The bright orange sands of Moul N’Aga move secretly and silently in their timeless stroll across the southern Algerian landscape, leaving a mathematically perfect curve which snakes its way downhill like the sensual side of a sleeping woman. You want to touch this place, to embrace its awesome scale, to roll in its folds and breathe in its being.
One climbs because it is there, the soft underfoot sapping energy and testing calves. Atop, the cloudless sky, a bright blue, contrasts like some Andy Warhol backdrop to the view across the sand seas stretching endlessly below. The leeward side is cold, hidden from the incessant heat of the desert day. The windward side air chars the inside of your nose sucking out your skin’s moisture and toxins in a ritual purification reminiscent of a health spa. Its invading warmth caresses you dispelling anxiety and easing pain in a comforting heavenward transition.
The more than gentle touch of the wind belies the prospect of turmoil. Spraying grains cut your face necessitating a raising of your tagelmust as your irritated, still exposed, eyes register the distant curtain beginning to close in, calling you to descend now before the sand fogs out the sky and the visible world shrinks. Beckoning from below a welcoming glass of sweet green tea securely round a dancing fire before the sun sleeps.
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