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under snow in over a century.
    I recalled walking through these mountains a while back teaching an ambitious group of Bedouins how to search for meteorites. Even this group in a remote mountain enclave related to me their version of the Touchstone legend. I remembered how it felt to walk with these sturdy men through the stone monoliths of these mountains. There were plants and bushes in the jagged crags but even the plants were foreboding, as every limb and blade was coated with armor and thorns. The only thing that could traverse this area was the wind.
    Eventually our view changed from mountain boulders to luscious green oasis villages. Date palms and banana palms were everywhere. Here and there along the road was a wide swath of surface for vehicles pulling over between the roadway and the buildings and shaded structures. There were people walking, vehicles parked, and coming or going. The fronts of the shops and cafes were littered with tables and chairs, with both locals and travelers resting and watching the endless current of bodies and machines. The smell of diesel and gas blended in the air with the aroma of roasting chicken, lamb, beef, and black tobacco. Children pushed vending carts heaped with prickly cactus pears and watermelon. People sipped coffee, tea, or soda and stared blank faced at the blur of movement. Motor repair garages were hard to miss because of the black grease smeared onto the edges of the doorways.
    We stopped for a few items and continued on our way south towards the sand once more. On a beach in Hawaii the sand is a white band of softness that draws you to the water’s edge, a shifting pillow of cool crystals worn round by the sea. It holds a beachcomber’s bounty and erases its impressions with each tide. The sand here is the foundation of existence that gives life and takes it away. The buildings are made from sand, mud, and straw, the epitome of environmentally sound recycling; the sand that is used to build is eventually taken back by the desert. Today’s modern world is invading on multiple levels, but as in the years gone by, this invasion should fail.
    Driving on, it appeared the slower cars were put on the road by some benevolent being to test the deft passing skills of our self-proclaimed, race car–driving chauffeur. In the driving game of chicken, our driver had nerves of titanium alloy. He was a silent, loveable guy who calmly smiles when cars pass far too close, horns blazing. He meant no harm or disdain—it’s simply how he did what he did. Slow-moving vehicles simply represented obstacles to get around and go faster than.
    Sitting in the rear and watching the outside world from behind Samir’s calm, unmoving profile, we were like pawns in a video game. I could see an almost demonic smile in his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He delighted in threading the needle through the craziest traffic with the cool and calm of well-rehearsed choreography, and one hand lay relaxed in his lap as if to say, “This is only a fraction of what I can handle.” But this was country touring and not city driving; he seemed bored without adding a dash of challenge as often as he could. And yet I had seen him stop a fleet of trailing drivers to allow a single stranger to cross the roadway in a land where pedestrians take lives into their own hands to risk crossing the highway. I thought back to childhood amusement rides and pondered how much would someone pay for a ride like this? The sun would be coming up soon; you could see a glint of yellow glow melding into the last of the night sky. Soon the scorching orb would rise above the edge of the dunes and consume the dark.
    “Today,” Zen said, “we will drive until the heat stops us.” Zen announced that today we would visit his adopted aunt’s home and rest through the heat of the day. The so-called aunt is Maryam’s sister. Zen is so fond of her that he likes thinking of her as part of his family. This reminded me of my