Ayed's eyes

I win. It’s all done and signed. London is waiting for me. I’m going home.

“Welcome back to your real life,” Brussels seems to say. “Here’s some work and here’s a bit of feeling ill, enough to tie you to your bed for the weekend. It’s going to absolutely suck.” I smile. I’m alive again. Ayed’s eyes are golden and I am going home.

Ayed is a nineteen-year-old Bedouin from a tribe that settled a few decades ago in the outskirts of the Wadi Rum desert. I met him while unsaddling Assaf, my stallion for the trip. He explained to me in his disarmingly broken English that Assaf was a ticklish pain in the ass. Assaf – my white Sandstorm – sings, runs, chases mares and bites when a human being tries to brush him. He is so loveable otherwise. But no, it wasn’t a good idea to try and get him ready on my own.

So every morning, noon and night, gorgeous Ayed came to help. He wouldn’t let me carry the bucket of water to my horse unless I put up a fight. He figured it was an exploit for a teeny person like me to carry heavy buckets while walking in soft sand for distances that had to be long (you don’t keep a stallion near the rest of the herd lest he try to untie himself and mount every mare in heat or kick every other male he finds). I did put up a fight every single time, Assaf was thirsty and I wanted him to like me as much as I liked him. “Assaf, he go fat,” Ayed would exclaim, helping me saddle him after a decadent lunch. Assaf, you fat bastard, you high-maintenance stallion, thank you. Because every day, in the desert light, Ayed’s eyes were golden.

My “tentmate” Nathalie and I would try to set up camp in places protected from the wind and with as few rocks as possible. Quietly, I would lobby for a spot close to my horse. Assaf would wake all of us up at 5:30, when the first rays of sun hit the sandy plains. Every morning at 5:30, I would fake a whine and a moan, all happy and tangled up in my sleeping bag: "Not getting up. Assaf, shut it."

All day long, I rode and whispered to him (thinking Robert Redford might've had a point). Asked him to trot, canter or slow down, negotiated with him so we would both feel comfortable, getting his ears to stay where I could see them and his teeth away from other horses' asses. All of me focused, intent, all of him listening, even when he pretended not to.

From time to time, I’d look up and watch Jef tell the others about the geological formations and the first people who lived there. Someone, maybe me, would launch into a song. Soon everyone would join in.

After a few hours, we’d meet the other half of the group and Federico would crack jokes while his lovely Maddalena and the rest of us rolled in the sand laughing. We would giggle like a bunch of school kids when Faleh, the other guide, ordered us to "listen to the silence." We would nod emphatically when his older brother Mufleh would dismiss “complicated people” with an impatient huff. At 5pm, as the darkness came, we would gather around the fire to drink hot, sweet sage tea. And that became our definition of comfort.

I lost my camera on the second day. Mufleh took me in his jeep and we drove on our trails. Mufleh made me relive my day just by looking at the animal tracks: “Here, you saw goats. Here, you walked. You stopped here. The canter was there.” After a two-hour, unfruitful search, he decided it was my turn to take the wheel. There I was, driving a 4x4 in the middle of the moonlit desert, next to a Bedouin who would not stop taking the piss:
- Mufleh, for crying out loud, where am I going???”
- I don’t know, Saudi border?” he said, laughing his ass off.
- Mufleh, you're freaking me out.”
- I don’t know, maybe turn left? Oh look, there is shooting star.”
- A shooting star! Gotta make a wish!”
- Ok, I make wish.”
- Is this a tradition for Bedouins too? Make wishes when you see shooting stars?”
- Nah, that is tourist thing.”

By then, I’d forgotten all about my camera. Later, I realized that it turned out to be the best thing that could’ve happened. There's something about keeping your camera at hand that makes you feel like a spectator. All of a sudden, I was free to just enjoy.

It worked. Two weeks later, as I prepare to leave this God-forsaken town, my mind's still filled with all that gold in Ayed's eyes.

Tempo giusto

Feel yourself become brainless. Not one functioning cell of gray matter in that big bone cavity above your neck.

Choose your bikini carefully. Put on a sundress and your Havainas. Reach for them glam shades.







Take a stroll on a dirt road on your way to the beach. Realize that your hips are moving in a wider, lazier sway. Feel how the heat slows you down. Feel your feet scratching the ground. Feel like a biiiig mama.

Take 10 minutes to dig a hole in the sand. Plant your parasol. Give yourself a sunscreen bath. Stay away from the sun. Then get up, make your way through the Italian families to the water. Dip a toe in it, work up the courage for the rest of you to follow. Don't regret it. It's turquoise and it's fresh and it's salty. Close your eyes, turn your face up. Enjoy the fact that no one's bothering you. Swim yourself to exhaustion. Sink your head til your ears are full of fluid and you know you'll have to jump on one leg like an idiot as soon as you're on dry land.


Sit on your towel. Lose yourself in the observation of the kids playing and screaming and laughing and throwing tantrums. See the parents spank their children. Think to yourself: "won't do them no harm." Feel unbearably nostalgic. Contemplate kidnapping one of the kids so he can take you back to childhood. Consider starting a therapy as soon as you get home.


Concentrate on your tan. It's the proof of what you've been doing in these few days away and your only means to frustrate the hell out of your co-workers. Measure the progress.

Worry about skin cancer. Grab your book, be fast asleep.

Open your eyes an hour later to a gorgeous sunset. Watch it for a little bit and head back. Take a shower, moisturize like a pro, go have dinner. Notice that the night is particularly bright. Raise your head, see a full, orange moon and its reflection in the quiet sea. Let your jaw drop. Fantasize about monsters and horrible things. Sense the fascination take over. You can't take your eyes off it.

Go home, lull yourself to sleep with Gustavsen, Gonzales, Libedinsky. Feel immensely grateful to Steve Jobs, Seb and Alex for the iPod and the wonderful music.

At breakfast, chit-chat with the owner of the B&B in your non-existent Italian. Get lectured on the history of the region and actually learn something. Marvel at his niceness and his love for the land. Swear to check it out on wikipedia as soon as you get hold of a working, connected computer.

Watch that blond stewardess tell you off for checking in too late. Give her a look that says: "hey, lady, have you seen the color of the water on those beaches? Do you really expect me to act responsibly?" She doesn't. She's used to it. She shouts at people everyday. Still, just for kicks, she turns to her colleague and exclaims: "And she's not even in business class!!" Smile. It's all an act. We both know that neither I nor she would give up dirt roads, seafood risotti and salty locks of hair for all the business class seats in the world.

Sit in the plane, eat a disgusting tuna sandwich. Wonder why the hell anyone would put butter on bread already drenched in mayo. Notice that new brown spot on your right thumb. Fear that it's skin cancer. Panic. Vow to call a dermatologist as soon as you land. Grab your book, be fast asleep.

Wake up to the voice of the pilot: "it's 16 degrees Celsius in Brussels, with frequent rains." 25 minutes later, note that he was speaking the truth. Curse him and his entire family.

Feel that pain on your back come back as soon as you set foot in your home. Update your blog, don't let it end.