The Sahara Ends
Dreamed 2026/2/27 by Wayan
I'm biking west across the Sahara Desert, and have been for days. Rough tracks, no roads; I'm doing well to make 15 km an hour. It's the cold season--not murderously hot, just warm and bone-dry. Flattish stony plateaus. One ravine with spindly trees where a witch-woman lives. Like everyone here, her only water's from a deep well. No surface streams at all.
Dunno how I came to be biking or hiking across the Sahara. No wallet, no money, no ID... no memory.
A compound. Intrigue I've forgotten now--spies, impersonation. At last I top off my water bottles and get going again. Slow slog. See every goat. And they're not pretty--crippled, malnourished, deformed.
At long last the plateau starts sloping down toward the Atlantic coast. Didn't realize how high up I was. Down, down, down... still pretty barren. Just a string of fishing villages with a few dry palms along a coastal road. I expected a fertile strip, but no. Evidently I'm in the heart of the zone from 15-25° north, where the desert spills over, right to the sea.
On the beach, meet an American who doesn't know how they got here, or how to escape. No passport. I explain "Just go north or south--there'll be a bus. May be slow, but in a day or two you'll hit a real town, Dakar in Senegal or Marrakesh in Morocco, where you can apply at the American Embassy for help. Say your passport was stolen."
Then I realize the lost, amnesic American is... me.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
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