Mohamed of the Cafe du Sud April, 1997 The Cafe du Sud, the South, in Al Maghreb, The West, lies at the Northernmost point of the Sahara, The Desert of the East, or so it is said by Mohamed. Sleep under the sky where a multitude of stars from the four corners of the cosmos meet a single sliver of crescent moon. Even the night is not dark to you on the roof of the Cafe du Sud, and a pillow is only five dirhams, Mohamed adds. Awake my soul; you must awake the dawn -- you and the others emerging from the rovers that roared over rutted washboard, making bold to wake the dead. They go out as sleepwalkers, speak in strange tongues, as they break the silent summits of dark dunes, the landscape of Mohamed’s dreams. You trail the caravan of rousers, trudge up the rising ridges where the tracks of camels first scarred a perfect edge. Your own soles cut the crest and sink into the cool crust. The sand of the centuries spills over your shoes and runs like a river bringing joy to Mohamed’s journeys. Pass the peaks crowned by rings of strangers standing, staring at the sky. Go on up the slopes of the Erg Chebbi. If you slip, the sand is smooth; if too steep, it will slide you safely to a new start. Go on, but keep your eyes on the silky, jagged horizon, so Mohamed advises. For when the fire breaks free over the heights of morning, the darkness of the dunes burns to russet, bronze and gold. And your lean silhouette stretches its shifting interrogation across the early expanse. The open mark of the question -- does Mohamed see? Watch the ebbing shadows until the sand is warm and loose. Then take off your shoes and return by another path. Run up the golden mounts and feel the radiance rising through the bareness of your feet. Run down the sweeping angles, for the sharpness is illusion; there is gentleness below. The way of the sand changes, but is not lost, for all these mountains come to Mohamed. By Karen Thomas Smith
Posted on: Wed, 30 Oct 2013 09:40:03 +0000
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