Oh man - don't some drives just make you want to write poetry? This one cut across country from Ait Monsour to the desert highway where we would head north to Tata.

Impossible to capture the aching desert silence, the sun fading the colour as it moves through the desert dust, transforming the landscape to a vintage polaroid.

We imagine the ravages of time, the earth shifting, whole lake beds turned on their side, mountains created from the violent folding of the earth.

Cairns of stones mark a new road perhaps, concrete pipes, tractors, a gold mine. A donkey wonders at his lot but fails to move to the sole tree to his left.

Time slaps the split screen of the Series as she remembers what her kind have been doing for 50 years, rattling on dusty desolate roads. I have Going to California by Led Zeppelin as a soundtrack in my head.

We don't see a single human soul and even the desert animals must be sheltering in the shade of occasional date palms or the small caves in the side of dried out creek beds.

We are getting hot. Very hot. In fact by the afternoon I will have heatstroke, but that's for another post.

If we broke down here we would be here for hours or days. This is a whole lot of nothing. We choke on dust and heat.

No, there's nothing for tourists here, unless you are mad like us.

With Love,

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