Speeding across the Sahara on one of Earth's most punishing road trips

There are several ways to reach the Sahara, depending upon the bank balance, boldness, and backbone of the traveler.

You can fly from Algiers and within a few hours be riding a camel through the palmeries of El Goléa or sitting atop the high dunes of In Salah. You can start by train from Algiers or Oran to Colomb Béchar, then hook a ride with a friendly trans-Sahara truck going south—if you don't mind squeezing into a confined space and hearing your teeth rattle for a week or a month.

We drove, surrendering our car and ourselves to one of the most punishing trips on earth: more than 4,000 miles in 90 days. And for the Sahara, that's speeding.

My husband had crossed the Sahara twice before, during World War II, over compass routes of his own from Chad to Benghazi and then back again through Kufra Oasis to Khartoum. The Sahara beckoned, as it does to anyone who has ever fallen under its spell. And so, naturally, he had to return.

I went along as ballast. Besides, I had a curiosity about the Sahara. Was it really so hot, so full of sand, so silent, so empty, so big and wide and terrifying, so beautiful?

George had nearly died of thirst on his second Sahara crossing; so this time he made sure we were well equipped. I thought the trips to hardware shops and garages would never end. There was always something else absolutely vital; life depended on it.

He chose his vehicle with care—the newest model Land-Rover station wagon with four-wheel drive, oversize tires, double roofing and air-conditioning ventilators, extra gas tanks, short-wave radio, and heater (we needed that, too). We called her Mzuri, which is a Swahili word meaning "very good."

Into her we packed, repacked, and packed again, until, at last, everything had its place and nothing rattled, nothing budged. My typed list of contents—for customs officers—went on for four pages.

We spent three weeks in Paris battling for visas and permits. They were not easy to get, for the war in Algeria was in a very black period. In fact, all traffic leaving Algiers for the south was regularly attacked by well-armed bands hiding out in the mountains. So we decided to bypass the usual route and creep in from Morocco instead. The Sahara itself, we were told, was safe.

Journey to the sun

We left Paris at the end of a cold January, and our defrosting journey to Morocco gave us time to prepare ourselves for the sun-baked days ahead. With each mile south the world became warmer and brighter.

Spring had already come to Tangier by the first week in February. We sat in an Old World English garden, correct even to its perfectly pruned rosebushes, and drank iced lemonade. Below us the sea sparkled in the sunlight, and we watched the big white ferry-boat that had brought us glide smoothly back toward Gibraltar and Europe.

Iced lemonade, the sea, the continent of Europe. Those three things haunted me over and over again in the weeks to come. Would we ever hear again the cooling clink of ice against a glass? Watch little fishing boats dancing on the water? Or glimpse the faint outline of Europe across the Strait of Gibraltar from the lush gardens of Tangier?

Roads in Morocco are very good. Mzuri kept up a steady 50 miles an hour, and in two days we were in Ujda, on the Moroccan frontier near the Mediterranean. There we were to change course and head due south to Colomb Béchar, which is in Algeria and on the very brink of the Sahara.

Paved road ends in rutted tracks

At the hotel in Ujda we asked, "How's the road?"

"Excellent!" said the receptionist, an amiable Moroccan. "Paved all the way."

"Used very often?" we prodded.

"Of course," assured our genial friend. "Trucks go down every day."

So we bought a few loaves of French bread, a jug of wine, and some Camembert cheese for our lunch, and started at dawn next day.

For the first 120 miles we sped along on a smooth paved road and even passed a few vehicles. Then the surfaced road disappeared. It split up into a number of rough dirt tracks that wound through rocky ravines, low, sweeping hills, and dried-up riverbeds.

Our Shell Oil guidebook told us to follow the railway that connects Colomb Béchar with Ujda and Oran on the coast; so follow the railway we did. The trail got steadily worse. There was no traffic and no indication that any traffic had passed for quite some time. There was no frontier post either; no signboards, road markers, or gas stations.

Finally we arrived at a large and imposing monument to Gen. Jacques Philippe Leclerc, standing where he died in a plane crash 10 years ago. George was with Leclerc in French Equatorial Africa during World War II and knew him well. We stopped to photograph the monument and have a late lunch.

On our map the Leclerc monument was clearly marked near the Moroccan-Algerian frontier. Reassured that we were on the right track, we packed up our picnic box and continued south. The country seemed terribly deserted. We passed through two small native villages, but they were deserted, too, the houses in ruins.

"Guess there's no water here," I said. "The people have all gone."

Then we passed a French military post surrounded by barbed-wire entanglements and ringed by broken glass. Machine guns bristled from sandbagged ramparts. No one stopped us, or even appeared to notice as we rumbled by.

Although we followed close by the railway tracks, there were no trains all day. It seemed strange until we noticed that one of the bridges was down.

"How did that happen?" I asked.

"Looks like dynamite—or a land mine," said George. He seemed rather grim.

We reached Colomb Béchar at sunset, a bit gritty and sore, and went immediately to the police to report. The officer in charge asked us where we came from. We told him. He said we couldn't have come from Ujda, because there was no convoy that day.

George said we didn't come by convoy, we came alone.

"You what?" the officer asked, horrified. "Didn't anyone stop you?"

"We didn't see anyone," said George, "except a few of your soldiers."

"Our soldiers?" shouted the officer. "How do you know they were our soldiers? They were probably rebels in French uniforms. It's lucky you weren't shot! "

Then he remembered his manners and offered me a chair. "Well, well," he said. "You were lucky, madame. You were lucky."

He went on to tell us that we had just come through one of the most dangerous areas and that the hills around the monument to General Leclerc were infested with rebel bands, known as the fellagha. We told him we had spent two hours over our lunch at the monument, and his sunburned face turned pale. Then, offering us a cigarette, he stamped our passports and asked where we were heading.

"Touring the Sahara," we said.

"Ah, good. Things are quieter in the south. But you must wait for the next military convoy. Don't try going alone."

During the next few days we sat in the hotel, to the tune of $25 a day, and waited. Colomb Béchar was like a huge military camp. Soldiers with machine guns guarded every street corner, most Europeans went armed, houses were surrounded by barbed wire and sandbags, and there was a curfew every night. The fellagha occupied the hills all around, and each night we were treated to a loud symphony of gunfire and mortar shells buzzing over the hotel.

Prices were atrocious. We had to pay $20 to the local iron founder for a pair of sand tracks, resembling small ladders. I complained bitterly about the price, suggesting we do without. But George said we might be happy to pay $100 for sand tracks if we got stuck. He was right, of course. We used them the very next week.

There were still last-minute details to arrange. Every private motorist must put up a bond as a sort of rescue insurance. In theory, this system works well. Travelers leaving one desert outpost for another must report their arrival and departure to the military authorities, who in turn telegraph to the next post ahead. If they fail to appear within 36 hours, a search party is sent out. The bond pays for the search.

The Sahara can kill, and kill quickly. Men have been known to die of thirst within eight hours of their last drop of water. Travelers are warned: Always carry at least 50 quarts of water more than you think you will need. If stranded, STAY WITH YOUR CAR. Don't start walking off for the horizon and hope to find help. Chances are you'll never make it back. Besides, in case of an air search, your vehicle is easier to spot than you are.

There are other regulations, all of them sensible. You must carry food to last a week, enough spare gasoline to take you half again as far as your destination. Four-wheel drive vehicles are recommended; trailers are prohibited.

Then there is the matter of money. There were no banks in the Sahara, and merchants and hotel owners would not accept dollars or travelers checks. Colomb Béchar's two banks were the last we would see until we came out of the desert. Therefore we carefully calculated how many Algerian francs we would need for our journey and, to be on the safe side, doubled the amount. It was barely sufficient, for the one month we estimated our journey would take stretched to three.

A green land dries to desert

We were impatient to get going; so it was frustrating to wait on the very brink of the Sahara while the convoy formed. However, it gave me a chance to find out a little about the mysterious land before us.

The Sahara, I discovered, has been a desert for countless eons, its recent geologic history occasionally punctuated, however, by periods of abundant rainfall. The last of these rainy periods occurred some 10,000 years ago, about the end of the Ice Age in Europe and America.

At that time much of the Sahara was a land of forests, fertile plains, and abundant rivers, populated by cave dwellers who hunted with flint-tipped arrows. They drew pictures on cave walls and carved them on rocks—pictures of themselves hunting, of their cattle and dogs, of elephants, giraffes, hippos, and lions.

Eventually the long rainy period came to an end. Slowly the region dried out. Rivers dwindled, and, unable to reach the sea, formed lakes that evaporated and left great salt deposits. Vegetation shrank, animal life died out. Winds scorched the trees and plants and blew them away, then dried the soil and blew that away, too.

Today the Sahara—an Arabic word meaning "desert"—covers 3,500,000 square miles, nearly 500,000 more than the United States. It stretches roughly from the Atlantic to the Red Sea, from the Atlas Mountains to the Niger River basin. Its mountains are gigantic, its riverbeds dry, its remnant lakes solid salt, its forests petrified, and one-sixth of it is a shifting sea of sand.

Life in the desert clings to the oases, scattered like a broken chain of emeralds across the golden sand. They nourish forests of date palms, maintained by constant irrigation; the land is measured and taxed not by area but by the number of its trees. The oasis of Ouargla, 350 miles south of Algiers, is said to contain a million palms. And at Timimoun the palmeries string out for 40 miles. Wherever an oasis is found, there people live.

Convoy rolls south under guard

Word came at last that the convoy was about to leave for the south. We reported dutifully to the police, to the military, and to the government authorities, where we signed endless forms and answered endless questions—where we were going, why, for how long, next of kin, grandmother's name, and so forth. 

Our military escort formed shortly after dawn on a crisp, cool morning. It consisted of eight armored cars and 50 young French soldiers armed with machine guns. As Mzuri was the only private vehicle, we were given the honored position, fourth in line, immediately behind the ambulance. Following us were 60 or 70 heavy trans-Sahara transport trucks, bound for Beni Abbès, Timimoun, Adrar, Reggane, and points south.

The convoy moved slowly at first, winding through low-lying hills that could hide a sudden ambush by the fellagha. Then we came out on a wide, flat plain and speeded up.

Dust. Within minutes we were covered with it—fine, powdery dust that crept in the windows and doors and settled on everything. We sneezed, choked, and breathed with difficulty. It was even more difficult to see, for the vehicles ahead churned up dust as thick as a smoke screen.

Nearing hill country again, we stopped seemingly every mile or so while the troops jumped out and deployed on either side of the road. During one such halt, while the soldiers ran with guns at the ready for the embankments on either side of the road, I glanced up at the cliffs that towered around us, then gave a gasp.

"Men with guns!" I stuttered.

George grabbed the binoculars for a closer look. "They're armed all right," he said.

We watched our troops advance slowly up the hillside, moving toward four sinister figures outlined on the highest cliff. The truck drivers stood in tight, silent groups. Everyone was tense as we waited for the first shot. Suddenly a shot rang out. I jumped, then headed for the ditch. George kept his glasses trained on the hillside.

Then he laughed. "Relax!" he said. "They're on our side. One of the boys took a shot at a gazelle."

"You're on your own now"

Fifteen miles south of the military post at Abadla the convoy halted for the last time. The young lieutenant in charge got out of his vehicle and came over to us, his face grimy with dust and sweat.

He pointed ahead to a vast expanse of stony desert, its horizon unbroken by tree or hill or dune.

"You're on your own now," he said. "No fellagha to worry about in that. Bon voyage," he grinned, "and don't get lost."

The escort turned around and made a dusty trail back toward Colomb Béchar. The truck drivers got out and crept under their vehicles to eat and sleep in the shade.

Then we drove away, with all the Sahara spread out before us under a cloudless sky.

Free! We felt like two kids playing hooky from school. Mzuri purred gently, and I think she felt liberated, too. She bounced along the stony track at a steady 30 miles an hour toward the main road.

Two main routes lead south from the Saharan Atlas across the Algerian desert. Most used at the moment is the Tanezrouft Piste, which reaches all the way to the Niger River. The second route, more or less parallel to the Tanezrouft, is the Hoggar Piste.

The first route is easier on the vehicle but extremely dull. The Hoggar road is rougher, sandier, but far more scenic. We used both, crisscrossing on two east-west connecting routes and sampling just about every bump, washboard, corrugation, and drift of sand in the Algerian Sahara.

Keep off the roads—it's smoother

Barely 600 miles of paved roads existed in the Algerian Sahara. But now that the French have discovered several important oil fields, the government has begun an ambitious program of road building.

Within 10 years, we were told, crossing the Sahara might be as easy as driving across the United States.

Unfortunately, while ambitious dreams are being blueprinted by road engineers, upkeep on the existing roads is sadly neglected. Meanwhile, more and more heavy trucks lumber over them, cutting ruts ever deeper and creating washboards that would shake a standard car to pieces in a week.

After a few brave attempts to gardez la piste (keep to the road)—strongly recommended for anyone new to the desert—we found that the best system was to avoid the track altogether and take to the open desert, using the piste merely as a guide.

This often proved easier on Mzuri but full of potential dangers: soft sand, rocks, or fesh-fesh, the peril of perils—a dust fine as talcum powder and treacherous as a bottomless swamp. If you stick in fesh-fesh, too bad. Standard procedure is to empty the car completely, shovel down deep in front of each wheel, fill the holes with rocks (if there are any rocks), lay down sand tracks, put the vehicle in four-wheel drive, let in the clutch slowly, and hope.

The only other solution is to wait for a larger vehicle to come along, hitch yourself behind with a stout cable, and let it pull you out. But in the Sahara you may have to wait two weeks before you see another vehicle.

Sahara routes are, on the whole, well marked. The main "roads," with their deep corrugations resembling ocean waves, are not hard to follow. Stone cairns are placed so that as soon as you catch up to one, another should, on a clear day, be plainly visible on the horizon. This works fine until you run into a sandstorm.

Driving in a sandstorm is a terrifying experience. Sahara veterans don't usually try. They stop and wait for the storm to blow itself out. Since desert sandstorms may last several days, you must be prepared to sit for quite a time; therefore, the extra water, food supplies, and gasoline.

Good books are also recommended.

Truck and driver stalled eight days

One day, on a particularly wicked stretch of "main road" between In Salah and El Goléa, we found a stalled truck loaded with drilling equipment for an oil camp up the line. A young Arab driver climbed out as we pulled up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He told us he was en panne—broken down. His companion had hitched a ride back into Algiers for spare parts.

"Do you have water?" we asked. This is always the first question when meeting someone en panne in the desert.

"Yes," the boy assured us. "Plenty."

He said he had plenty of food, too. A passing truck had left some only that morning.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" we asked.

"Yes," said the boy, looking hopeful. "Do you have a newspaper?"

Fortunately we had. It was two weeks old, but in the Sahara that is still very much up to date. He accepted it with great joy, saying he had already sat there for eight days and didn't really mind very much except that he had nothing to read.

Wherever we drove in the Sahara, two things impressed me vividly.

Invariably I had the feeling of driving uphill, no matter how flat the terrain or how many hills we descended. The desert seemed to slope forever upward until, at last, sand met sky. Surely, one day, if we could only get up enough speed, we would catch up to the horizon and ascend into Heaven.

Secondly, the piste always seemed much better early in the morning and just about impossible at the end of the day. Then muscles were sore, nerves taut, eyes strained, and we were convinced that one more jolt would be more than we or Mzuri could bear.

Hardy hiker refuses a ride

When it was possible to lift our eyes off the immediate track ahead, or the cairn markers in the distance, what else was there to see? On our first day out of Colomb Béchar we saw three gazelles and a bustard. On our second day we passed a truck and saw a few migratory birds in the distance. On the third day we caught a glimpse of a lizard.

On the fourth day we met a man—walking. We gave him water and a loaf of bread. He thanked us, drank the water, wrapped the bread in his flowing white robes, and refused the ride we offered. Where he came from and where he was headed we did not know. But he was 75 miles from the nearest oasis.

Sometimes we found tiny desert flowers sucking whatever moisture there was from the sand. Plant life is sparse in the Sahara, but scrub grasses, tamarisk trees, Sodom apples, and a form of melon that camels eat grow in dried-up riverbeds. Once we even saw early-morning dew collected on the bud of a small yellow flower growing by itself.

And nearly always there were flies. It didn't matter how far we were from the nearest well or oasis or camel caravan; when we stopped for lunch, flies would appear within minutes. Where they came from, how they found us, I do not know. By the end of our picnic sometimes a hundred flies would be swarming around us.

Land-Rover charges eight-foot dunes

From day to day the scenery changed. We might start out on a rough and stony plateau and, after six or seven hours, when we were getting restless, we'd suddenly see dunes ahead, or an outcrop of rock. Bumping along on rocks and stones was monotonous, but when we reached soft sand, the drive became exciting.

We never knew when we were going to get stuck. George's policy was to charge the sand heap lying over the piste at full speed, with left hand poised to change to four-wheel drive without losing momentum. It worked very well. We zoomed over drifts sometimes eight feet high and usually got through. If we didn't, we brought out shovels and sand tracks and got to work.

Ports in the desert sea

The worst areas for driving are near the ergs, vast regions of dunes. The three largest in Algeria are the Great Western Erg, the Great Eastern Erg, and the Erg Chech. Nothing lives in these desolate worlds of drifted sand—not a beetle, a blade of grass, or, strangely enough, even a fly.

After a big dose of desert, it was a welcome relief to spot an oasis. No two are alike. Each has its own characteristic architecture, irrigation system, fort, market place, and inhabitants.

Only a few oases remain today truly Saharan. Most of them have changed during the past few years, since the discovery of oil and minerals.

An invasion by engineers and geologists in jeeps and power wagons has brought rapid changes to the sleepy settlements. Oil companies are building air-conditioned offices and houses beside squat mud buildings. You see many more swimming pools and tennis courts decorating the cool palm gardens, and transport planes fly in fresh meat, fruit, vegetables, and cases of champagne.

Most of the Sahara is controlled by a military government, and each oasis is the capital of an administrative area known as an arrondissement. In a picturesque fort le capitaine reigns supreme, acting not only as governor, judge, mayor, and town planner, but also pinch-hitting as architect, hydraulic engineer, sanitation officer, agricultural adviser, and keeper of the roads.

These officers volunteer for their positions and go through a long period of training and apprenticeship. They are mostly young men, vitally interested in the country and its people. They wear colorful uniforms—black or white baggy desert trousers and the famous blue cap called the kepi. Each capitaine is supported by one or two assistants, a doctor, and sometimes an officer with a special knowledge of local dialects.

Le capitaine was the first person we called on at each new oasis, to say we had arrived safely and to have our passports and papers checked. A native guard would guide us, dusty and bedraggled, into a cool, dark room, its walls decorated with woven rugs and skins of gazelles and its floor of clean brushed sand.

After a standard waiting period of 10 minutes, le capitaine entered, whisked off his kepi bleu, and showed us to chairs. Still standing we said, "Bonjour, mon capitaine. Nous sommes arrivés," and then sank down exhausted.

France invests in the Sahara

In spite of the fierce nationalistic uprisings farther north, the desert population remained loyal to the French. The French in turn were making a great effort to help these primitive, indolent people and keep their support.

Each oasis has schools where French, Arab, and Negro children study and play together; there are hospitals and clinics, workshops and manual training classes, experimental gardens, and agricultural advisers eager to help land-owners. The government has built new wells, improved age-old irrigation systems, and provided each town with safe drinking water, community baths, and laundries.

France has had little return so far for the millions of francs she pours into the Sahara each year. She has only recently finished a pipeline from the new oil field at Hassi Messaoud north to a railhead. Other than what little oil has yet come out, the chief products of the Sahara are dates and livestock, and few of either are actually exported.

In the shade of the palm trees grow other staple crops such as wheat, barley, sorghum, maize, a few vegetables, and sometimes cotton, henna, and tobacco. In fact, almost anything will grow if there is water. In the carefully tended gardens of the military posts we were astonished to find roses, nasturtiums, geraniums, and violets bravely shooting up out of sandy beds.

Different hue marks each oasis

Beneath the fort, where the French Tricolor flies from the tallest tower, is a Sahara town consisting of mud-brick houses with thick walls and usually no windows, to reduce heat and light. On the flat rooftops each family keeps its scrawny chickens, pigeons, goats, and sheep; there Arab women, seldom seen on the narrow streets, sit in the evenings.

The color of the mud buildings varies from oasis to oasis. Adrar is brilliant red-orange, In Salah burnt ocher, El Goléa sandy colored, and Timimoun a vivid, deep red. In Beni Abbés all the houses are whitewashed, helping to give it a reputation as the cleanest town in the desert.

Contrary to popular belief, it does rain in the desert, though rarely—perhaps once or twice a year. A two-day soaker would literally melt every settlement in the Sahara. Doctors told us that their busiest time occurs during torrential rainfall, when houses collapse on the inhabitants.

One soon picks up Arabic expressions in wandering through the narrow streets and market places of the oases. It is possible to keep up quite a lengthy conversation with the local inhabitants if your vocabulary includes only two Arabic phrases: La bes, the standard greeting, meaning "no troubles" or "no pain," and Ilham'dilla, "Praise be to God."

When you meet an Arab, you start the ball rolling with the first "La bes." He answers, "Ilham'dilla." You say, "La bes. Ilham'dilla." He says, "Ilham'dilla. La bes." The longer you keep this up, the politer you are.

Arab boys know how to say, "Donnez-moi cinq francs, s'il vous plait," or "Donnez-moi une cigarette, madame." It is almost impossible to walk anywhere in an oasis without being followed by a dozen urchins; each shouting these entreaties over and over again.

I asked a small boy what he would do with the money if I gave him five francs. He said he would save it to buy a gold wrist watch. And if persistence has anything to do with it, he should have a dozen gold watches by now.

While we were quite happy to reach an oasis after several days on the piste, I was just as happy to get out of it again and back to camping. It meant that we ate better, slept better, and had a few homey comforts that no desert hotel can provide.

Setting up camp was a tiring business after driving all day over appalling roads, but we soon got it down to a system. Within an hour the beds were made, kettle boiling on the stove, pressure lamp alight, table set for supper, laundry drying, drinking water set out to cool, and the radio tuned in to BBC for the evening news broadcast.

But the best part of camping in the Sahara is sleeping out under those extraordinary desert stars, which surely seem bigger and brighter than anywhere else in the world. We took a tent but never used it, for rain never caught us in the open desert at night. After dark the wind usually calmed down, even if it had been blowing at gale force all day.

Fury of the Sahara strikes

During the first few weeks we found out quite a lot about the Sahara, obeyed all the rules, and managed to keep out of trouble. Even the weather was kind: sunny and not too hot during the day and cool at night—cool enough to warrant three blankets over our sleeping bags.

Then our luck began to change. The Sahara became moody.

In Adrar we ran into our first real sandstorm. It went on for three days—three long, weary days when there was no alternative but to stay inside our dark hotel room and wait.

Outside, it was impossible to see more than 10 yards through the mass of swirling sand. It reminded me of a London pea-soup fog, except that this was also hot and gritty. Inside, sand carpeted the floor and settled into our clothes and cameras, even into our beds. We ate sand in all our food and drank it in our water. It got into our hair and into our eyes, and I wept big, sandy tears.

On the fourth day the wind stopped and we went on to In Salah, which has a reputation for having some of the worst sandstorms of the Sahara. But although all the residents there expected at any moment to be smothered by the dreaded vent de sable, the air remained calm.

During the lull we wanted to go on to Tamanrasset (Fort Laperrine) while the tracks were free of sand. Our month's visa for Algeria had now expired, however. The commandant, a capitaine with 10 years of Sahara experience, promised to radio Algiers on our behalf and ask for a two-month extension.

The route to Tamanrasset is one of the most scenic in the Sahara and perhaps one of the most interesting of all Africa as well. From In Salah it took us three days to cover the 450 miles, although we could have done it in two if we hadn't stopped so often to look and wonder.

At the Gorges of Arak, almost halfway, we found a small military post. Sheer rocky cliffs tower so high on either side that the tiny fort is shady and cool. A French Camel Corps lieutenant and 40 Tuareg soldiers operate from there.

In Arak we met a young French archeologist, Henri Hugot, who has spent the past 10 years exploring the Sahara by camel or on foot. He has made some startling discoveries close to Arak. He showed us relics of a once flourishing civilization—remains of ancient villages, Berber tombs and inscriptions, bits of broken pottery, human skeletons, bones of animals, stone tools and grinding implements, and fascinating pictures of wild beasts engraved on the rocks.

The riverbed that winds through the gorge was dry and arid and the country completely deserted. No one has lived there for 2,000 years.

Land of the veiled men

As we drove on toward Tamanrasset, rocks of every possible shape, size, and color spilled across the desert. The road wound slowly upward, until at last we entered a strange world of jagged peaks and gigantic boulders with not a tree in sight. This was the fantastic Ahaggar, or Hoggar, a mountainous region in the center of the Sahara with peaks jutting some 9,000 feet into the air. The coloring at sunset was magnificent, but there was something grotesque about the shapes of the rocks that made me shudder.

We had heard and read stories about the remote oasis of Tamanrasset and its fabulous veiled tribesmen. But the town was dusty and drab and seemed almost deserted. A few veiled men with their goats and donkeys shuffled silently over the sand, and a handful of children watched with wide-eyed curiosity as we drove by.

At the hotel we were shown a tiny room furnished with two rickety beds, a chipped metal table, and two metal chairs. We recognized the table and chairs; they were the same in all hotels in the Sahara. Someone must have bought them cheap at a gigantic sale and shipped them all to the desert.

The tall bellhop who helped us unload Mzuri told us dinner was served at eight. We asked where the showers were. He showed us, but added that there was no more water. It was turned on for only two hours a day, and we were 10 minutes late.

No light, and a bath in a bucket

The hotel was wired for electricity but was still in total darkness well after sunset. We asked when the lights went on, and the boy said they didn't. The power plant was en panne—and had been for six months.

We asked for a lamp, but they were all being used in the dining room. He had no more candles. So George unpacked our pressure lamp, a spare jerry can of water, and a bucket, and we de-sanded ourselves as best we could.

The next morning we were summoned to headquarters. Le capitaine wanted to ask us some questions.

He eyed us with suspicion and asked why we had come to Tamanrasset. "Your visas have expired," he said pointedly. We explained that the commandant in In Salah was handling our extensions himself and had promised to radio Tamanrasset to that effect.

"I have received no such message."

We reminded him that communications were slow in the Sahara. We often got to a place days before the messages we had sent announcing our arrival time. Le capitaine was not amused.

"I have no alternative but to hold your passports and papers," he said, "or perhaps you had better return to In Salah."

We told him we had come all this way, more than 1,000 miles, to meet the Tuareg and visit the mountains of the Ahaggar.

"You won't find many Tuareg in Tamanrasset," he said. "They have moved south in search of pasture."

"Perhaps if we go south, too, we might find them," we suggested.

"It is doubtful," le capitaine replied. "Besides, you would have many difficulties. The Tuareg do not speak French—even less, English."

There seemed no sense in prolonging the discussion. But as we got up to leave, le capitaine unexpectedly consented to let us take the tourist route through the Ahaggar if we promised to return in three days.

"You will need no one with you," he said. "Just follow the tracks. There are no Tuareg living in the mountains; so you won't need an interpreter."

We spent three days in the hiah rocks and cliffs of the Ahaggar, where we baked during the day and very nearly froze at night. And on our return le capitaine told us we might remain in Tamanrasset, but he would keep our passports until the extensions arrived.

Tuareg prince leads way to tribe

The Tuareg had definitely moved south in search of better grazing for their flocks. We were about to give up trying to find them when we met the local schoolmaster, M. Claude Blanguernon, an authority on Tuareg life. He introduced us to one of his former students, a tall, handsome Tuareg noble with the awesome name of Beuh Ag Ahmed.

Beuh spoke excellent French and had once accompanied M. Blanguernon as far as Algiers by plane. So he was familiar with Europeans and their strange habits. He said his cousins were camping not far from "Tam." He would go with us in our Land-Rover, and we should be prepared to spend a night or two camping with the tribe.

Never had Mzuri carried such a distinguished passenger. Beuh sat bolt upright, his long body clothed in flowing indigo robes, head swathed in a crisp white turban, and face veiled so that only his eyes and nose remained uncovered. His eyes were carefully made up with kohl, a mascaralike desert ointment. His hands were slim and graceful and his arms as smooth as a woman's, with not a trace of muscle.

Yet there was nothing effeminate about Beuh. Something about his expression, the way he moved, the way he used his hands, showed his proud warrior background from the days when the Tuareg ruled the desert and were feared by all.

Soon we had turned off the main route south and were bouncing over rocks and stones. Then we followed a oued—a wide, shallow watercourse of gravel and sand, dry as a bone. George changed to four-wheel drive, and we inched along, expecting at any moment to bog down.

Whenever the wheels spun, Beuh shouted, "Avancez—vite! Vite! Avancez! This is a good camel—it goes everywhere!"

Somehow we plowed through the oued. Then, just as the sun set, strange figures resembling hooded phantoms in the fading light came out of the shadows to meet us. Soon a dozen Tuareg men crowded around, examining the Land-Rover and greeting Beuh with great affection.

We shook hands with each in turn and went through the lengthy "La bes, Ilham'dilla" routine. Then we were sitting cross-legged on hand-woven rugs around the fire while a servant brewed pots of strong mint tea. There wasn't a woman in sight. The men reclined on the soft sand and spoke quietly among themselves. Beuh had a chance to explain some of the mysteries of his people.

Caravan traders and several explorers spread stories about dangerous tribes of "Blue Men" who lived in the mountain cliffs and ravines of the Ahaggar and terrorized the central Sahara with their camel and slave raids and tribal wars. When the French penetrated the Sahara, they attempted to make these caravan routes safe from Tuareg raids, and finally subdued the tribesmen early in the 20th century.

Tuareg means "lost souls," a name given them by their traditional enemies, the Arabs. The Tuareg, however, call themselves "imochagh"—the free ones. An offshoot of the Berbers, they have their own language and an alphabet made up of 23 simple and 13 compound letters.

Women have an extremely important place in Tuareg society. The line of succession is purely matriarchal, and they are almost the only women of the Moslem world who do not wear veils.

Veils protect men's souls—and faces

Why are the men veiled and the women not? This is a disputed question, but Beuh told us that Tuareg men wear veils "to protect their souls." Since soul and breath to them are identical, it is not difficult to find a physical explanation. The dryness of the desert and the fierce sand winds cause nasal trouble. The veils conserve the breath's moisture, acting as air conditioners; they also protect faces against wind and sand.

Sadly, the Tuareg people are slowly dying out in this area. Today they number only about 10,000. They make a living from herds of cattle, goats, and sheep, traveling from one pasture to another by camelback. They breed their handsome white camels for sale and dig salt to exchange for millet, tea, sugar, and cloth for their flowing robes and veils.

Early the next morning Beuh arrived to take us to several Tuareg camps in the vicinity. At each camp we went through the tea-drinking ceremony—three glasses at each camp. It was all we could do to swallow the potent black, sickly-sweet brew, which gave me a violent headache and made me dizzy.

Campfire of the hooded phantoms

Gradually word got around to Beuh's widespread family that he had brought strange white visitors with him. At each new camp we found a large crowd, and at sunset the entire family had assembled at the last camp, including all the wives and cousins and uncles and aunts we had met before. We sat cross-legged around a great fire surrounded by hooded phantoms and their shy, robed women.

For the first time we had a chance to study the women. Their skin was almost white and their features strikingly handsome. They wore long silver earrings, heavy bracelets, and anklets of intricate design. Around their necks hung strings of leather charms.

Beuh took us inside one of the large semi-permanent Tuareg huts, made of reeds on dried stick supports, to introduce us to the matriarch of the tribe, an old, wizened lady with beautifully expressive hands. She was drawing pictures in the sand and paused to look at us with great dark eyes. Then she smiled and signaled us to sit down on the soft sand carpet.

We sat, and Beuh left us alone with the old lady. Tea was brought in, and we sipped it slowly, smiling and nodding to our hostess to express our appreciation. Although we could not speak the same language, there was a feeling of communication. Later Beuh told us we had won her approval, and she would like us to attend a Tuareg feast later in the week in honor of her granddaughter.

The feast took place on a stormy day with great thundery clouds half concealing the highest rocky peaks of the Ahaggar. Beuh eyed the sky with a practiced eye. "It won't rain," he said, "but there will be much wind."

We arrived at the encampment at noon and were ushered into the "big house," its floor covered with rugs. Only men attended the banquet; not a woman or child was in sight.

The feast commenced with three glasses of the inevitable tea. Then a servant came in with a large tin platter of couscous—millet ground very fine, seasoned with lamb broth, dried vegetables, and spices. Another followed with a roasted sheep.

Everyone was given a large soup spoon, and we helped ourselves from a communal bowl. A servant tore the lamb into small pieces with his fingers and placed them in holes we had made in the couscous. Fresh hot broth was poured over the lamb. It was by far the best meal we had had since entering the Sahara.

Meanwhile the women were having their own celebration. At about 5 o'clock, after a siesta, we walked half a mile toward the east, and as we came closer, we heard them singing and clapping their hands. A dozen young girls wearing fresh robes of dark indigo took turns beating a large drum.

They all wore their finest jewelry, and their faces were elaborately made up. Older women, some dressed in white, others in blue, swayed to the rhythm, chanting and singing. We watched a tiny baby, almost smothered in indigo cloth, gravely clapping his hands to the music.

Wild dance in a howling gale

It had been a particularly hot day and strangely still, with not a breath of air. Suddenly a wind of almost gale force hit us, blowing sand into our eyes and whipping the flowing robes of the Tuareg into even more fantastic shapes. The singing and drumming increased in volume. Men, women, and children danced wildly. And then the celebration was over. The wind died down at sunset, and everyone filed back to his camp.

Our return journey to In Salah, by way of Tamanrasset, passed without incident. Great drifts had piled over the piste, and the tracks we had taken three weeks previously were now so deep in sand that we had to make a wide detour.

When we reported to le capitaine, he told us the sandstorms had come at last; we had arrived during a lull. Our extensions had been approved by Algiers, and we were given permission to remain another two months in the Sahara.

That night I had great difficulty sleeping. It was wickedly hot and ominously still. Climbing to the flat roof to get a breath of air, I noticed that the stars had disappeared and there was a strange glow in the sky.

We were up well before dawn next morning to get an early start on the long, sandy track to El Goléa. I had no appetite for breakfast and could hardly swallow the dry bread and café au lait. My head ached, and my nerves were on edge.

"What is the matter?" I asked George at last. "Am I catching some strange disease?"

But George had been studying the weather outside. "Watch this," he said. He touched my hand, and I jumped about a foot in the air. "Static electricity. I don't think we'll get very far today."

Sandstorm relieves tensions

Abruptly, the sandstorm broke. The wind rose steadily, and sand swirled from the streets and tore away in clouds. We went back to our room.

And with the wind, my headache and nervousness calmed down. That evening my malady was explained. I learned that it was a common Saharan complaint before a violent storm. The static electricity in the air, the closeness, and the extreme dryness cause fever, headache, nausea, nervousness, and tension. European women are especially susceptible, but even the inhabitants are affected. When the storm breaks, most symptoms disappear.

The storm continued through the night, which is extremely rare, and on to the next day and the day after that. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, we decided to risk the piste in spite of a murky sky.

The sandstorm followed us all the way to El Goléa, 250 miles north. There we sat four days more waiting for the sky to clear. When it did, we continued north, toward Ouargla and Ghardaïa. The sandstorms followed.

At one spot the wind came up again like a tornado, and we were engulfed in driven sand. We drove Mzuri into the lee of some rocks for shelter, but even with the windows closed, the inside soon filled with choking dust.

We sat five hours listening to the howling of the wind. I had our box of canned goods ready, quite prepared to dole out rations of sardines for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next several days, when suddenly we saw a car break through the Stygian gloom.

A military road engineer in a Dodge Power Wagon was headed home on leave after a year spent in the remote desert. He told us not even the Sahara's worst sandstorm could stop him! He was followed by another truck with an Arab driver. He agreed to let us join him, put us between the two trucks, cautioned us to keep our eyes glued on his taillight, and off we went.

The next three hours were a nightmare. All we could see was his dim rear light—not the ground or anything around us. How he found his way, we never discovered. He must have had a homing instinct.

And when we got to Ouargla it was raining.

It is not supposed to rain in Ouargla in April, but it was raining, nonetheless, in heavy, cold torrents. An Algerian guard at the outskirts of the oasis stopped us to look at our papers. He seemed frightened and wanted to talk to someone.

"First these sandstorms!" he said. "Now rain. What is going to happen next?"

Floodwaters maroon Sahara travelers

We stopped for the night in Ouargla and continued on to Ghardaïa the next day. There was no more sand in the air; the rain had cleared it. But the sky was ominously black and the wind still gale force.

Just before nightfall we came into sight of the town. Visions of hot baths and good food danced before our eyes, because Ghardaïa has one of the best hotels in the entire Sahara.

However, there was a broad oued to cross—with a river now running down the middle of it, not more than 50 yards wide and about 18 inches deep. A truck was stuck in the middle, and the drivers were working to get it out. We gave them our sand tracks and shovel, and when they were clear we tried our luck.

Mzuri did well at first. Then she went down a deep hole. The water splashed over the hood and killed the engine. George got out, knee deep, to dry the plugs and distributor with a cloth, and we noticed the water rising rapidly. The floorboards were awash when he finally got the engine going again, but we surged through to dry land without further mishap.

Then we discovered we weren't across the oued at all but on an island. The main stream was still ahead, with Ghardaïa on the other side. Already the water was several feet deep and absolutely impassable. With several stranded trucks keeping us company, there was nothing to do but settle down for the night.

It was a night to remember. The torrent rose at alarming speed; by 2:30 in the morning, only a foot of dry land remained to us. In the headlights the swirl of black water was frightening.

At dawn it began to subside almost as fast as it had risen, and by full daylight ran only eight or nine feet deep.

It was Easter Sunday. We sat in Mzuri all day, shivering in our sweaters and duffel coats. Finally a group of Mozabite youths led us on foot over a two-mile detour and across a narrow bridge into town. We arrived with only the wet clothes on our backs; the hotel's central heating and hot showers were welcome indeed.

A week passed before we could rescue Mzuri. Even then the main channel was too deep in mud and water for her to cross, and it took 15 miles of roundabout driving to reach town.

From mud and cold to parching heat

There was no more rain, and even the sandstorms subsided temporarily. But there was heat. We first noticed the heat on our return to El Goléa, and thence across the southern rim of the Great Western Erg back to Colomb Béchar. The alternative route for leaving the Sahara was straight north to Algiers through rebel-held mountain country, reportedly more dangerous than the route we had chosen.

We had to change a tire, and after only half an hour's strenuous exercise in the sun we felt weak and spent. The thirst that followed was incredible. We drank quarts of water, and still we were thirsty. Finally we decided to ration ourselves to a cupful an hour to acclimatize ourselves for what was to come.

In El Goléa, while Mzuri was being refueled for the 250-mile run to Timimoun, a tubby garage attendant warned us to "faites attention" because several drivers on that route had been égorgé—which meant, quite simply, that their throats had been cut. How we were to "pay attention" to being "égorgé," we didn't know.

We were 14 difficult hours on the track from El Goléa to Timimoun, and saw neither friend nor foe.

Timimoun gives a tense welcome

Timimoun lived up to all expectations. It was a perfect desert oasis, unspoiled and truly picturesque. The deep-red coloring of the soil contrasted vividly with the white Marabout tombs. Military headquarters was a toy model of a fort, and the walls of the red mud houses bore hand-carvings in rich design. The other guests at the Red Oasis Hotel were friendly and sociable. We sat up late talking Sahara talk: roads, oil, sandstorms, and, inevitably, the rebels.

"Where are you going?" we were asked.

"Colomb Béchar," said George. "And then Morocco."

There was a moment of silence. Someone cleared his throat. The hotel proprietor quickly suggested a drink.

Then it started. Did we know about the rebels? Did we know they were moving slowly south—toward the Great Western Erg, toward Abadla and Kerzaz, perhaps even Timimoun?

Yes, we knew, we said, but we had to get out of the Sahara some way, and there were only two possible routes: via Colomb Béchar—or via Algiers.

"Bien sûr," everyone agreed. "There are only two routes." So we changed the subject.

We were truly sorry to leave Timimoun. But now the summer heat was on, the rebels were ahead of us, and we decided to get out of the desert at all speed.

Before entering the danger area, we took a few precautions. With black tape we lettered out a large U.S.A. on each side of Mzuri. And to make sure the rebels wouldn't mistake us for a French military vehicle, we mounted the Stars and Stripes from a fender.

We reached Kerzaz safely, 150 miles around the south rim of the erg, and there we found the military busily putting up barbed-wire entanglements. When we had last gone through Kerzaz, it had been a sleepy little fort with only one administrator and a few native guards. This time there were French troops camping all around, and tension hung in the air.

We left at dawn for Abadla, feeling decidedly jittery. The 170 lonely miles took us through rugged hill country where the rebels had staged a raid the previous Sunday. But again we met neither friend nor foe. The land was absolutely deserted.

In Abadla almost a hundred heavy trucks were lined up, waiting to be conducted into Colomb Béchar. Our military escort was twice the size of the one we had before. Mzuri, again the only private vehicle, looked very smart with her flag snapping in the breeze.

The convoy moved slowly. I was jumpy and expected trouble with every bend through the hills. But we negotiated the rugged terrain without a single shot being fired.

Then we were within sight of Colomb Béchar. I unclenched my fingers and unbraced my feet and was saying happily, "Well, honey, we made it!" when my words were lost in a terrific explosion.

George skidded to a standstill as troops ran for the hills to ward off the expected attack. I crouched down inside Mzuri, my eyes shut, my hands over my ears.

Then George told me. The truck immediately behind us had run over a mine. The armored car, troop carrier, and ambulance had passed over it safely, and so had we. But the fifth vehicle in line touched it off. The truck was damaged, but luckily no one was injured.

That was the first we had heard about land mines, but in Colomb Béchar everyone was talking about them. There were mines on the roads leading out of town in every direction, including the route we intended to take to Morocco.

This was the latest terrorist movement of the rebels. The first mines had been laid only a month previously, but already a dozen vehicles had been blown up.

We tried to get what information we could, but it was conflicting and contradictory. We talked to the police, to the administration, to the military. Everyone told us the same thing: "The roads are mined—but we don't know where."

We were in a trap now, and I was sick with worry. After three long, exhausting months of desert travel, were we to remain indefinitely in Colomb Béchar, only hours away from freedom?

"We must get out," I said. "There must be a way."

George tried to talk me into flying out, saying that he would come alone, somehow, with Mzuri.

"Desert you now?" I flared. "After all we've been through!"

Perilous return to safety

Two days and two sleepless nights we waited, and finally decided to chance the road. It was only 45 miles to Morocco. And I did not want to spend another 24 hours in Colomb Béchar.

When we took our car papers to the Algerian customs officer, he was very helpful. "Good luck," he said. "You'll need it."

Another government official was just as helpful.

"Au revoir," he said. "Better you than me."

We left at dawn, after padding the floor of Mzuri with sandbags against possible mines. Our flag was well secured, and we kept our fingers tightly crossed.

The first 15 miles were easy, for we could slip out into the open country and drive over the flat desert. Then we neared the hills and were forced back on the road. We drove slowly, watching for rocks and, at the same time, watching the road for any signs of a mine. If there were footmarks, a hole in the ground, or suspicious traces, we stopped. Then George got out and investigated on foot, clearing away the loose gravel with his hands to see if a mine was hidden beneath.

I kept my eyes on the hills and the speedometer. Only 30 more miles—29—28 miles to freedom.

For the first time I knew the silence and fear of the desert. I was frightened as I had never been before. The track into Morocco had never been heavily traveled, and since the first mines were laid, all traffic had stopped. There were only George and I and valiant Mzuri plodding through the dust and sand, with the horizon glimmering before us and the oppressive hills hemming us in.

We knew there were rebels in the hills. They were watching. We could feel it.

"Faster, Mzuri, faster!" I murmured to myself. "Only 20 more miles, only 20 more miles."

And then we stopped again because George saw footprints in the sand. He walked slowly ahead, following them across the road. Was it a trap? I dared not look at the hills above. "Do something—do something! " I told myself. I grabbed the Thermos jug and poured us each a a cup of water. George got back into Mzuri.

"Find anything?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said.

We moved forward slowly, and automatically I braced myself for an explosion. Nothing happened.

"If there was a mine—we missed it," George grinned. The miles ticked by, slowly. Because of the danger, we detoured around the General Leclerc monument, and I gasped with relief when we reached a French military post. They gave us an armored escort over the last few miles to Morocco and, perhaps because we had our fingers crossed, we got through.

As we passed the frontier, we waved goodbye to our escort and to months of sandstorms, dust, flies, floods, and rebels.

We uncrossed our fingers and urged Mzuri on, faster and faster, back to Tangier, to Spain, to France, and finally to England, the land where she was born.

And in all that vast distance, I never once looked back.

Epitaph to a journey

As we waited to be cleared through customs at Dover, an old man came over to us. He wore a battered sailor's cap and chewed on a pipe. He walked around Mzuri several times and studied her with a practiced eye.

Then he flicked some dust off a back window and peered inside.

"Have a nice trip?" he asked.

"Why—yes," I said.

"Been far?"

"The Sahara," I answered.

He looked at me curiously for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"Lady," he said. "There's only one place worse than where you came from—and you can't get there until you die."