Six men sitting on a blanket at the base of a sand dune in the Sahara Desert. Just after sunset when the light is still bruised. A fire pit of coals dug into the sand to make tea. Here. In the middle of nowhere. But everywhere is somewhere and this is just my middle of nowhere. Though the more I’m here, the more I feel it’s my center. The light fading. The embers bright red. A smashed water bottle used to fan the flames. Turns taken to fan the flames. Tea madam? It’s hot and sweet in the little glass cup. Too late I wonder about hygiene but that also feels like another world’s problem. They pour the dregs of mine back into the green teapot decorated with enamel dotted flowers. Nothing wasted. More tea made to take to the man who will build the camps. While we sit and they laugh and tell stories. Though I don’t know what they talk about, really. It all sounds like song, rising and falling. I can hear where they will laugh just before they do and then I laugh too. Because laughing in a group is one of the delights of the world. You don’t even need to know what was said. You can simply feel the energy, the buildup, the release, the joy sparking out into the night sky.
