The Best of Wanderlust (A GeoEx eBook)

The Best of Wanderlust

On Dream Mountain

Boulders the size of houses. Rivulets gushing down mountainsides. The young walking on stout legs. The old perched on donkeys, cheeks chapped and eyes lost in wrinkles. Sometimes I took a ride in the back of a pickup. Or squeezed between others in a clapped out Mercedes as it slalomed heavenward, the gears grinding, the driver high on kif . At other times, I walked. Eventually, I reached a knot of low mud-built homes clustered in the shade of a little mosque and minaret. For once, the dogs were too old or too tired to bark. So, I slumped down on the ground and caught my breath. Within a minute or two, greetings had been showered on me by the imam . Half a pomegranate had been forced into one hand and a cup of water into the other. God was praised. More salutations were proclaimed. Neighbors were called. Mouths smiled. People streamed from their homes. Laughter mixed with cries of surprise. And God was praised again. Once the pomegranate was in my stomach and the water had quenched my thirst, I did something which I had not done before on the journey. I took out the seed and held it for all to see. The villagers peered at the object, taking in the red and the black.

again. After more steep twists and turns, giant boulders, rivulets, blinding light and ice-cold shadow, I reached another village. More hands were shaken, salutations given, refreshments, and thanks to God. Once the pleasantries were over, I took out the seed. Again, the villagers huddled forward. “He lives up there,” said a young man, pointing to a shack encircled by cacti. “Who does?” “Mustapha Benn.” On my travels I have come to learn that it is sometimes better not to try and make sense of things. Like a bubble of air rising up through water, an explanation usually arrives. That is, if an explanation is supposed to come. So that is how I reached the battered old door and found a familiar face. The face of the visitor who had presented me with the seed. “Peace be upon you,” he said, seemingly unsurprised at my arrival. “What are the chances of meeting you here?” I said, flustered and confused. Mustapha Benn ushered me into the two-room home where he lived alone, and set about boiling water for tea. “If you believe in possibility,” he replied, “then anything is possible.” “Even the impossible?” “Yes,” of course. “ Especially the impossible.” After tea, a simple meal was served, then more tea, some conversation, silence, and bed. I woke early, my head aching, my body cupped round the embers of the fire. Mustapha Benn was sitting in a chair near the window. “You slept well,” he said.

All of a sudden, they started to talk. Urgently, the imam held up a hand. “It’s not here,” he said. “But in the next village.” “What is?” “The place you are looking for.” ~~

Not for the first time since setting off from home, I didn’t quite understand. But, having given thanks, I took to the road

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