potatoes. It is a feast. The whole thing is of course finished off with small hot glasses of hideously sweet green tea, and I amuse Raymond by describing my failed attempts to understand the intricacies of Tuareg tea making in Algeria.

As we drive away full and sleepy, we fall, with the darkness, into silence.

Dora has been amazingly well behaved all day. Despite the boredom she hasn’t complained or become whingy at all. András simply explained to her this morning that today was going to be boring because we all had to sit in the car all day, and she simply accepted our fate like a little stoic. She has been sitting with me for much of the day and now she is sleepy, curls up in my arms. I sing her every lullaby I know and she looks up at me peacefully with her brown trusting eyes.

At 11.30pm we eventually arrive in Sebha, check into our second non-descript hotel of the journey, and fall asleep, exhausted from doing nothing and longing for the desert.

Friday 17^th October 2003

If we thought yesterday morning involved a lot of waiting and faffing about, it was nothing compared to today’s start. András was up early to fetch fresh supplies and we had all finished breakfast by 9am, but then the nonsense began. Two of the 4-wheel drive Toyotas have to go back the mechanic to have their lighter sockets fixed which we rely on for recharging electrical equipment. Then, when they return, it takes about two hours to get them loaded. Every time András turns his back the drivers load things haphazardly in, and he has to patiently get them to unload everything and reload it under his supervision.

It is a pleasant morning, warm and clear. We are observed with great interest by the locals. Across the street a group of general workmen sit with their tools in the dust waiting to pick up any passing work on the road. I am surprised by the number of Africans here, at least as many as the Arabs, I wonder what migrational motivation has brought so many of them this far north.

By 11am our three cars and one pick-up truck are finally ready to go and we pile on board. These Toyotas have forward facing seats in the back rather than the Egyptian style bench seats. Sadly this isn’t so sociable, less of us can fit into each car, and it’s also less comfortable as you can’t stretch your legs out onto the opposite bench. This is particularly unpleasant for me as my knees always protest quite violently if they are kept bent for any length of time (usually at the theatre), so I have to relieve them by standing up with my back bent flat against the roof of the car.

No sooner have we reached the edge of Sebha (which is not a big town), then we have to stop to wait for the fourth car, which is missing. András, Magdi, Dora and I are in the front car; Jarek, Attila and Ga’bor are in the second car; then the pick-up; then Raymond, Claus and Elizabet should be at the back in number four, but they are nowhere to be seen. We wait for a little while, then, leaving car two and the pick-up, we set off back into town to look for them. We complete a circuit and then arrive back on the road with the others. The car has completely vanished. There is only one road out of town, so we deduce that they must somehow have passed us and headed off alone. This seems odd, but we guess that maybe they thought we were ahead off them and raced off to catch up.

We set off along the road. There is a checkpoint 10kms ahead and we expect to see them there, but when we arrive there is nothing. The checkpoint soldiers tell us that a white Toyota has been through, so we continue along the road, but with an increasing sense of confusion. We are absolutely sure that they would have waited for us at the checkpoint. Raymond has travelled with us before and knows that we always stop and wait for lost cars as soon as we know they are missing, so when they didn’t catch up with us, we are convinced he would have made the driver stop and wait. After another 20kms our anxiety stops us and, leaving car 2 and the pick-up once more, we head back to the checkpoint.

The soldiers look at us with amusement. Yes, of course they are sure that a Toyota came through ahead of us. Then they proceed to describe its occupants which convinces us. As we turn back up the road it is nearly 1pm and Sebha is starting to feel like a terrible black hole from which we will never escape.

Our driver, a broad-faced African called Ibrahim, says that there is a fuel stop some 60kns up the road, and that they are probably waiting for us there. Sure enough, when we arrive at the isolated little building, there are our lost companions sitting in the shade. András has a few choice words with their driver, Milat, but he isn’t interested in being reprimanded. He just grins insolently and waves at András dismissively. He knew where he was going, and that we’d all meet up eventually, so what’s the problem? Claus and Elizabet explain that they hadn’t really realised there was a problem. Milat doesn’t speak any English, but he had set off with such confidence that they had just assumed that he was following instructions, so they didn’t question him.

No real harm is done, but we abandon any hope of getting far west before lunch and decide to eat something here. There is a little shop across the road from the garage and its wizened little keeper makes us tuna and tomato sandwiches, which he passes through a hole in his concrete wall.

Libya is a completely dry country, and I don’t just mean the weather. Alcohol is strictly forbidden without exception, and we are really going to miss our nightly sundowners. We’ve been experimenting with all the soft drinks that we’ve found along the way, in an attempt to find a pleasant substitute to keep our spirits up. Unfortunately, everything is almost undrinkable with sugar. The only half-palatable thing we have found so far is a curious ruby-red pop calling itself Bitter Soda; it tastes rather like Campari and lemonade without the fun part. Here in this little roadside kitchen we find a really delicious drink, cans of mango juice, and we immediately buy the old man’s entire stock to go with us.

Dora decides to join Elizabet in their car this afternoon, so Magdi and I spend the next torturous leg of the day lounging in the back of the car catching up on the last six months of gossip.

In the middle of the afternoon I see something I have wanted to see all my life, and truly never expected to. A twister. Snaking its way angrily over the gravel wasteland is a real McCoy whirlwind. It’s only about two metres across, but it’s tearing up the ground as it weaves here and there, carrying debris 100s of metres up into the hazy cloud base; swaying like a furious belly dancer.

By 6pm we reach the last town on the road, Timsa, and it’s also the last of the road. We bump off the tarmac into the narrow dust paths of this ten-goat town. The town has no border it just peters out into the surrounding sand, and with enormous relief we finally trundle out into first bit of true desert. Away from the road, away from the houses and the people, through the palms and onto the sand.

It’s sundown and we have to make camp quickly. 2kms from the village we stop on a rise in the middle of a big area of smooth, undulating sand, and the four Toyota engines are blissfully switched off.

We kick off our shoes and sink our hot feet into the cool sand. The first camp starts to take shape as tents and bags are carried to carefully selected spots and unpacked. I dump my bits out in the open, away from the still prolific palm bushes, and walk away from camp. It’s a warm evening and, although I know the nights can be bitter here in October, I decide to dispense with my tent. Tonight I want to see stars over my face.

There is a real sense of relief from everyone to finally be where we want to be. We are still a bit close to the last dregs of civilisation for my taste, as darkness falls the orange street lights of Timsa shine bright in the distance, but it’s good to be out of it.

Supper around the camp fire is our traditional first meal, chilli beans, washed down with sadly non-alcoholic mango juice. Still, you can’t have it all.

Once again we are tired from doing nothing, a horrid, stale tired, not that good weariness from walking all day, and we all slip off to bed soon after supper. I snuggle into my sleeping bag, nestled up against my kitbag and feel perfectly cosy. My eyes grow heavy full of the Milky Way.

Saturday 18th October 2003 I woke once in the night at around 4.30 and the Milky Way was gone. Orion had risen over me clear and white on the ink black sky. I didn’t open my eyes again until dawn. For our first breakfast I prepare my desert standard of two crisp breads with jam and meat paste and a tin mug of black coffee. My mug causes a bit of a stir with Dora. I sadly couldn’t find my usual white and blue tin mug when I was packing for the trip, so Lizzie very kindly leant me a rather special one a friend brought her from South Africa.

Photo by Andras Zboray

This one is covered closely all over with a coat of woven, coloured beads. It looks beautiful and is really tactile to hold. Dora hugs it and says it is her mug, and I gently take it from her and say she may look at it whenever she likes, but that it is most definitely my mug. She is very cross and stomps off. I go and sit by Raymond and explain how I have generated a serious case of mug envy. The moment it comes out of my mouth we both start laughing about the concept of mug envy. Raymond mimics an imaginary news flash. “He murdered his wife and children, the judge said the tragedy was a classic case of mug envy!” We’ve tickled ourselves pink and roar with laughter in front of our baffled companions.

Breaking the first camp of any trip tends to take a while, but once again our Libyans seem intent on setting us back hours. Only when we were all breakfasted, packed up and ready to go did they set off back to Timsa to pick up our 7^th and final compulsory Libyan, yet another guide. Everyone displayed exemplary patience as we watched the truck returning at a snail’s pace from the village and getting stuck in sand along the way.

A little old man clambers out of the car and is greeted by all the others like a long lost relative. András has a go at explaining that we don’t need a guide and if he’s really got to come then he is to stay out of the way, but I can see from his amused and patronising expression that he has no intention of complying. Sure enough, the minute we get in the cars he takes of ahead in the truck ignoring András completely and none of the other drivers will pass him. They are determined to follow his lead. All this leads to an excruciatingly frustrating day. András, having done the journey before and with his maps and GPS, knows the quickest, shortest route to our goal today, the volcanic craters at Waw an Namus. But the old man, Abdu Garda, takes us on a huge round trip, which he first insists is shorter, then when it becomes clear to us all it isn’t, says that it is easier on the cars. In fact it is the only route he knows and is too proud to accept that some European might actually know better than him. To add to our agony we make horribly slow progress. The drivers are competent enough, but nothing like the Egyptians for determination and focus.

We should be at the craters by 4pm in time to get out of the damn cars and get some air, but by the time we arrive at the smaller of the two, Waw an Kebir, it is 8pm and all but dark. I can just make out the dim shape of a big, deep, sandy, depression. For once our car is in front and we begin to drive in, but half way down Ibrahim stops in fear and says that it is too soft to go on and that the car will tip. Honestly! I’d happily drive a bus down here. András, who has been very patient all day, now puts his foot down and demands that we go down, and eventually Ibrahim unhappily continues, edging along like an obstinate mule.

As we descend into the great deep bowl we spot a tiny light flickering on the far hillside. We reach the bottom without incident, but have the distinct impression that we are not alone. We get out of the car and peer into the darkness. Two dogs begin barking noisily on the slope and start running down towards us. Dora becomes afraid so she and Magdi get back into the car while we watch and wait. Four figures appear out of the gloom and our policeboy, Abdu Salaam, goes forward to meet them. I think, not for the first time, how young he is to be given a gun and the responsibility for our safety. He handles the black revolver too much for my liking. He is constantly taking it out of his belt and carrying it flat in his hand or placing it on the dashboard of the car for everyone to see. András quietly indicates that he must remove the clip and place the piece in the glove compartment, an instruction he only grudgingly obeys.

Strange though this unexpected meeting is, it turns out to be nothing sinister. Soldiers have been posted to this remote place to ensure the safety of travellers such as ourselves. There seems to be a lot of anxiety and increased security here, much more than the Zborays experienced here two years ago, and we suspect it is due to the kidnappings in neighbouring Algeria over the past six months.

After a while the other cars join us and explain that they had gone looking for the soldiers to check in with. It’s suddenly all very jolly down here in the dusky crater with everyone chattering away and the dogs barking hysterically. András decides to head up and camp on a level place half way back up the slope, somewhere a bit quieter than here. Camp is constructed in complete darkness, but again, it is a warm night so I just flop down on my little air mattress and watch the stars come out in welcome peace and quiet.

The Libyans brought a ginger goat in Timsa, tied its legs together and sat it on the back of the pick-up. We’ve been following its baleful face all day, and I christened the miserable animal Linda to amuse my companions. It’s tricky. Dora is intrigued by Linda, but we all know that Linda is having the worst day of her life and also the last day of her life. When Dora asks why Linda is here, we explain that she is going to be eaten. She seems happy with this and doesn’t appear to give too much thought to how Linda will go about becoming food. Oh to be six again!

When I move over to join the others at the camp fire I discover that Linda has been discreetly slaughtered and also, that Linda was a boy. Who’d have thought it?

As our Muslim friends are intent on eating Linda tonight András produced some kind of pork based tinned meat, slices it up and grills it on the fire. He serves it up with mountains of synthetic mashed potatoes and it’s a pretty uninspiring meal. Fortunately the atmosphere around the fire is excellent. Milat makes us sweet tea, which is made with cumin here and notably better than the Tuareg horror, if still unbearably sugary. Hassan and Abdu Salaam roast off peanuts in a big pot and hand them generously round to us. They are hot and slightly soft and very delicious. Fadel spend hours patiently preparing a feast for all the Libyans and I feel slightly envious not to be eating with them tonight.

Dora insists on several trips to inspect the neatly butchered remains of Linda and is a little unsure what to make of it all. “Poor Linda.” She bleats at me piteously. “No, not poor Linda,” I say, “She had an OK life for a goat I am sure. She will have done nothing for years except run around with other goats having a great time. And now she’s fulfilled her purpose in life and made some good people a great dinner. It’s what goats are for, so I’m sure she is happy in goat heaven.” She nods thoughtfully and seems happier. I despise myself really. I aught to be honest and say that Linda has probably had a completely miserable life, finished off with a torturous and undignified death, and that unfortunately the world is full of hard things, so get used to it little six year old girl, but I can’t do it. I’m ashamed to say that I just don’t feel strongly enough about the plight of our ginger goat to be bothered. Oh dear, I’m becoming old and hardened.

I crawl into my sleeping bag under the stars more content than I have felt since the trip began. We are going to get up at sunrise and go into the second crater Waw an Namus, and spend a few hours exploring. I’m really looking forward to finally doing some walking.

Sunday 19^th October 2003

I was woken at midnight by the sound of voices coming down the dark slope accompanied by one of the dogs still barking persistently. I lie still and stare blindly into the night trying to place the sounds in the landscape around me. What on earth are they doing skulking around us in the middle of the night? Not that they are particularly skulking, the dog is making a racket. Sleepily I wonder if I’m going to regret being the only one not in a tent tonight, as I really don’t fancy being literally face to face with this noisy little canine. It had a distinctly nervous and snappy look about it when I saw it earlier. The soldiers spend the next hour making a large slow circuit of our camp and make enough noise to ensure that none of us are going to get any sleep.

Photo by Andras Zboray

At breakfast we all grumpily discuss the soldiers’ odd behaviour, all that is except Magdi, who slept blissfully through the whole event without stirring a muscle.

András has woken us early, but it is 8am before our drivers’ dawdling allows us to leave camp. We are leaving Jaffar and the pick-up at camp and going over to the big crater with just the three cars.

The sand is black here and is for about a 10km radius all around the two craters, where it suddenly turns yellow again within the space of about a metre. The crater is invisible as we approach it, due to a gentle rise in the sand going up to its edge. We are driving into the sun and there is quite a clash f wills as András instructs Ibrahim to take a detour around the back of the crater so we can approach with the sun behind us. Ibrahim really just wants to follow the existing tracks on this side and once again has to be forced into agreement. Fadel, our guide from the north, has joined us in our car this morning, and András asks him to clearly explain to Ibrahim in Arabic that he always has reasons for his instructions and when he gives one he expects it to be followed. Fadel is clearly uncomfortable and doesn’t want to fall out with either party, but eventually mutters something to Ibrahim, who says nothing and looks like a sulky child. The atmosphere is pretty strained, but is soon forgotten when we eventually turn towards the, still hidden, crater.

Only within metres of its edge does the vast hole in the ground, 5kms across, become visible, and it’s like looking into Eden. There is a world, a tiny perfect eco-system, contained here in a great sandy dish. An island of green and blue hidden, miraculous, in a lifetime of thirst. At the centre of the crater floor is the classic cone shape of a now extinct volcano. It’s about 200m high, a mountain in miniature. All about its feet are long blue lakes, edged about with broad beds of tall green reeds. It’s the most and unexpected and beautiful place I have seen in the Sahara. At the top of the long dark slopes dropping down to the wonderland below words seem inadequate and we simple stand and stare.

András gives us 2½ hours to explore, which seems too short, too short. I’m sure I could happily spend a week here among the scattered lakes and palms, but, grabbing my pack and trekking poles, I determine to make the most of every moment.

Distances are deceptively great here and it takes me almost 15 minutes to get down the soft black sand to the crater floor and the first group of palms. I walk through them and make my way towards what I think is a gap between the two nearest lakes, it’s hard to tell if the water really stops because the reed beds don’t.

The reeds are closely packed and taller than me by a couple of feet. I follow their edge looking for a way through. I pick up some animal tracks and after a short distance they turn to a tiny narrow path leading down a seep bank into the thick of the reed bed. I consider it for some minutes before, full of unease, I finally step down onto it. The path is really only wide enough to accommodate my feet and the reeds press close around my head and shoulders. I try to push the thought of snakes and other, nameless, horrors to the back of my head. After 20m or so the ground becomes squelchy and, although the idea of getting wet feet in one of the driest deserts in the world amuses me, I decide against it, and with some relief push my way back up the close, whispering path and into the sunlight.

A little further on the reed bed narrows and I find a place where the ground is dry and the parched stalks have blown flat in the wind. I am relieved to be able to pick my way across them with ease.

Once clear of the reeds I am immediately at the neat base of the volcano’s cone. Its sloping sides, scored with deep vertical grooves as though by huge claws are a little too smooth and steep to climb straight up, and I start to traverse it looking for an easier way. I come to a path narrow path, little more than a scratch, but it takes me up to the lowest edge of the high cone’s inner crater. As I step up onto the rim and look for the first time down into the chimney I grin to myself at the delicious vertigo I feel at the unexpected depth. There is no sign of this hole’s quick and fiery temper now, its heart is cold and lifeless. I try to imagine the scene of its last eruption, fire and smoke and ash belching out to ravage a world already ravaged. It would have been impossible to imagine then that the earth’s fury would ever result in such a sweet and peaceful oasis now.

There is some strength in the sun now, but there is a brisk wind picking up and it’s cool up here on the cone. I squint up at the rim curving up and away from me on each side, then start climbing to the right towards the highest point. Perched above the chimney on the top-most rocks, the volcano feels like an island, the centre-piece of four great radiating rings. First the green and blue of the lakes, which I can now see surround two thirds of the cone; then the grey, palm-scattered floor of the outer caldera; then the long black slopes leading out to the flat desert floor; and now I can see it clearly, the fourth ring, the black surrounding sand, blasted out from this point where I now sit for a distance of 10kms in every direction. Far away, at the extremity of my view, between black and sky, the yellow desert beckons, bright and gold.

Attila is the first to break my meditation on the peak, and as Jarek, Claus and Elizabet arrive also I decide it’s time to head somewhere less crowded. I start to traverse the top of the chimney and meet up with Ga’bor and all the Zborays with Fadel and the policeboy on the far side.

“Have you seen the red lake on this side?” asks András. “No!” I reply, delighted, and set off with a new objective.

Sliding down the outside of the cone I am yet again delighted with my new trekking poles. I’ve always been rather sniffy and dismissive about them, but they really are great. My conversion began with observing Bernie and Andy powering about on Uweinat last year, two people I respect enormously and who enthusiastically expressed the benefits of walking with poles. Then I was finally inspired to try them by reading Joe Simpson’s account of using them for the first time in the Himalayas and never looking back. Well Joe is one of my biggest heroes and I thought well if he’s a devotee of the poncy pole approach, then that’s good enough for me. So, I gave them a go and I have to say, I shall never be without them again, They are brilliant.

The red lake, although little bigger than a large pond, is indeed bright rusty red and extremely striking. I pause for a while on the slope above it. The water looks to be only a few inches deep and the surface is criss-crossed with white bars of salt. The red lake is almost dry. All the lakes here are salt water, but fresh water can be found only a few metres under the ground.

At the base of the cone on this side there is a wide sandy route through the barrier of reeds and water, and I chuckle to myself about how hard I made life earlier. I make my way back to the bottom of the long black slope below the cars. The sand is soft and deep, sliding away under every step. Like climbing dunes, this is the most exhausting type of ground to try and cover in the desert and it takes me a good half hour with frequent rest stops to reach the top red-faced and panting. The drivers laugh at me as I flop down beside them to wait for the others, but I tell them at least I made the effort instead of sitting up here like lazy sheep.

The wind is whipping through the camp when we return, and we pack up as quickly as we can and take refuge in the cars for the next leg of our journey.

We follow faint tracks out onto the dull plain. The route east from Waw an Namus to Tazerbo is periodically marked by tyres or oil containers standing upright on the sand. We stop for lunch at pretty much the only feature we see all day, a group of tamarisk mounds. The trees with their soft green foliage are long since dead and gone, but the remaining, huge root structures afford us a little shade.

Once fortified with some cheese and Bitter Soda we start to look around and discover that this has ever been a place for people. The ground is covered with flint chips, and on closer inspection András finds tools and Ga’bor some mill stones. We, the latest people in this place, are looking at the Neolithic remains of maybe the first people here, 6000 years before.

The old dead tamarisks are soon left far behind and we are back on the blank, heartless plains. In the desert, something of interest can be found on every square metre of ground, your eyes become attuned to the detail. But a desert is meant to be walked in, it has its own pace, its own rhythms. You can drive through hills or dunes or mountains and the big elements of the desert’s character can hold their own, it can still speak to you, even though you pass through it at speed. But plains such as these are the quietest, oldest parts of the desert, the end of erosion. To cross these by car, day after day, renders them featureless, voiceless, truly forgotten, condemned to loneliness. How many millions of stone tools and quartz shards and wind-shaped pebbles and fragments of bone and fulcrite shafts do we pass oblivious each day in this car? Who on earth, if not us, will ever stop and listen to the soft dry whisper of this desert’s stories?

Dora has soon sniffed out that I am a person with stories to be mined out, and her good behaviour in the mornings is traded for a story each afternoon. Yesterday I told her about Prince Ivan’s adventures in search of the Firebird, with the wise, grey wolf; and today I tell her how the woodcutters daughter overcame terrible trials to reach the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon to reclaim her lost love. She is a good listener and carefully absorbs all the details. It helps to pass the time. I start to suspect that Dora isn’t the only one who enjoys the tales as Fadel, who has stayed in our car since Waw an Namus, also asks me if there will be a story today.

I’m starting to really like Fadel. His official position with us is that of the guide we must have with us at all times as a group travelling in Libya, but in fact he has never seen the places we are going to. He has a mixture of quiet confidence and humility that seems to come with being at ease with himself.  He is strong and dependable without any bluff or arrogance, respected by the other men, but happy to cook or ask questions on subjects he is unfamiliar with. He alone of all the Libyans accepts that András appears to know more about the open desert than all of them put together. He asks him lots of questions as they travel side by side in the front of the car. He thinks carefully about the answers, respectfully clarifies them, and mentally files the information away. In this way he shows himself to be ten times the man of the others. You couldn’t tell the others anything, they are Bedouin and these particular boys think that means they know it all, anything they don’t know or that differs from their understanding is stupid or untrue in their eyes. It’s pathetic male posturing that shows a sad lack of maturity.

By evening we are still well behind schedule and still far from Tazerbo. We make our way to a patch of low hills and make camp in their shallow wadis. The flat hilltops used to be the surface here and they are covered with little fossil shells. Once this place was deep and dark and cold. The voices here speak of oceans.

Monday 20th October 2003 I slept well under the night show, but still don’t dream. I’m surprised at this, normally my brain has gone into night time overdrive by this time in the desert. I think it’s because we’ve really just been driving. I haven’t had that sense of space yet, that clarity and freedom of mind I come here for. As we pack up camp and settle in for yet another day in the cars, I feel frustrated but resigned, and I while away the morning by telling Dora the story of Vassilisa the Fair and her magic doll.

Photo by Andras Zboray

The sand and gravel grows flatter and smoother all day. The drivers are driving us mad by driving at a snail’s pace, and constantly stopping, apparently for no other reason than for a little rest and a chat. They have no respect for András’ authority and consequently no concept of there being a lead car. They constantly take off in front of us and force us to charge after them in the wrong direction. Fadel tries to negotiate a better situation, but they don’t really want to listen to him either. The only one they will listen to is the old man Abdu Garda, who I can tell is really enjoying playing the part of the wise man tolerating the silly Hungarian who thinks he knows the desert. It would be very easy to debunk him in front of the others if only we had more of the language, but as it is we have no way of countering his constant muttered criticisms of what András is doing.

Mid morning we pass through a belt of dunes and we stop briefly in their creamy waves. I love dunescapes, they are unlike anything else, but I can’t seem to enjoy this one. We move on too quickly, I can’t relax and absorb it; it’s like looking at a picture and all too soon we are back on the interminable plain.

We are heading for the oasis town of Tazerbo, where we need to declare ourselves to the authorities and fill up with petrol. I’m not sure that carrying petrol on the roofs of the car is that safe, diesel is one thing, but petrol quite another. However, it’s in metal rather than plastic containers and no one else seems concerned, so I guess it’s not a problem. We are hoping to be through Tazerbo and out the other side before stopping for lunch, but the journey is so slow that it is 2pm before we see the oasis. We decide to stop outside it and eat before entering the town.

Magdi has been getting more and more fractious about the slow progress, and Dora is feeling sick, and András is getting angrier by the minute as the drivers continue to wander off in the cars. By the time we stop for lunch the atmosphere is tense to say the least. It’s a shame because we stop in the shade of a peaceful group of palms and eucalyptus trees, and it should be a welcome break from the road, but I think we are all unhappy about the growing tension.

Thankfully the check-in and petrol process in Tazerbo is miraculously quick and we aren’t delayed too much further. The original plan had been to stop longer here for supplies and a look around, but I don’t think any of us are too concerned about abandoning that plan. Tazerbo has probably got a pretty strong claim to the title of remotest town on the planet, but although that sounds quite romantic the reality is far from it. The plentiful date palms, that should be the treasure of the oasis, seem to be growing wild and untended. The dead and dry lower fronds are left on the trees instead of being cut away, and the heavy bunches of dates are rotting where they grow.

The town itself is equally unloved, the concrete buildings are shabby and unkempt, the heavy sand streets are littered with rubbish. At least, as I watch a large lorry load of sand trundling mysteriously down a street, Tazerbo makes me have a good laugh. Where on earth are they moving sand to or from? And why?!

As we leave the town we come to a water valve. The contraption is sunk down to the water table and the natural pressure brings the water gushing up to the surface. There is no stop on the valve; the water is just tumbling up into the air and onto the ground. There is a giant, flat, muddy puddle all around it and the water lies wasted on the ground.

There is something terribly irreverent about this disregard for water. In the desert water is the most precious thing, water is life and death. How can the people of this remote desert town have forgotten that? There is something unforgivable about it. But I have observed before that oasis people are not desert people, they look only inward, at the trees. I am glad to leave Tazerbo.

Soon the palms are left far behind and we continue our painful, dawdling progress over the plains. We aren’t visiting this desert; we are simply passing through it.

Thankfully as evening falls we manage to reach a tiny uninhabited oasis called Bir Zighen. There are a few pretty little dunes, a handful of palm trees and unbelievably there is surface water; two shallow drinking holes, dug out by animals.

This is a really good desert place. We camp beside a little horseshoe barchan dune, and Dr Desert begins to restore some peace to our group. As the sun sets I walk up on top of the dune and stroll along its big flat back. Finally, there is some silence. Only in this quiet, do I realise that one of the most depressing things about being in the car all day is the constant noise and never being alone. You can only shut your eyes and try to sleep if you want to get away.

After an hour I feel a little refreshed and return to camp. We are out of fresh bread now, so I have promised to make some tonight in a sand oven. I’m a bit uncomfortable about it in front of these smug Arabs who I know will watch my every move, but ‘Stuff them!’ I think, ‘I make good bread.’

They make a second fire for me beside the first and curiously watch me mix the salt and water and flour into dough. Dora is very excited about the bread and helps me by pouring in the water. When the fire has burned down sufficiently, I shape the dough into a big flat disk, move the embers back into a pile, flop the bread onto the hot sand and cover it over. The Arabs nod with reserved approval. Fadel asks me somewhat quizzically if I have really never been to Libya before. I say no, thinking ‘You’re not the only people who make bread you know.’ “But where did you receive your training then?” He asks. “In Egypt.” I reply “From the Bedouin there.” He raises his eyebrows and nods, but says nothing more.

András is making Hungarian goulash with rice over in the camp kitchen, and when it’s ready I dig the bread out of the fire and scrape and beat it clean. It’s a little heavy, but tasty nevertheless, and everyone seems to approve, including, I’m surprised to say, the Arabs.

The evening is relaxed and pleasant. The Libyans roast peanuts again in a metal bowl, and we watch the fire. I start to think that things might be going to be ok after all. At 9.30 I walk in the dark up to the top of the dune, where I have already left my bag and sleeping things. It’s windy but warm up here, and I tuck myself down behind my kit bag and listen to the wind through the handles. It feels like my first night in the desert.

Tuesday 21^st October

My sleeping brain has kicked into dream mode at last. Last night I dreamt that I had just left a stage at the end of a performance, dressed in period costume of some kind. I left the wings and found that to get backstage I had to pass through the bar, already full of audience members sitting drinking and chatting. I felt a little self conscious and decided to hurry through as quickly as I could. I spied a little door opposite me and hurried through it. The door closed behind me and everything went quiet. I found myself at the foot of some narrow, dim stairs that I had never seen before.

They didn’t feel threatening in any way so I began to climb. On the first floor I found myself in what seemed to be grubby crew quarters. Half eaten food containers, dirty mugs, tatty magazines and some rather delicate china plates. One of the crew men wandered in and I started gathering the plates telling him that they shouldn’t be using these really as they are the theatre’s best china, and people had been looking for it. He shrugged and took the plates from me nodding.

I walked back out to the stairs and found myself back in normal clothes and very much my true self again. I climbed up to the next floor and entered a quiet, peaceful apartment. There were wooden floors with bright woollen rugs, sunlight streaming through windows and window boxes full of herbs and flowers. Two bright-eyed, neat old ladies appeared in a doorway and looked at me smiling and expectant, their hands folded in front of them.

“I’m sorry. I was climbing the stairs.” I say, and they nod and smile even more. “Who are you?” I ask.

“We are the guardians of the theatre. Every day we say charms and blessings over it to keep it safe.” Says one. Although, I am then not sure which one has spoken.

“I didn’t know.” I say. “Well, I’ll leave you in peace then. I have to climb the stairs you see.” I move towards the door, then stop and think and turn back to them. They are still watching me closely.

“Does he love me?” I ask, and they break into further smiles and look at each other and then back at me.

“Oh yes.” The second one replies.

“Is he ever going to tell me?” I ask.

“Eventually.” Says the first, unblinking. I nod thoughtfully and turn back to the stairs.

I climb again , this time to the top floor where I find another apartment. This apartment is also beautiful but less homely, it seems more masculine. There is a big black bed, neatly made, it doesn’t look like it’s for sleeping in, more like it’s for show. I sit on its edge and wait calmly. Rock Hudson walks into the room drying his hands and face on a towel, then stops and looks at me.

“You’re here then.” He says grinning.

“Looks like it.” I say.

“Good. Let’s get out of here then.” He says. And without knowing how, I am in a chauffeur driven car with Rock, a girl I don’t know and my friend Vince. We are driving through Knightsbridge and Rock wants to stop at all the shops. Vince and I are smiling and laughing and pointing, and the girl wants to go to New Look.

There’s nothing else to this dream. I wake happy and a little disorientated in the soft folds of the dunes, with the sun just showing a slither of gold over the horizon. I roll on my back and look at the sky, and laugh.

We pack up and leave the oasis camp. I’m sad, I felt some space there, but now, back on the plains I feel shut in, claustrophobic, as though we’ll never escape them. But mid morning, we see, dotted along the horizon, the great towers of water-well fields. Colonel Mu'ammar Abu-Minyar al-Qadhafi’s great irrigation plan. Before long we cross one of the great pipelines sunk under the ground. Its surface is as wide as a big road and it stretches for thousands of miles south/north from Tazerbo up to the costal reservoirs. These pipelines are called The Great Man Made River Project and it is the biggest feat of modern engineering in the world. Apparently the Americans are convinced that the huge underground pipes are being used to move tanks to and from Tazerbo out of the view of spy satellites. All I can say is that the Americans have obviously never been to Tazerbo. In fact, nearly 1000 wells, most of which are more than 500m deep, deliver 7 million litres of water a minute north from the Sahara’s deep underground reservoir. It takes the water nine days to reach the coast.

By 11am a long line of pylons also comes into view and when we reach them we find the great north/south Benghazi/Kufra highway. This most certainly isn’t the greatest feat of engineering in the world. This ribbon of tarmac, the width of half a motorway, was laid down for thousands of miles to allow the movement of trucks to and from Kufra. How smug the road builders must have been. How triumphant at conquering this, the biggest of wildernesses. As if. Only 20 years on, the desert is making its best joke of this fragile work of man. The entire surface is ruptured, cracked and eroded. The sand is literally pushing up between the fractures, and you can see that in little more than a great desert heartbeat, this long black scar will be reclaimed. For now, the lorries do still bump along it, but at little more than 30mph. The road is a monument to man’s arrogance and presumption.

We are running seriously late. We need supplies and the Kufra shops close at 2pm, if we aren’t there by then, we shall be delayed until evening. András says that although the road’s surface is bad, it will still be quicker t use than picking our way through the desert beside it.

Thus begins easily the most miserable stage of our journey so far. Using the wreck of a road would be quicker in our 4 wheel drive, off-road, vehicles, if our drivers didn’t insist on driving them at 30mph and stopping every half an hour to consult each other. The clock is ticking, but despite all András’ best attempts to spur them on, Ibrahim leads the others at an exasperating snail’s pace. There is nothing we can do, nothing we can say. Tempers are rising once more, but we sit in strained silence. Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, along the tarmac.

Many of the trucks we see coming past us from Kufra are carrying dozens of camels sitting calmly on their flat open backs. The camels are driven to Kufra over the desert from Sudan, then fattened up and driven north to be slaughtered for their meat. Even now watching them on their last journey, the creatures look proud and dignified.

Kufra is a vast, green, palm oasis, containing several towns. The biggest of which, Tadj, is where we need to check in with the military police. Unfortunately at 2pm we are still miles out at the first checkpoint. We are resigned to missing the shops this morning, but more important is our need to check-in and get our permits for the next and most remote stage of the journey. The soldiers at the checkpoint tell us the office closes at 3pm, so we press on hopefully.

We leave the other two cars and the pick-up fuelling at the first garage we come to and race into town. The office has moved since András was here two years ago and we have to ask directions. We are sent down a maze of dusty back streets, which turn out to be dusty front streets, and eventually pull up outside a smart concrete enclosure at about 2.45pm. András and Fadel dash inside the little gate, but return 5 minutes later with long faces. The office closed at 2pm and won’t open again until morning.

András is furious. “This is why I wanted to start early.” He says to Fadel. “I told the drivers 7.30am but they ignored me. Even so we might have made it if they hadn’t been messing about all day. Tell them I am not pleased; tell them this will be an expensive day for them; tell them that they will be paying for us to stay here.” We head back to the garage in a stormy silence and explain the situation to the others. András is stoical again and says, “Well, at least we will be able to go into town and have a good lunch with cold drinks.”

We finish fuelling and clamber back into the cars, but as we pull away the pick-up steams past us and heads away from town over the grubby sand behind the petrol station. “Where are they going?” Cries András. “I have absolutely had enough of this. I told everyone we are going into town. Why are they heading off somewhere without consulting me yet again. Stop the car!” Ibrahim slows down a little so he can argue with András, but he doesn’t stop, he wants to follow the pick-up. As the argument gets going, there is suddenly a small explosion in the seat next to me. Magdi screams “This is it! This is it! I have had enough! Why don’t you listen?” And with that she ferociously kicks open the door and leaps from the, at least slow, moving car with such violence that Ibrahim and Fadel nearly wet themselves. She marches round in front of the car and screams at Ibrahim, “When he says stop, you stop! You stupid man! You understand me? You stop!”

She has definitely brought things to a head, and soon the pick-up returns and the argument dies down. Magdi is coaxed back into the car by András and, in relative silence; we drive into town and find a café selling cooked chickens in a busy street of makeshift shops. There is a definite rift. We all slump down in the plastic chairs and tables, and all the Libyans troop next door to a separate café. Fadel comes and says he will try and get someone to come and open the police office for us this evening, and we start to relax a little. At least if we can get the paperwork done tonight we will be able to leave for Arkenu first thing in the morning.

András orders 5 roast chickens with bread and fresh salad, and we devour the lot. Ga’bor and Attila both seem particularly keen to secure the Chicken Eating Champion of Kufra title, but Jarek has got the situation all sewn up, finishing his own double helpings and everyone else’s leftovers. I have to say I have never known anyone eat as much as Jarek does, and the injustice of it is that there isn’t an once of fat on him.

Life seems a lot better after some good food, and I start to think about what opportunities an afternoon in Kufra might afford. Magdi, Elizabet and Dora managed to successfully gain entrance to the mosque at the end of the street for a pee, so I decide to see if I can’t push my luck even further and wash my hair there. Magdi comes along with our secret weapon, Dora. We are sure that the only reason we have been allowed into the enclosure is because we have a child with us.

We walk in through the gate and across the dusty but pleasant garden to the wash room where the men wash their feet before prayers. It’s a relief to climb the steps into the cool white-tiled room. Our eyes relax in the soft shade and the hot garden seems unbearably bright beyond the open doors. Around the walls are taps set at intervals over a low stone trough with a white tiled bench running around its edge. There are a few men quietly washing their feet. They glance at us but say nothing, so, feeling encouraged, I select a tap with a short length of hose and wash my dusty hair. It’s the nicest feeling ever. There is no other treat I would trade at this moment for the blissful sensation of the cold water running over my scalp and my hair growing silky again.

We stroll back through the busy street and peer into each shop. The shops are all identical, square, concrete lock-ups, but each contains something different, this one kettles; this one tinned food; this one sewing machines. Compared to Tazerbo, Tadj in Kufra seems neat and organised. I’m sure you could get anything at all in this practical town.

All our spirits are much restored, and to cheer us up further, Fadel appears and says he has persuaded the necessary person to come and open the office for us again at 5pm. At 5 we make our way back to the police enclosure, and miraculously the office is indeed open for us. The office is opposite another little mosque and a Sudanese staging post. 50 or 60 Sudanese men are sitting about under the trees waiting to go home. András isn’t very happy about us girls getting out of the car, but I soon decide that it’s hot in the car and that I’m fairly confident I can deal with any troublesome Sudanese men  in a busy street.

In fact, this street is a very friendly place. András and Fadel go to sort out the permits and we sit on the cars chattering in the sun. At 6pm the calls to prayer go out from the mosque, and the men file in from ever direction. 20 minutes later they emerge with their topped up quotas of Allah’s good will. We make lots of friends. Everyone wants to stop and chat, and blissfully no one seems to want anything except to have their photos taken.

We wait and we wait, and darkness falls and we wait. At about 7.30pm András and Fadel appear with good news and bad news. The good news is that the paperwork at this office is now complete; the bad news is that we have to go to a different office to do something else. Fadel has initially said that this second office might be open now, but the drivers aren’t happy, they want to go and camp. We all want to avoid coming back into town in the morning at all costs, as we know it will take hours if we do, but Fadel now says that the office will probably be closed after all, and the drivers openly revolt. There is nothing we can do to shift them.  We are all utterly pissed off with them by now.

We head back to the miserable patch of sand and palms behind the petrol station and make camp in the orange glow of Kufra’s street lights. It’s a miserable end to a miserable day. Even I put up my tent on this bit of wasteland, I would rather not watch the orange sky as I fall asleep.

The rift is so complete between us and the Libyans tonight that we don’t even join them at their fire. András lights a separate one away from them and prepares a hassle free supper of soup.  While it is being prepared I sit on the bonnet of one of the Toyotas with Dora curled up in my lap and tell her the story of the Firebird again, it’s her favourite.

We none of us stay up long after the soup, and soon retire to our tents. I fall asleep with the sound of traffic in my ears.

Wednesday 22^nd October

I sleep late, all the way to 8am. András and Fadel have gone into town early to sort our the permits, so we could all sleep longer, but its warm in the tent and my dreams have been far from restful. I dreamt that after a difficult weekend with my mother, she finally admitted that her house was about to be repossessed. I realised I was about to have to stump up £103,000 to bail her out, and was very fretful and worried. There isn’t much to cheer me up outside the tent. The grotty wasteland with its unkempt palm trees and mess of tyre tracks looks no more appealing today than it did last night. What’s more, now people are bumping past us in pick-ups, making it extremely awkward to have a private moment behind a tree.

Photo by Andras Zboray

There is nothing much to do. Attila and Ga’bor go for a walk over to a low hill, but the rest of us sit in the limited shade of the cars or palm bushes. Once again we wait and we wait and we wait. Eventually at about 12 András returns triumphant, and he even has some extra good news, which is that he has managed to purchase plane tickets to take us from Kufra to Benghazi on 1^st November. He has also been assured that there will almost certainly actually be an aeroplane on that day too. This is really great news because the alternative would have been to drive back on the dreaded bumpy highway and the journey would probably have taken about twelve hours.

Things are looking up. Even the rift between us and the Libyans seems a little healed. The old man has agreed that if he can lead us to the last checkpoint outside Kufra, then András can take over from there.

We leave Tadj and set off through the Oasis, past huge camel markets and the giant circular fields that you can see in Kufra even from satellite. Unfortunately we almost immediately run into more driver stress. To leave Kufra in this direction you must ascend several miles of long sandy slopes. András tells Ibrahim to stop so we can let all the tyres down or we will get stuck. Ibrahim says no we won’t. We get stuck. Ibrahim lets the tyres down a bit, András says not enough, Ibrahim says it’s fine, and we get stuck again. Ibrahim and the other driver finally, grudgingly, let the tyres down enough. By the time we reach the last checkpoint (a shed in the middle of nowhere next to a rock), we are ready to kill them all. Then we discover that the old man has lead us to the wrong checkpoint anyway, we have to sign out of Kufra at a different one 11kms away. The soldiers at this checkpoint offer to take us over to the right place, but suddenly there is something wrong with their truck, which must be fixed before we can leave. This all seems rather suspicious as they drove past us in it earlier this morning and it was fine then. I get the strongest impression that our lot have told them to stall so that they can all have a cup of tea, which is exactly what they do.

After tea the truck miraculously works again, and with much stopping and starting as usual, we trundle across to the other checkpoint and get signed out of Kufra. We all breath a sigh of relief as we now expect to get on our way, but this is not to be. The drivers are all in deep debate with the soldiers. They obviously have no intention whatsoever of entrusting themselves to András’ knowledge or going anywhere without a track to follow, and they are now trying to get some kind of directions from the soldiers. The soldiers are all pointing in vaguely different directions and the situation is looking rather alarming. Kufra is the last settlement for thousands of miles in this direction and I have no desire to go into one of the remotest places on earth, if everyone isn’t going to completely obey the man in charge. These ignorant drivers could get us into all kinds of problems.

András tries to take control of the debate by explaining that he has been travelling in this desert for years, that he knows exactly what he is doing and where he is going, and that the quickest route to Jebel Sharriff (the first mountain we wish to visit) is that way. The soldiers ignore most of this information but immediately pick up on the fact that we want to go to Jebel Sharriff. Oh no! We can’t go there, it’s not on our paperwork, we must go straight to Jebel Arkenu. András is exasperated. What difference does it make if we go to Jebel Sharriff or not? It’s practically on the way to Arkenu, just slightly longer. But they insist. Once again, I am watching very closely, and I get the strongest impression that it is our lot who don’t want to go to Jebel Sharriff because there is no track there, and are encouraging the soldiers to block us.

The situation is disastrous, but eventually there is nothing to be done and we set off along the direct route to Arkenu. We resign ourselves to trying to see Jebel Sharriff on the way back. We stop for lunch at a steep conical hill, Jebel Hamseen, 50 miles from Kufra, and after eating a couple of crackers in the shade I decide to head to the top for some air and a view. I’ve been experiencing stomach cramps and mild nausea all morning, and I think that a bit of exercise might help. I climb first up to a long saddle and then set off to the little peak from there. It’s a steeper climb than I anticipated and once at the top I am hot and out of breath. Sadly there isn’t a breath of wind up here, and I am feeling distinctly worse.

I am joined by András who is similarly climbing to feel better, but his affliction is taking the form of seven impossible Libyans. I sympathise with him, and we are both sorry to start our descent, him because he has to go and face more of their nonsense, and me because I am now almost doubled over with pain. Magdi spots that I have a problem when we get back in the car, but there is really nothing to be done, so I grin and bear it.

The afternoon passes in frustrated resignation. The drivers have no idea about driving in the real desert, and fiddle about hopelessly with the tyre pressures, utterly ignoring András’ instructions. I just sit as still as I can watching the nightmare unfold as wave after wave of pain and nausea flows through me. I think accusingly about the chicken we ate yesterday, but no one else is ill, so I guess it can’t be that.

Shortly before nightfall we make camp just beyond a disused camel station (another shed by a rock), in a cluster of rocky mounds and low hills. Our camping spot is really open and peaceful. It’s just the kind of desert place I would normally really enjoy, but instead I find myself preoccupied for about an hour behind a rock. After this performance I feel dizzy, and lying down on the first sand I come to, I fall immediately fast asleep. I dream very clearly that I am standing, quite still and alone in the desert.

“Hello” I say, although perhaps not with my mouth.

“Hello” Says a voice that I feel more than hear, a voice both gentle and vast. Its words come to me like knowledge. I have heard this voice before.

“I’ve come back.” I say.

“Have you been gone?” It asks.

“A whole year.” I reply.

“A year?” It asks.

“It doesn’t mean much, does it?” I reply.

“I don’t know. Does it?” Says the voice.

“Do you get lonely?” I ask.

“No.” Says the desert. “I am loneliness, but I am not alone.”

I wake up in darkness and very cold, but feeling a lot better, so I join the others to try out a fizzy drink on my stomach. It seems to cope, and later I even manage a little plain spaghetti. Fadel makes popcorn, and Raymond and I entertain Claus’ request to hear sea-shanties. By the time I creep off behind a tiny ridge that will one day be a dune and crawl into my sleeping bag under the sky, I think that I actually might not be going to die after all.

Thursday 23^rd October

I wake up feeling much better, whatever I’ve picked up seems short lived. I dreamt that I was at an official party to celebrate the rejuvenation of the world. After lots of rather formal waltzing some curtains were drawn back to reveal the Earth. Then there was a short countdown, at the end of which a huge, silvery, liquid coating slipped over the planet, sealing it protectively inside. We stood and watched in silence. We face another morning of driving, but today we are taking it in good spirits and I think it’s because we know that today we will reach Arkenu. We set out and pick our way south east. Dora is very keen to inspect some dead camel remains this morning and, as there are plenty along the way, it isn’t long before she has the chance.

Photo by Andras Zboray

We stop briefly to accommodate her on a little hill overlooking a long dune belt. Far, far away on the horizon there is a faint shadow, Arkenu. The desert sand is turning red, the world is looking more familiar, we are coming home.

We drive all morning with the usual displays of incompetence from the drivers, but we don’t get too fretful about it because there are mountains coming at us, grey, out of the soft blue sky. Jebel Babain and Jebel Bahari appear as two small northerly shapes and then to the south of them is the huge bulk of Arkenu. I’m really excited about seeing Arkenu up close, she has always been a tantalising, distant wraith, glimpsed either from the slopes of her big sister Uweinat, or further north, from the top of Clayton’s Craters. Now she is becoming real, transforming from smoke into granite and sandstone.

Arkenu is a mountain of decreasing concentric circles. From far out the mountain looks wide and flat with no obvious peak, and it is hard to guess which the highest point might be. On a northerly approach you are faced with a great wall of impenetrable cliffs, and we spend two hours circumnavigating the mountain to reach its only entrance on the southern side. This nameless wadi is the only wadi in the mountain, and is marked, like Karkur Tahl, by a tree at its entrance. We turn up into the big stony river bed and bump our way slowly into the mountain. The sun is high and very hot and at around 2pm, although not far from our intended camp, we stop in a large, inviting patch of shade for lunch.

There are flies. There are a lot of flies. More flies than I have ever seen at Uweinat, more flies than András has ever seen on either mountain. They drive us completely mad. András says that there is supposed to be a rock art site somewhere around here, some engraved giraffes that were discovered by a German team this year. He doesn’t know where they are and invites us to help him look. In the fierce midday heat the only volunteers are Attila and me, but anything must be better than sitting still with the 5000 flies in our faces. We walk out of the shade and up the valley, unfortunately many of the flies decide to come along for the ride also. András and Attila begin a systematic search up the left side of the wadi, but I am too hot to go traipsing off for miles so I decide to make a thorough search of a big line of interesting cliffs just up ahead.

The cliffs are composed of great cracks and boulders and fallen slabs of stone, and I have a glorious time scrambling about to look in all the nooks and crannies. From high up I can see András returning down the wadi and I perch on a ledge to wait for him. “Any luck?” I call down. He grins up at me and shakes his head. “You?” He asks. I grin and shake my head back. I’m far away from where I climbed up and have no idea what’s below me, so I get him to guide me to a suitable descent, then we wander back down to the others at the lunch spot together. I’ve had enough of this malarkey, the temperature is extreme even by Saharan standards and I flop down in the shade with the others. Attila soon joins us also, but András sets off down the valley undaunted. “I’ll just take a quick look for ten minutes.” He says. He returns having discovered his giraffes 40 minutes later. A small naughtiness that has not gone unnoticed by either Magdi or myself. In the desert you should never be longer than you say you are going to be. Not that we’d been particularly worried about him, it has to be admitted, If András can’t look after himself in the desert then no one can.

We are going to make camp under the cliffs I have just been exploring, and the drivers ask if we can all walk there to lighten the cars as they cross the very bad terrain. By the time we have set camp it is 4pm and starting to become a bearable temperature. András suggests a walk and says that at the end of this wadi there is the remains of a Tibu hut and a small rock art site. I really need to be alone for a while and take off immediately ahead of the others.

I put my head down and set off up the wadi. The end is quite a distance away and I’m surprised András thought of this as a short walk. I stride forwards for an hour. At 5pm I reach the huge head of the valley. I climb to the top of a big pile of boulders in the centre of the space and survey my surroundings. I am in a ring of small mountainous foothills, the steep ravines and valleys of which, would once have fed this much bigger watercourse below. I have promised to be back in camp by 6pm and I’m going to have to turn back almost immediately. I scan the area once more. There is no sign of a Tibu hut or any rock art either, but then there is no sign of any of the others either, so I guess I am probably in the wrong place. I turn around and set off back down the valley.

The sun is setting behind the hills at my back and the big granite mountain before me is turning a burnished orange. Dark and grey the long shadows creep from the wadi floor onto the mountain’s flanks. The darkness rises like water. I am witnessing the daily drowning of light.

Half way back I am temporarily confused by the view ahead of me. This doesn’t appear to be the wadi I walked up. This wadi is huge, much bigger than the one where we are camped. Then I realise. In following the left hand side of our camp wadi with my head down, I have popped out of it into a much bigger dissecting wadi and continued up that without even noticing. I see the others at the entrance to our little valley as I return, and realise that this is the position of the Tibu hut and the rock art, I just sailed straight past them with a walking fever on me. I feel refreshed by my walk, more than that, I feel restored. It has been good to be alone. It would almost have been a perfect 2 hours if it wasn’t for the wretched flies, who are still driving us all completely insane.

The unpleasant thing about the flies out here is that they make for any moisture such as eyes, nose or mouth. They lay their eggs on contact, which is a real problem where eyes are concerned. There is a two day incubation period, after which the eggs hatch over a 3-4 day period, resulting in tiny little maggoty worms in your eyes. They don’t do any damage but they are incredibly irritating and have to be fished out by a sympathetic volunteer every night. It is a truly horrible business that should be avoided at all costs, but despite best efforts András tells us that someone has had them on every trip so for. I am surprised to hear that it was Bernie who got them last time we were here.

 “Really?” I exclaim. “He kept that quiet.”

Magdi Laughs. “Yes.” She says. “But with that particular group someone would have had to be actually dying before they would have said anything!”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right!” I agree laughing at the memory.

Back at camp I grudgingly put up my tent. I just can’t stand the thought of the flies starting up on me in the morning. Jarek, who I have converted into abandoning his tent, sticks to his guns and finds a flat rock to sleep on.

“You can be my guinea-pig.” I say. “If the flies don’t drive you mad in the morning then I will sleep out again tomorrow.” He grins at me with a triumphant sparkle that tells me he thinks I am being a lightweight. I ignore him. I really like Jarek, we have hit it off immediately by teasing each other and mild insults fly back and fourth all day. We have a similar sharp wit and it’s fun to have it zipping about, but underneath is the beginnings of a good friendship. I think we both recognise something familiar in the other. He is also very well travelled and tells some super adventure stories around the camp fire. Outwardly he is reasonably sensible and practical, but under that is what I like most, an air of rebellion, a sense of the bad boy; it doesn’t particularly manifest itself in any way, but it’s there under the surface. I would really have liked to have met him in his usual environment before we came here. Only a month ago I was in Chicago for a weekend, but completely failed to clock that one of my immanent travelling companions lived there. I am sad now not to have met him there, and not to have met his wife Bożena, who sounds like a lovely, plucky lady and I think we would get on well.

Supper is the most disgusting concoction of tinned turkey and brown sauce, which we are all very polite about until, to our relief, András himself grimaces in horror at the first mouthful and we all fall about laughing at how awful it is. The leftovers, of which there are many, are tipped out on the sand for any passing fennec fox to dine on, and, surprisingly tired, at 8.30pm I turn in for the night.

Friday 24^th October

The night was so hot that I didn’t even get into my sleeping bag. I tossed and turned and prayed for a cool breeze. I don’t think any of us slept that well and we were all awake early. As I sit in the opening of my tent pulling my boots on, Dora walks slowly over and flops into my lap for a cuddle. She is always very affectionate and morning hugs are a regular thing, but she seems out of sorts. “Are you ok little rabbit?” I ask. “No.” She says mournfully. “I am not well. I have a very bad headache.” Magdi walks across and explains that she has been up most of the night and is running a fever of 40°c, which I get Raymond to work out in real money and it’s 103°f. This is a worry. András comes and collects her to give her some medicine to bring her temperature down.

Photo by Andras Zboray

I ask Magdi if there are any red marks on Dora’s body, thinking vaguely about headaches in children and meningitis, but she says no. It seems probable that Dora is suffering with the same thing I had two days ago or maybe with some heat stroke. She and Magdi will stay in camp today and take it easy.

The rest of us are going to make a thorough exploration of the main wadi, which goes up for many kilometres into the mountain. There are various know sites of interest along the way, a well and two rock art sites and different people are aiming for different points according to their fitness.

At the top of the camp wadi we don’t continue up the big valley I explored yesterday, but cross directly over it to an opening on the opposite side. The big valley is just one of the big rings inside the mountain and the true wadi goes straight in over them. Just inside the opening, among big granite boulders we find the first rock art site. It isn’t that impressive, except for the fact that the three headless human figures are about 3’ tall and it is the only known site in this area where the figures are so big. We make a search of the area to check nothing has been missed, but draw a blank, so continue.

The wadi is quite narrow and full of big interesting granite boulders. Karkur Tahl is a sandstone wadi, but despite the different rock, this place has a similar feel. There are huge granite walls in places, and when you can get back from them, you can see that what appeared to be a cliff or hillside, is actually one gigantic boulder, hundreds of metres high. The surface of the granite looks like the skin of a potato that’s been roasted in the ashes of a fire.

We cross another of the big inner circle valleys and we re-enter our wadi on the far side. As usual my longer stride is carrying me off ahead of the others, when András shouts out, “Hold on. You are walking past the well.” I’m surprised because I have never seen a natural well in the desert that wasn’t surrounded by green, but here there is nothing. I turn back and sure enough on one side of the wadi, between the boulders is a slightly damp patch of sand. On closer inspection there are four very small holes full of water that have probably been scraped out by animal feet. It’s not the most impressive well I have ever seen, but it would certainly save your life.

This is where we leave Raymond, who says he will relax here on the flat rocks for an hour before returning to camp. The rest of us continue scrambling up through the big gully. The temperature is climbing and we stop every half an hour or so to enjoy some shade and let everyone catch up.

At the top of the gully the wadi flattens out and grows wide, and bends to the right further into the mountain’s heart. There is a very slight breeze, but it is still very warm and I am pleased to reach the site of the last known rock art and collapse in the shade. The images are some classic giraffes on the side of a boulder, and from her on the wadi, to the best of our knowledge, is unexplored. Elizabet knee is hurting so she and Claus decide to call it a day here. The rest of us leave our things as a makeshift base camp and continue up the now narrowing wadi. We are Jarek, Ga’bor, Fadel, András and me.

Jarek and Ga’bor find a little site with what seem to be cows. Ga’bor and I move on up, but as soon as we are gone Jarek looks further round the same rock and finds two big round head figures, the first ever found on Arkenu, András is delighted.

A little further up we climb up two fantastic high, smooth, black steps that must once have been the most beautiful waterfalls. The wadi grows flatter again beyond them and we seem closer to its end. The rocks are becoming more broken and gravely and we decide to turn back. We are running short of time and water, the rest of the wadi will have to remain unexplored.

Returning the way you have come always seems quicker than the initial journey out, and thank goodness, as the temperature is soaring now. We stop in our shady lunch spot, but I’m too hot even to eat. I munch on a cracker, but the boys manage to polish off some cheese. Jarek and his fantastic appetite can always find room for another helping of anything of course.

We wait for a couple of hours. There is cloud in the sky, high layers of blanket cirrus, and it always seems as though it is about to cover the sun for us, but it never does. It’s not really very bright sunshine anyway; the air is just fantastically hot. The odd thing is that it’s humid too. Normally the air is dry here, but not so now, we are sweating unpleasantly, and our water consumption is much higher than we would normally expect. We speculate that it might well have rained here this year, which might also account for the flies and the large numbers of locusts we have seen. Whatever the reason, this walk is really not all that much fun.

We give up on waiting for it to get cooler and begin our journey back down the wadi. We have a two hour walk home. Only András still retains his eagerness to check every nook and cranny for paintings, the rest of us just put one foot in front of the other. His efforts pay off and he finds a small site that we had missed on the way up.

Crossing the last of the big intersecting valleys is the hottest I have ever been, in the desert or anywhere else. The air is still and I can see from the thick shimmer all around me that the heat isn’t just coming from the sun above, but also from the rocks below. We are in a flameless furnace.

We reach camp by 5pm. We lie down in the shade of one of the cars and don’t move a muscle for at least an hour. Dora’s temperature has dropped back down to normal and although she is rather quiet, it is a great relief to see her looking better. The flies have driven us all to distraction during the course of the day and, defeated, we have now resorted to sitting with cloths entirely covering our heads and shoulders. We must make a very strange sight indeed. Raymond is the cleverest, as he has a specially designed net bag to put over his head. It does the trick, but he complains it’s hot on the inside and he looks like a demented bee keeper. The only people who seem happy are four little pied wagtails who have taken up residence in camp and are utterly delighted by the feast we are providing them. Half the time they don’t even have to catch the flies, we have all become terrifically adept at killing them by clapping, and the happy birds just clean up after us.

Thankfully at sundown the flies disappear and we are able to truly relax with our mango juice and a precious jar of olives. Supper tonight is Spaghetti Bolognese, and thankfully András is back on form with his cooking and it’s delicious. Raymond sits in the dark for an hour by the leftovers in hope of seeing the resident fox, but even by morning he has not returned. Possibly he was also appalled by András’ brown sauce dish last night and has decided to skip any further human hand outs.

Once again I’m in bed early and I’m sad to say in bed in my tent despite Jarek’s assurances of a fly free morning. There is just something a bit unwholesome about this wadi. I’m sad to say that Arkenu hasn’t really managed to win my heart and I shall be pleased to leave for Uweinat in the morning.

Saturday 25^th October

Every morning I have my breakfast with Raymond. If we have packed up camp, which has been most mornings on this trip, he will be sitting in his camping chair beside the breakfast car, and I will sit down with my tea and crackers on his red kit bag, and we will start the day. Conversation can be about anything, little details we see around us or completely random things plucked from our combined 110 years. I am growing so fond of Raymond. One of the drivers asked me earlier in the trip if Raymond was my father and I, defensively, said no! he was my friend. We laughed abut it later, but I pointed out that I thought it more of a compliment to be happy to be his friend not his daughter.

Photo by Andras Zboray

And he agreed, saying that there was something voluntary about being a friend whereas you can’t pick your parents. I never think of him as someone 50 years my senior, he is funny and clever and interesting and kind, breakfast is always a pleasure.

We are happy to be leaving Arkenu I think, I certainly am. It’s a fresher morning than the last few days have produced and once we are back out in the open desert there is a wonderful breeze. We stop after an hour a short distance away from a big hill made of large round granite boulders. Frederick Berger reports having found a large rock shelter here this spring and we have his co-ordinates so we set off on foot. We climb the hill, through the boulders and down into a semicircular cove on the far side, still near the top. Along the back of the cove is a long and really spectacular shelter, blown flat and deep into the stone. I crawl in and sit near the back looking out at the grey-blue view of the wide plain before me.  This is a place to live.  Over my head are hundreds of painted figures. We spend some time crawling about photographing the ancient marks and sitting peacefully absorbing the view. This is a place to rest. This has always been a place to rest.

Making our way slowly back to the waiting cars I climb away into the secret places of the hill, in among the rocks, for once, a very small creature. Out here I can feel small.

For the rest of the morning Uweinat presents itself, blue, to us. The great enigmatic mountain, that Magdi describes as ‘not giving itself easily’ seems welcoming; I feel, as always, a sense of homecoming. There is a broad dune belt between the two mountains, described on the map by the early explorers as ‘Impenetrable Dunes’. In fact, as with all sand driving, it is just a matter of tyre pressure and by midday we are clear of them and entering the edge of the mountain.

You could really describe this great mass, half granite, half sandstone, as a range, so far reaching are its imposing foothills and plateaus; and yet there is something singular about this massif. All its hills, its wadis, ravines and fearsome cliffs are one. They are, Uweinat.

We are entering by Karkur Idriss on the north west side. You couldn’t get more of a contrast between two creatures of essentially the same species, as these two mountains. In Karkur Idriss there is none of the mess of wasted ground and shattered hillsides that make up Arkenu. Here all the granite is piled neatly in evocative, irresistible, elephantine boulders, and the valley floor between them is deep soft sand. Unlike most of the other Uweinat Karkurs there are no acacias here is Idriss, so you can kick off your shoes and walk about barefoot without fear of the long piercing thorns.

We make camp at the foot of one of the vast piles of round boulders, and to our delight discover that you can creep under and between them into cool, sandy chambers. It’s a great, stone, adventure playground. Dora calls it her magic castle. This place is Bu Helegar, which means the ‘father of circles’.

We treat ourselves to a special lunch of tuna, sweet corn and mayonnaise, which we pile into our bowls with a big spoon.

There are some known painting sites at a neighbouring boulder hill and after lunch András takes everyone off to find them. I just need some peace and quiet today, so stay behind with Dora and Elizabeth. It was a long walk yesterday and I feel tired. I can really notice that I am not as fit by this point as I would normally be had we been walking every day and not just sitting in the car, and I’ve overdone it a bit yesterday.

Elizabeth is happy entertaining Dora so I creep off into a cool chamber in the heart of the rocks. The sunlight filters gently through the cracks and a sweet breeze drifts through between the stones.

The others return and invite me to go for a drive in the neighbouring Karkur Hamid, but I’m not going anywhere. I just want to be alone. Of course I’m not completely alone. Mid afternoon Dora seeks me out saying that she has something in her eye. I can’t see anything at first, but then I get my torch out and shine it in for a good look. I turn it into a Doctor Hannah and Nurse Elizabeth game, and Dora is so delighted that even when we have successfully retrieved the offending eyelash, she keeps returning all afternoon, demanding that I check her eye for alien objects with my torch again. I really don’t mind. Every time I declare her fit and well, she rewards me by flinging her arms around my neck and saying, “Oh Doctor Hannah! You are the best eye doctor in the whole world. I love you.” How could anyone possibly object to that?

At 4pm the others return and I agree to join them on a trip into the higher parts of Karkur Idriss to look at some paintings that András and Bernie discovered two years ago. We drive up into the Karkur, and the view of the true mountain is magnificent. We can’t see the actual peak from here, but it’s high plateau is clear. I think about our extraordinary ascent one year ago. I think about the thousands of tiny steps I took, that carried me up the mountain. I look at the lofty cliffs, slopes and saddles and try to imagine myself up there now. I am there in a moment. I know that there is a part of me that never came down.

The boulder hills get bigger and bigger as we climb the valley. I wish I could describe them adequately. They remind me of elephant and rhinoceroses’ grey, prehistoric skin. We’ve talked about them being like piles of giant earthy potatoes; but now I think about it, they are like big balls of bread dough that have been baked grey in the hot ashes of a fire. We climb up to a surprisingly high rock shelter with some pretty cows and figures. Reaching it first, I scan the ground hopefully for two year old footprints. Its silly, I know, but if I could find one of Bernie’s footprints and place my hand into it, then I could reach him, touch him, bring a little of him here to me, but there is nothing. How I miss him, my quiet Bavarian friend.

It’s finally cool and pleasant, and, in soft wind and lengthening shadows, we conduct a search of the strange landscape. We find nothing, but it’s the nicest evening I have spent on this journey. I can feel just a little of the place’s stillness soaking into me. If I could truly learn this stillness, and imprint it into my life, then I would never feel stress again.

While we’ve been gone Fadel, Hassan and the old man have been over to check us in at the checkpoint at Ain Dua, and they have returned with a sheep. Tomorrow is the beginning of Ramadan, so tonight the Libyans are intent on feasting. The sheep is briefly christened Arthur before being discreetly dispatched and butchered by Hassan. The meat is roasted over the fire and we make mash potatoes to go with it. The mutton cutlets are hot and fatty and delicious. Fadel sidles over and slips an extra one into my bowl and I later feel guilty when the boys complain of still being hungry.

After supper we sit round the fire munching more roasted peanuts until it is just me, Ga’bor, Jarek and Attila left, and we turn again to tales of adventure and bravery. We’ve all taken a turn, Jarek’s tells us about climbing in a blizzard; Ga’bor’s about climbing active volcanoes; and my own story is of course about climbing the very mountain that cradles us now. But only when Attila speaks am I reminded that the greatest bravery is rarely something you go seeking, and that life is an extremely precious thing.

Sunday 26^th October

Last night I was delighted to be sleeping back under the stars. I dreamt of standing in an empty warehouse hugging my friend Dugald, and the hug, his hair smelling of the sea, locked together motionless, as we can sometimes be found at even the wildest of parties, went on forever and forever and forever. I woke in the darkness of dawn that is not darkness. In darkness in which I cannot see my watch, I watch the sky turn apricot gold and can pick out the black mountains in the east. I get up and only András is awake. I pull on my boots and follow the footprints across the silent wadi to inspect the paintings I have not yet seen.

Photo by Andras Zboray

I am caught completely by surprise by the first shelter. It has a series of large and rare round headed human figures at its entrance, and inside on the big flat roof and literally hundreds of assorted cows. No one mentioned yesterday how spectacular this site was. It’s really nice visiting the shelters alone and I just lie for some time on the floor looking up the rippling figures.

The other sites around the area are less spectacular, but the walk is really nice and I return to camp completely rejuvenated and ready for the day ahead. The others are slowly appearing, but I skip breakfast and scramble up to perch on a big boulder to draw the view of the paintings hill in the morning light. I’ve nearly finished when I hear Dora in tears and Magdi trying to comfort her. Dora comes out of their tent, limp as a rag doll, and leans her head on her arms against the rock below me.

“Whatever’s the matter little Rabbit?” I ask her. “Are you sick again?” She nods hopelessly and lies down in a ball, she looks seriously unwell. Attila comes and examines her but is at a bit of a loss, he says that from her symptoms the worst case scenario is that she has appendicitis. He recommends giving hr a pain killer for now and seeing what happens. We are ready to move up into Karkur Ibrahim, so Dora is given the painkiller and put in the car. She immediately falls fast asleep with her head on me and her legs across Magdi. I can see that Magdi is quite frantic. There is no quick way out of here.

We drive up beautiful Karkur Idriss and cross over through a little connecting wadi into Karkur Ibrahim. Karkur Ibrahim is incredibly green with great patches of healthy, mature acacia trees, all in flower and dripping their glossy sap onto the rocks below, making them glisten as if wet. However, after only 20 minutes we stop in a desolate, gravel pit of a spot, with a tiny corner of sand and a sliver of shade. András says this will do for camp tonight and invites everyone to walk up the valley. Dora is still fast asleep and I can see that Magdi is really distressed by the situation so I decide to stay with her here. It’s only 9am and the morning is stretching out before us interminably. We sit in the shade and talk for hours. At around midday Dora wakes up and is much better. She hasn’t eaten much for two days, she’s been saying nothing tastes good, but now she is hungry and we feed her some of Attila’s grandmother’s biscuits and some marshmallows I had been saving for a special occasion to roast over the fire.

Magdi on the other hand is not so good. Mid morning, in the middle of a sentence to me, she started coughing and choking as though she’d swallowed something down the wrong way, but there was nothing, and she has been coughing ever since. Her symptoms are immediately familiar to me, she is reacting in exactly the same way Andy did when we were in Karkur Murr last year. As he did, she complains that there is something moving in her throat, and she starts streaming from her eyes and nose. It’s like a terrible allergic reaction. She drinks water, eats bread and sucks sweets, but nothing seems to help and there is very little else we can do, so we just watch her suffering with sympathy.

Soon the walkers return, and they return with a story to tell. They found no paintings, but high up in the valley was a ruined Tibu hut, and inside the hut was a skulless human skeleton.  The bones were old and white, and scattered about by animals. I suppose no one will ever be able to say who that man was. A Tibu, old or sick or injured in some tribal dispute, who crawled away to this remote dwelling to die. And what did he die of, this nameless one? A wound? A fever? Or did he die the desert death? Did he slowly die of thirst? He would have known his fate, this man. Maybe he was waiting for someone, but there would have come a time when he would have known that they weren’t coming, or that if they came, it would be too late for him. Maybe he lay motionless for days drifting in and out of consciousness, his mouth dry, his tongue swollen. Maybe animals came, a fox perhaps in the dusk to watch the dying man who would later become an innocent meal. Who did he think of as he lay drifting? A wife? Children? Who missed him when late became missing, when missing became lost? Who would we comfort now by saying, “Yes. We saw him. We saw him on the mountain”? No one left. All dead and gone themselves. We tell no one. The drivers would make a fuss, and this man is beyond fuss, beyond mourning. Better he stay with the mountain and sleep the long desert sleep.

We eat a salami lunch and take the cars down the valley to look for more known paintings. It hardly seems possible, but the temperature is actually rising. The first shelter is discovered easily discovered and is satisfyingly full of cows with a beautiful view of the valley outside. We are back in the big boulder country now and the second site takes some finding. We begin to make a further search of the area, but soon the extreme conditions start to get the better of us. Eventually all of us go on strike and lie down in the shadows, even the old die-hards like me and the new-blood enthusiasts like Jarek are defeated by the uncharacteristic humidity. Only the indomitable András never falters from his cause, systematically searching round every rock, into every corner. I feel a trace of guilt as I watch him picking his way, tiny, along the far side of the valley, but this is his great purpose, not mine, it is enough to be here.

We have all been objecting to the current site of tonight’s camp, so when András is finished we return and collect our stuff and look for somewhere nicer. We find a patch of sand back in the beautiful boulder land, close to the main massif of the mountain. The mountain seems to bend round us as if to embrace us into its stony heart.

It’s 4pm and the temperature finally seems to release its throttling grasp just a little. I grab my pack and set out alone up to the top of the nearest big hill. Every day at the moment seems to end with the need to run away and be alone. I sit until 6 watching the mountain, thinking about how far it has brought me, what it means to me. I have a lot to thank this place for. This mountain is at the centre of a wilderness second in size only to the frozen wastes of Antarctica; it is the end of stories; and the beginning.

At sunrise Attila and Ga’bor come up to enjoy the view, they leave again in the dusk, but I sit a while longer watching another night fall and wonder what it’s all about.

The alcohol-free bar is situated rather grandly tonight on the top of a big platform of rocks. We have belligerently continued our tradition of sundown drinks, regardless of the limitation of a totally dry country, and each night we savour our choice of either mango juice or Bitter Soda. Jarek and I amuse ourselves until supper discussing the intricacies of dating in England versus America; a subject I don’t think either of us have the first clue about; and the dangers and delights of travelling in Polar Regions. We both agree it would be worth undergoing a great deal of hardship to see polar bears, killer whales, narwhals and such.

Supper is chilli beans, which I know Raymond dislikes, so I produce the rest of the marshmallows and some wooden skewers, and introduce everyone to the toasting approach. I thought everyone knew about toasting marshmallows, but it is a new game even to Raymond, so I have to thank my mother for a unique and wonderful childhood experience. Somehow, in my enthusiasm to make sure that everyone savours the delight, much to the amusement of the Zboray family, I end up getting terrifically sticky and then of course coated in sand. At bedtime it takes me some effort with wet wipes to get cleaned up.

Monday 27^th October

I have never known such a hot night ever, even with the terrific wind that picked up around midnight there was no escape. I tossed and turned; waking hourly to drink and moisturise my parched lips. I dreamt vividly that a horned viper had slithered down from the rocks to curl up at my back; and after I had woken sweating and frozen with fear, I wasn’t quite able to shake the feeling fully enough to fall back asleep. The hot wind blasts over me and howls in the rocks. We all stumble to breakfast early and I get the impression that no one slept well. Magdi is still coughing and streaming terribly, and generally feeling miserable.

Photo by Andras Zboray

We pack up camp and move down to the entrance of Karkur Ibrahim. The boulder hills get bigger and bigger as we approach the plain, they make me think of Gormenghast; huge citadels rent in the natural stone. We stop to look at some paintings for an hour and I climb away from the others literally up inside one of the hills. I wander through narrow sandy passages, up slopes, under bridges and into chambers. I’m not among boulders but in the heart of solid granite, split again and again into a maze of corridors by the one time movement of the earth. I decide to start back to the cars and for some 15 minutes find myself completely lost on one of the upper levels; I can see the others below on the valley floor, but can no longer find the right route down to them.

We are all invigorated by this place; it’s fun to explore, whilst almost always being shady and cool. In addition András finds some new paintings, so we are all satisfied.

We continue out of the Karkur and south around the outside of the mountain. We will visit the two springs today, Ain Zuaia and Ain Dua. Both springs are home to tiny Libyan checkpoints, the men at the end of the world, watching a border that is never going to do anything. I’m apprehensive about seeing these places and making a reality of their existence in my head. Part of what I love abut Uweinat is its remoteness, its ability to comfort me with its isolation from humanity, but these 6 men will demonstrate the fabric of my illusion.

We reach Ain Zuaia first. The spring itself is up inside the mountain and piped down here to the cluster of huts and mobile homes on the plain. There is a concrete yard, surrounded on three sides by the wooden office, a shipping container and a shady lean-to for the comfort of passers by. The yard is full of beds and mattresses that appear to have been only just vacated. It would be pointless to sleep under cover here. Two water skins, fashioned from whole goat skins, hang in the lean-to and the drivers refresh themselves from the strange bloated bodies. We sit down and we wait. András is trying to negotiate our movement down to visit Kissu, the 3^rd mountain of this range, situated rather frustratingly 30km over the Sudanese border. Of course, we have crossed this border regularly from Egypt and know there is nothing to worry about, but the Libyans are extremely twitchy. The Ain Zuaia soldiers are actually fairly relaxed and unconcerned, but our drivers are making a stand that they will not go anywhere that they don’t have prior written permission to go. There are long discussions. There are delicate trees planted around the yard, and sparrows fluttering about, but for all this it has a weary feel; people are making the best of a bad job here. Talks have reached a stalemate here, so we decide to move on to Ain Dua and speak with the soldiers there.

The Ain Dua compound and entrance is marked by a semi circle of white painted oil drums. We drive in through the opening and I’m amused by the attempt at imposing an order on this patch of nowhere. The spring at Ain Dua is right on the edge of the mountain near the plain. The boulder built granite hillside is high and steep here. We drive up to its foot and stop the cars. I get out and look about. There is Arabic graffiti on many of the rocks and the ground is strewn with rubbish and debris. I would like to turn straight around and leave, the place seems all but ruined to me, but I walk forward into the rocks, following the footprints of the many before us, and come to the spring.

Again there is no green, but a dozen little birds startle up as we approach, signalling the water. The spring is hidden deep down under the boulders; you enter the shadows and at the foot of a recently added step is a black triangular pool of clear, cold water. I can’t see the bottom; it almost feels like the entrance to another world. If I were to undress, and slip, original, into that dark opposite of the desert, I can imagine floating down and down into the vast, silent lake hidden deep under the sand. It is the irony of the desert, and Ain Dua is the taunting window to that irony. Below the Sahara is one of the biggest water reserves in the world, just beyond our fingertips, just beyond the reach of all but the deepest wells. Ain Dua is the desert’s little joke with us.

And yet, as I sit here beside the water, I feel compelled to write about hope, about possibilities. This place is the physical realisation of hope. We have travelled for days across the desert, for days towards water; for all journeys in the desert are journeys towards water after all; and on reaching water, we find that everything is made possible. Not just the continuation of our journey on the sand, the quenching of our thirst, but the direction of our future from this moment. There is water in this place, at the heart of thirst, and anything is now possible.

There are paintings high above the spring. I climb to a few, but I’m seduced by the water and soon return to the shadows near it. It is 42° today and we are perplexed as to how to function. Magdi and Dora wash their hair, but I resist, feeling precious about the water. The place might be a mess, but it still feels somehow unacceptable to use the water for washing, this water means life to every living thing this side of the mountain. However, so great is the girls’ delight as they swing their wet hair to and fro that I decide to stuff my morals back into my pocket and join in the exercise. Utter, utter bliss. Somehow it doesn’t matter how dirty the rest of me is if I have clean hair, I feel like a new woman. The sand and the grit and the dust fall away with the water, and unclog my joy as they go.

András’ negotiations with the drivers and the soldiers here at Ain Dua have been an out and out failure. Our disappointment and frustration is universal, at this moment we would all cheerfully beat our Libyan drivers round the head with rocks if we could, but there is nothing to be done. We discuss what to do instead round a picnic lunch at the well. We decide to go back and camp at the big fortress rocks we explored this morning, and think further about the next three days there.

At 5pm we start back out onto the plain. We are going to do a big sweep to look for an Italian plane that was brought down by the Long Range Desert Group in the 1940s. The drivers aren’t keen. They are grumpy from fasting since sunrise and are keen to be settled in camp by 6pm when it sets again and they can eat and drink again. We are all fairly unsympathetic by this point, and insist they head away from the mountain. After a while we take pity on them and compromise by letting the pick-up go ahead to start their preparations.

Flat deserts like this play al sorts f tricks with your eyes, especially when you are searching for something specific. Apparently quite large objects away in the distance shrink into unimpressive rock as you approach them; huge objects, like a plane, can be virtually invisible in the heat haze until you are virtually on top of them. We scan the horizon all around us, but there is no sign of the plane, but looking into the sun I see a dense wood of spindle trunked trees moving black on the horizon. I rub my eyes and squint again, trying to make out what new trick of the sand this is.

“Camels! They’re camels!” Exclaims András, and we turn towards them in delight. The tree trunks become hundreds of stepping legs, and the branches, humps and nodding heads. There are around 150 camels in the bunch accompanied by half a dozen lean young men striding along beside them. The young men with their beautiful, dark, black skin and high cheekbones, nod to us with serious yet civil faces and smile courteously at our request to walk with them for a while.

We set off with a sense of real exuberance, there is something almost festive about this meeting. The camels sway along like stilt walkers. Their pace seems to be slow, but they cover the ground at a surprising speed. The bunch breaks into two groups and for a while I walk between them, dozens of lean bottoms swinging from side to side ahead of me; dozens of long supercilious noses floating along above my head behind. The camels are all dignity, all containment. Despite their pungent aroma, I am completely in love.

The camels have come from the Sudanese town of Mellet. This caravan has been walking for 20 days. At Ain Zuaia they will replenish their internal water supplies and then step out once more, this time for Kufra some 8 days away. As we drive away towards Ain Zuaia I look longingly out of the window. “I want camels.” I say wistfully.

Approaching Zuaia from this direction the hard reality of these creatures’ epic journey becomes apparent; the plain is littered with literally hundreds of desiccated bodies, it’s a camel graveyard. The weak ones are left here to die, the rest will be herded to Kufra, fattened up and driven on trucks, as we saw, up to Benghazi for slaughter. We have seen these creatures on their last journey; these perfectly adapted ships of the desert are little more than supermarket stock.

In Zuaia the soldiers know where the plane wreck is and point us 12kms out onto the plain in the other direction. Our drivers are getting decidedly grumpy but we goad them on. In the last rays of the setting sun we photograph the skeletal remains of the big bomber. Its wings are g