Back out in the desert we encountered a small encampment. An old, blind Arab nomad and his family must have been puzzled by the sudden invasion of their tent, but we were cordially offered the three cups of sweet mint tea that accompany any social gathering in Mauritania.
Less appealing was the bowl of zreeq, a mixture of well water and milk. I brushed the flies away and sipped politely while they explained how they moved every month, their contact with the towns limited to occasionally taking their herds of camels and goats to market. I couldn't help wondering how much longer these hospitable people could resist the pressures of the modern world.
At the end of our trek we descended into the White Valley, a canyon of pale dunes and black cliffs. We were rejoined that night by the jeeps and began to contemplate the now unimaginable luxury of tarmac. Dah insisted we celebrate the departure of the camels, which had gone off to graze, thankfully downwind. As I sat by the campfire watching the stars come out I realized how wrong the French had been.
In this dramatic setting, the Great Void was anything but empty with the dunes echoing to the sound of singing and the indignant grumbling of the camels.
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