Silence, and what it's worth

On the fourth night in the Erg Chigaga, our camp went quiet. Nobody had told the guests it was coming, and nobody complained.

We don't schedule the silence. We can't. You can schedule the camp, the lanterns, the dinner, the walk to the crest of the first dune before sunset. You cannot schedule what happens when forty kilometres of sand puts itself between you and the nearest electricity.

What happens is: you hear yourself think. Not in the self-improvement-podcast sense. In the literal, anatomical sense — the small sounds of your own body become audible. Your breathing. The blood in your ears. The occasional creak of a tent peg.

Our guests, almost universally, come back from the Sahara talking about the silence before they talk about the stars. The stars are remarkable. The silence is something else.