Today we left Salalah at about 4pm and drove for 6 hours through the most barren desert I’ve ever seen, on our way back to Muscat. We set up camp in the middle of a sandfield, off a road off a road off the highway. I think this is the darkest place I’ve ever been, which means the stars are the brightest. While in Oman I’ve been thinking of the axiom that there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on the Earth. That sounds fine and perfectly logical as an abstraction, but after spending my past five days driving through one of the world’s largest sandboxes and my nights staring up at half of everything we know to exist beyond our planet, it’s taken on a profoundly tangible significance. Still, my mind has been dominated less by a feeling of infinitesimal smallness, as I might have expected, and more by the romantic notion of how strange and wonderful it is to have formed bonds with other human beings among all the sand and stars.
And that is a little poetical to me because one of the few books I brought along on this trip is Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Wind, Sand and Stars. He, of course, is the author of The Little Prince, my favorite book, which come to think of it takes place in a desert not unlike this one. It is there the prince meets a fox, who teaches him what it means to be tamed by someone. So maybe it’s natural that when my mind has wandered, occupying itself while traversing the vast stretches of tan, I’ve thought of you, and what we are, and what we are not: ribbons of black asphalt stretching to the horizon have a way of dividing the world with remarkable clarity.
But at night, the road disappears, and the halves fade away. We’re floating in space, and I look again to the horizon. There, where the sand meets the stars, exists only possibility.