At the Sahara Desert on a “Horse With No Name.”

March 30, 2020 manuello paganelli

December 27th, 1999 Near Al Mahbes and the Algerian border

It was my nine day in the Sahara desert where the air is as hot as a 4th of July in Chattanooga while the nights are shivering cold. Now after a few straight nights of sleeping under the sand I was praying for a much warmer evening where resting in a tent would be much comfortable and without any fear of a desert Hornet Viper snake or scorpions crawling my direction.
I stood at the highest sand dune fifty meters from our camp in Erg Chebbi and there was nothing between me and the hazy horizon but an open vast sea of reflecting sand, hills and a shallow valley of golden sand. Directly above, like a blurry and over exposed photograph, was the blistering sun nagging and laughing at us. My body and legs were aching from the rides on the camel’s mount while my face was sunburned, my mouth was sandy, my tongue was dried and my lips were parched. I was a man on fire.
I kept looking for life.. any life… a patch of lush green oasis with fresh water but it was all a fantasy for there were not birds, clouds, vegetation, lizards or animals except loneliness, sand storms, the smell of my own sweat and the unfriendly Algerian border 10 kilometers ahead. By then I had even forgotten what a shower was.
I was with a tough and friendly band of Bedouins. To them life is all about survival, and of the freedom of moving to their next spot with everything they ever owned on the back of their animals. The nine men had met me at the start of my journey through a friend of a friend of Casey Stenger the photography director at Men’s Journal magazine who had sent me there on a story of an Italian runner who got lost there in a race. Later I learned nobody knew who such a third man was. But all worked out well for the group received me with facial smiles and dark sparkling eyes. They dressed me up in a long white loose fitting desert tunic made of the wool of camel, and fitted on my head a 'kufiyya' which, for protection, had ends at each side to wrap around my neck, face and head. Then I was given a camel to ride which, in a felliniesque way I named “A Horse with No Name”.

During my time at the desert my new friends shared the little they had to eat or drink. Their hospitality towards me could never be measure on a monetary terms and any offering of money, which I discovered fast, would had been taken as an insult.
During most night, by the camp fire, they would pass hot Maghrebi mint tea, played a fiddle style instrument called rebab and a drum known as mihbaj,
sang songs which I didnt understand and in an intimidating fashion , as if preparing for the battle field, danced with their sharp swords and well-designed shibriya
Daggers which goes back to the Ottoman empire. To the group those weapons are the difference of life and death.

During the festive dance they would place their weapons over their heads and each time would show their skills as they sliced off the air using various attacking strikes. The flames would cast their dancing shadows out of the circle until it disappeared in the darkness. A couple of times, during the early part of our trip, they signaled for me to join the memorable pleasure and each time I was a failure. They also tried to teach me how to use an embed gemstones short dagger and that too didn’t go well for I was afraid to either cut someone’s head off or most likely cut my own.

One early morning I was woken up by gun shots so not knowing what was happening I carefully crawled and peaked through a hole on my tent and saw two of the men firing away from the camp. I came out from under my tent, walked over, and saw that they're firing well used rifles and aiming far away at the cure hide of a lamb that had been set up on a pole as their target. I watched quietly for a while then with gesture I asked for one of their rifles. Since I could not dance or properly use their long and short knives their eyes didn’t have much faith on me. But an old rifle was handed to me and I propped myself well, took aim held my breath and pulled the trigger. With the first shot they were quite surprised to discover that from that sizeable distance I could hit the target. They laughed and look at each other’s then look back at me and kept on laughing. I didn’t know the meaning of their joyful moment and to make sure they didn’t think, “that cant be true it must had been a lucky shot” I fired again with the same results, then they applauded, padded me on the back and shoulders... I smiled back and returned their carbine. With aplomb I headed to my tent and on the way there I left out a smile with the type of facial expression that could only revealed “good Lord!! I actually did that!”

The entire trip went well with them and I wanted to know what they were saying and what they were thinking. There was so much I wanted to share with these humble expressive nomads but I felt lost in their land, tradition and language.
The following day was similar to the one before except that earlier during the morning I heard the crying of a goat and follow the path to the suffering animal and when I got there saw where a young capra had just been killed. The animal was then gutted and cleaned out and the skin was set to dry. The sliced off pieces of meat were placed in a large oval clay container where vegetables and spices had been added then marinated. A couple hours later it was transferred into a 2 piece clay pot known as tajine and placed to cook under the sand. The simmering went on for hours as the irresistible aroma escape through the sand and drove me insane.

Darkness arrived, the meal was a feast, and after the taste of camel and sheep's meat for four days the goat was quite a treat and its flavor was so great that we could had been eating at a Michelin restaurant in Marseille. After much food and before the group started to play their instruments
I stood up then with both of my hands out in front of my chest I drew half a circled over my belie then graciously bowed to my guest. With their eyes locked on me they raised their drinks, mainly tea and goat’s milk, above their shoulders and gave me a hearty laugh which very much became our own way of talking.

I walked away from the camp and with the burning fire on my back I went past the area where the meal had been prepared and cook, then through another space where the killing took place, which blood still covered the ground, and beyond where the tents had been setup which from there it lead me towards the rear where the camels stood as some rested on the ground.
I am sure they smelled me first for the tall four legged friends were very vocal and some were burping, roaring while others made growling noises before they saw me. On the ground, I found A Horse With No Name and he was pleased to see me. I laid next to him, patted his head, told him some words of comfort and gave him a few grains & nuts which I had bought twelve days before in Casablanca. We chatted for a while then left my one hump friend behind and I marched much further until the sounds from the camp were muffled and found a spot to sit and observe it all. I decided to pee and stood up then sat back again and gazed at the camp as the celebration continue with my band of Bedouins brothers.
Everything was peaceful, far away from the world, or any chaos, deadlines and man-made technology. My eyes went up to the black sky but it was quite clear and it reminded me of a large black carpet plastered all over with white paint. It was a full clear bright night with the Milky Way and all the starts as my companions. Then I lowered my eyes and saw the ripples created by the wind on the sand and, aided by the bright stars, followed it all the way to the camp where there was a weak flickering flame dancing in the wind as a smaller group of men continued their show, while others had returned to their tents to prepared to sleep.
Beyond our setting was the silent silhouetted landscape and, like a lonely pearl, the moon shone on its own and away from the glimmering stars… just hoovering low far away in the horizon at a fingers touch from God's hand.

This image is available at the Weston Gallery in Carmel-By-The-Sea and Obscura Gallery - Santa Fe NM It will be printed in various Hahnemühle archival photo papers.