The air is warm; the wind blows through my dry face. My skirt is waving in the air and I am trying to grab it with both my hands. I look down at my feet, which are already covered with a thin layer of sand. I look at my husband Aaron, chatting with one of the tour guides. He is wearing a traditional Arabic blue head scarf. Aaron and I, both of us Israelis, are taking a journey through the Sahara desert, this enormous, dry, endless place covered with fossils which indicate it used to be a sea.

'There is something in the desert air that makes you whisper when you speak.'

We’re on a camel tour. Three days riding camels and today is the first day. I am still a bit jet lagged due to a long flight from the U.S., and I'm trying to get used to the desert air. I have been in the desert in Israel but it is not so vast as the Sahara. Our tour group has 15 people; everyone has his own camel. The camel I ride is making strange noises and his mouth foams. I look at his face and see his big mouth chewing. I sit on his hump and he raises up quickly. I imagine what it must have been like when the Jewish people left Egypt and feel like I am living in biblical times. Our pace is slow, the sun is strong and the heat is almost unbearable, over 50 degrees Celsius. We stop at a small oasis which is surrounded by a few trees and a well. We help ourselves to the water, though I am wary of it; everyone shares the same cup and I pray it is not contaminated. A small child, maybe 8 years old, appears from behind the trees with a small basket of dates. I buy a few from him and bite into the juicy, sweet fruit. The sugary flavor spreads through my body and I am filled with new energy. Our journey continues with cloudless views of the desert. Everything is quiet except for the soft sound of camel footsteps in the sand. The air quickly becomes cooler as the sun begins to set on the horizon. We have made it to our night camp, where four large tents are waiting for us.

I sit on a large rock and look about me. A few women run around the campsite preparing dinner. I can smell the spices they are using to prepare the meal over an open fireplace, can practically taste the delicious food. In the meantime we put our bags and sleeping bags in one of the tents. The blanket, which we used as a pillow for our camel ride, will be our blanket for the night. It smells a bit but I tell myself that this is desert life. Everything moves in slow motion around us. The camels are also preparing for the night as they lie down by the side of the camp. My camel looks peaceful; I can swear that he is looking at me… or maybe it’s just my imagination playing tricks. Maybe it’s a mirage.

Meanwhile, a few women put a colorful carpet on the ground, and some of our group sit on it. They are speaking amongst themselves, almost whispering; there is something in the desert air that makes you whisper when you speak. Our Berber tour guides wear traditional blue clothing and speak to us in French and Moroccan, which is similar to Arabic.

“Sit,” one of them says to me. He says something to the woman next to him and she rushes to bring us a big pot of sweet, hot tea with a few glass cups. She pours it and again, a wonderful energy fills me. I am happy now: the sweet tea, cool air, views and the setting sun, all mixed now into one desert symphony.

One by one the other tour members arrive. We sit in a circle around the fire and our guide, Hassan, hands over spoons and bowls. We’re hungry after a long day trekking through the desert and sure enough the food soon arrives. The Tajin, a traditional large bowl, is filled with lamb, potatoes, onion and carrots, cooked in a thick cinnamon gravy. In another big bowl is the white, fluffy couscous, similar to rice and served in any Moroccan meal. We eat quietly as the couscous is replaced by sweet dates. Our tea is refilled again and again. It’s night time and I look to the sky; millions of stars are twinkling.  Everyone reclines on the ground and looks up.

Hassan and another tour guide decide to play the oud, a guitar shaped instrument that resembles a Greek bouzouki. His friend Muhammad is drumming on a tambourine. One of the women brings more drums and I join in the drumming. The women sit with us on the floor and sing an Arabic song. I sit next to one of them and start to sing along with her. She smells so good, like a mixture of fire and rose water. She smiles at me, places a soft hand on my shoulder, and we continue to sing together. The fire is strong and we are surrounded by a complete darkness. I say to myself: no cell phones, no radio and no TV. There is just sand, a thousand stars and silence.

'She smells so good, like a mixture of fire and rose water.'

The drumming grows louder as one of the women gets up and starts to dance. She tries to pull me towards her but Aaron looks at me and shakes his head. I sit on the floor trying to decided what to do. The woman is still trying to get me to dance. Aaron whispers urgently in my ear, “I don’t want you to dance with her.”  But I do get up, and  reach for the woman’s hand, which is nice and warm. I start dancing.

I am shy and hesitant at first but I quickly change my pace. I find myself dancing with my arms in the air, moving back and forth; I feel wonderful as more women join us in the dance. We hold onto one another, hug each other. Western women and Arabic women, yes, but here in the desert we are all the same: just women. My face is burning hot, maybe from being close to the fire or perhaps it’s the energy that surrounds me. I look at Aaron but he doesn’t look at me; he just gazes into the fire. In that moment I feel strong and happy and free. I dance for another hour. When I finally go to bed I cover myself with the old blanket and fall asleep quickly.

In the morning I get up and stretch. I look at the remains of the fire, still smoking. The women are grinding coffee beans and preparing breakfast. I wash my face and greet the tour guides and fellow travelers. The stars have disappeared and the sky is light blue, just like the day before. One of the Arab women comes over to me and puts something in my hand: a blue eye silver charm.
“Keep it,” she says.
“Shukran, shukran,”  I say in Arabic. Thank you. And I cry. Because nothing and everything had happened, and I knew now that my life would change again.