Mareijke's Courage Chapter 2

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,

But to be fearless in facing them …

Rabindranath Tagore

The encounter was quick. A masked man took Mareijke forcibly from her camel and shoved her into one of the vehicles. Tirelessly struggling for freedom, screaming and kicking, Mareijke soon realized that she could not prevent her abduction. Her relentlessness waned in a wave of exhaustion.

The land cruiser pelted across the desert with the rest of its herd, leaving clouds of dust hanging in its wake. Mareijke was overwhelmed with anxiety as her heart pounded in her tightening chest. She felt claustrophobic and couldn’t breathe. Desperately wanting to break free from the confines of the vehicle, Mareijke realized there was no means of escaping.

“Please!” she started to scream hysterically, trying to open the locked door next to her. “Let me out!”

Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed her. Her abductor emptied the contents of a huge brown paper bag onto the vehicle’s floor. He scrunched up its neck and held it over her mouth.

“Breathe slowly,” he said. “Five counts, Mareijke. Five counts in and five counts out.”

With wide-eyed amazement, she looked up at the masked face into visibly blue eyes. He knew her name. A frown marred her beautiful face as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Who was this stranger and how did he know her name?

She counted slowly, concentrating on her breathing. After a while, her breathing became slower and Mareijke felt her anxiety ease. When she was calm again, she slowly pushed the bag away from her mouth. She moved closer to the door. Looking out of the window at the hazy horizon, Mareijke felt extreme exhaustion. The man offered her some water, which she accepted gratefully.

He knew her name. The thought kept recurring like a bad dream.  She looked at the man and asked quietly, “Who are you?”

The man kept his intentions obscured. He was watching the vast desert plains from the window of the vehicle, deliberately ignoring her question.

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

Sworn to silence, the man kept his attention on the desert and she realized that he was not going to answer any of her questions. She would have to wait until their journey across the sand ended. Hoping with all her heart that it would end soon, Mareijke watched the dunes flash by as the land cruiser hastened towards dusk.

Mareijke was exhausted. Her fraught nerves kept her awake as she fought with a mind of steel not to lose consciousness in the presence of her enemies. She could not fall asleep. She needed to stay focused every minute of the journey, remaining hopeful for a positive outcome.

Béch had warned her of these sudden dune attacks and even knowing about their existence, he had been unable to prevent it or chase after her abductors. He would eventually return to the oasis and then Agadir. There would be no sense for him to continue the journey without her. She blanched inwardly at her desperate plight and wondered if she would ever see him again.

The seat on which she sat was warm and her body discomforted. She had been in the vice grip of stress for too long. Mareijke had no strength left to fight the war she had waged against sleep and finally it came to a standstill as she slowly and reluctantly surrendered.

By the time she opened her eyes, the headlights of the land cruiser were two beams cutting through the dark that enveloped them. The man next to her had taken off his mask. He was not native to the Saharan region; his light hair and fair skin were testimony to that. His expression evaded her in the shadows of the vehicle, but she knew he was awake. Hearing movement on the seat next to him, he turned to look at her.

“Who are you?” she asked defiantly.

“The rest has done you well,” he answered. There was familiar agreeable warmth in his voice.

“What do you want?” she continued her feeble interrogation.

Again, a frown fell across her soft brow as he continued to ignore her questions. Consumed with anguish, her mind searched in endless circles for her captors’ motive.

While travelling to the oasis, Mareijke had been enlightened about the fallacious activities that prevailed in the country and she wondered if her abductors were part of a criminal network.

According to Béch, Morocco was one of the world's largest hashish exporters. There was a nexus between crime and terrorism in the country, which had complex criminal networks that laundered money, committed fraud and shipped arms, drugs and people across borders. Most of the networks were established in the northern parts of the country where roads were bought to get cargo across the Mediterranean to Europe. The flesh-trading industry generated billions of dollars in yearly profits as men, women and children were trafficked for forced labour and commercial sexual exploitation.

Béch had spent many years trying to protect children, especially young girls – some being merely ten and eleven – from being trafficked within the borders of their own countries. A main source of concern was from poverty-inflicted areas where parents sold their daughters into prostitution networks or marriage arrangements.

The money or bartering settlements for marriages were usually made with older men who had absolutely no respect for women. The fact that they were robbing a child of her innocence made it a heinous crime.

The overall violation against women in the networks was appalling. The women were raped and tortured and kept in confinement for many hours before reaching a destination only to be sold and exploited over and over again.

Even though they were travelling in the southern parts of the country, Béch had warned her that their journey would remain dangerous. He had clearly emphasized his disinclination of subjecting her to such perils. Unfortunately, the testament had bound them together and they had little choice regarding the matter.

Mareijke feared the worst. She was no doubtedly in the process of being sold to a syndicate. To these men she was nothing more than a business deal and their greatest concern would be the smuggling fee. She wondered what her life was worth. What price would the syndicate pay for an educated white South African woman in her early twenties?

The vehicles started to slow down, wrenching Mareijke back to reality. They stopped in the dead of night and her abductor told her to wait in the vehicle while he joined the men who had convoyed them. The moonlit figures stood with remarkable patience in absolute silence and Mareijke wondered if they were lost … or waiting. It wouldn’t really matter if they were lost. She was sure she would die of hunger pangs, which seemingly was her only hope at that point of gaining freedom.

Her back-seat companion returned to the vehicle.

“If you need to go,” he said, an elusive smile dancing on his lips, “then I suggest you go now.”

She looked at him with disbelief in her eyes. Go! What was he suggesting? Did he honestly think that she would try to escape in the middle of nowhere? Where would she go? How would she survive?

“Do you need to go?” he asked with a subtle hint of sarcastic taunt.

 The revelation of what he was asking made her face flush red.

“From here it’s a long stretch and I don’t think you will be able to hold unless you have a bladder that concentrates its contents,” he mused, smiling at her disdain. “You know, much like a camel’s does.”

Mareijke scrunched her face in absolute disgust and decided to deal with the embarrassing ordeal as quickly as possible. She climbed out of the vehicle and looked at the circle of men, not one interested in her plight. Engrossed in their own little world, the men were oblivious to her existence except one: the man who stood next to her with a roll of toilet paper in his hand.

“Where can I go?” she asked the man.

“Well …” he said audaciously, looking around, pretending to mull over the non-existent options.

“Oh, never mind!” she mumbled in exasperation and stomped across the sand in the direction of a dune-like hill.

“Hey!” she heard him call. “You might want to take this with you.”

She turned and became the target of a missile attack. She ducked and the roll of toilet paper landed in the sand. She picked it up, dusted it and wandered off behind the dune, some scanty scrub providing her with a sense of privacy.

He hadn’t said anything about the disposal of the tissue and she didn’t have a paper bag in which to put it. The idea of transporting the tissue waste with her was unbearable, so she decided to bury it in a small hole as purposefully and carefully as possible. The tissue would decompose, she thought, in a feeble attempt to console herself.

Dignity intact, she wandered back to the vehicle. Her abductor had placed a bottle of water and paper cup on the roof of the vehicle before returning to the group of men. She rinsed her hands with some of the bottled water and then rewarded her parched throat.

It was cold outside on the desert plain. Mareijke returned to the warmth of the back seat where she sat in another suspended frame of inertia. Her patience was spent by the time the men started to move. They were reacting to something. She searched the dark sky and found a distant droning light approaching them. The artificial bird came closer disturbing the desert’s rest with its oscillating cry. As the helicopter landed, a stubborn Mareijke was eventually pulled out of the vehicle.

The abusive blades created clouds of desert sand and whipped her golden hair into disarray. Caught in the whirlwind of sand, she was escorted from the vehicle to the helicopter. Her back-seat companion joined her and they were airborne before she could blink or open her mouth to cough out the sand that had filtered in through her nose.

Instinctively, she looked at the pilot. Béch’s chariness had become akin with hers. Perhaps the pilot was the same man who had collected them at Agadir. His head gear and night goggles made it difficult for her to identify him and after an unavailing attempt to find any resemblance, Mareijke reclined her head against the window.

Daunting thoughts pummelled all reasoning from her mind and the flight became yet another slow process. Eventually dawn broke over the distant horizon and the desert sky became a palette of mixed colours. The experience for Mareijke was pure. It was absolute and perfect.

Involuntarily and most inexplicably, her mind raced back to Béch. Mounted on his camel, he had surveyed the land cruisers at the top of the dune. Each visible muscle in his body had flexed as he brought the camel-train to a stop and dismounted from his descended camel, its bony legs folded comfortably beneath it.

With sweat shining on his tanned skin, he had turned to look at her. They were heavily outnumbered. The engines were already ignited and their assailants had closed in on them. Mareijke’s camel had descended unexpectedly, pitching her forward. She had leaned back, exerting herself beyond measure to maintain her balance.

Béch’s movements to save her from falling from the camel had been quick, but before he could reach her side, she had regained her composure and their assailants were upon them. The men had detained Béch while she was taken from her camel. His silence, etched in her mind, made her realize that nothing said or done under those strenuous circumstances could have possibly saved her.

Mareijke was resigned to her fate as the helicopter continued to fly towards the burning fireball that was progressively crawling to a lazy height above the horizon. There was no point in clinging to Béch emotionally. He had no way of rescuing her.

The sudden turn of events was more than unsettling and Mareijke wondered if they were after the artifacts. She was under the impression that the artifacts were worthless, of mere sentimental value to her father. Personally, she was devoid of interest in both the artifacts and the journey.

She had spent many protesting hours in the office of her father’s lawyer looking for a loophole in the testament, but it had been impossible for Mareijke to evade her obligation. To inherit Dawid van Staalduinen’s wealth, she needed to find the artifacts. The inheritance itself would be a difficulty with which to contend because she was young and lacked an enterprising spirit, but the very idea of running her father’s company successfully was a formidable prospect she refused to acknowledge until she had found the artifacts.

Suddenly the artifacts became less significant. With fear-ridden thoughts, Mareijke contemplated human trafficking again. The dune attack had been pre-planned. They knew Béch’s camel-train would pass that way and they knew she would be travelling with him. Her abductor knew her name. If she were being trafficked, where were they taking her?

She remembered her fury at blatant newspaper reports about legalization of prostitution in South Africa for the 2010 FIFA World Cup. Warnings about human trafficking had swept across South Africa like a blazing fire out of control. While arguments were being thrown about, Mareijke was convinced that legalizing prostitution in any part of the world would not protect women in the industry. It would neither decrease the trafficking of women and children nor prevent HIV and aids.   

Mareijke looked down at the place where they were about to land. The small village seemed to rise from the sand, an unfortunate phoenix robbed of all its magnificence. She had no idea where they were, but disembarked gratefully. She tried to coggle across the sand away from the helicopter and commotion of dust its whipping blades were creating.

An invading army of dark inflated beetles was making its way alongside the road. Before Mareijke could give heed to its presence, a devastating crunching sound beneath her feet made her entire body shudder involuntarily.

“Yuck!” she cried and ran to the middle of the road, wincing all the while.

By then, the helicopter had taken to the air and the road was open again for traffic. A small junk-heap on wheels that rickety-racketed along quite loosely was moving through the cloud of swirling dust and almost knocked Mareijke over. Not that much would have been left of the decrepit vehicle, she thought, had it bumped into her. She was sure it would have fragmented into a pile of disintegrating pieces only to be blown away by the first gust of wind.

She moved out of the way quickly and succumbed to sudden nausea from the smell of carbon monoxide mixed with the dust in the air.  The rattletrap stopped.

“Get in,” her abductor said.

“You have got to be kidding!” she exclaimed, affronted at the idea. “I can walk faster than this contraption!”

“I’m sure you can,” he said, derision dripping off his tongue. “Get in!”

She climbed into the car, which had a noxious air to it … much like the company she kept. Fortunately, the journey was short. They travelled along a bumpy road and Mareijke looked out at the flat land where no grass seemingly had ever grown. There were no trees, not even a shrub of any kind.

They arrived at a low house built in adobe and a young woman escorted Mareijke to a cool, dark room to freshen up and rid herself of her glaucous appearance. After changing into clean clothes given to her by the kind woman, Mareijke’s nose guided her to a table where food beckoned for her immediate attention. She welcomed a warm cup of tea while her eyes admired the spread of food that adorned the table.

Mareijke realized, perhaps for the first time since the death of her father, that her health had suffered a tremendous blow. She wasn’t used to travelling and sleep didn’t come naturally during the heat-induced nights. It had affected her appetite and while she realized the importance of eating, she knew that her stomach would only take a small amount. After the long and torturous journey, Mareijke was ravenous, but she chose a humble selection of food and ate slowly.

When she had finished eating, she went out into a dismal looking courtyard drenched in bright sunlight and gazed through her sunglasses at the equally bright mineral sky. The hemispherical roof was painted blue with little company of cloud. An eagle circled the air and then, with wings defiant of gravity, hovered over the little town. For a split-second, Mareijke was riding the wind with the massive bird. She needed inner strength to carry on. She needed the tireless wings of the soaring eagle to face her enemy.

Her abductor joined her in the courtyard. Mareijke was determined to find out why he had taken her from the camel-train. She turned and watched the man pensively as his eyes caught sight of the eagle. His presence seemed to be conciliatory.

“Who are you and what do you want with me?” Mareijke asked impatiently.

There was sudden movement and chaos about her. A man grabbed her less graciously than her previous encounter and smothered her breath with an overwhelming chemical-lined cloth. Her thoughts started to reel as two men held back her abductor.

Mareijke struggled in vain against the overpowering force that was taking control of her entire being until she finally collapsed into the great oblivion of a deep sleep.

Mareijke's Courage Chapter 1

He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch

To win or lose it all …

James Graham, Marquis of Montrose

Standing on the hot sand sheets of the Sahara, Mareijke silently acquainted herself with the parched personality of the forbidding desert.  The sand-laden wind burned her soft skin as she scanned the dunes in front of her. She knew she could stand there for days with the ever-migrating landscape staring back at her, always a foreigner.

The caravaneers with whom she was travelling were used to the harshness of the Sahara. Unlike them, Mareijke was sensitive to the dry land and wind-blown sand. Her breath burned in her throat. Who could possibly live in the Sahara for a lifetime, she wondered, as she looked at the barren string of undulating dunes?

Watching the camels lope past on their gangling legs, Mareijke longed for the cool Atlantic breeze in Agadir. The thermometer had burned at 54 degrees Celsius on their arrival at the oasis, but now the sun was setting on amber and pink dunes and her blistering day was finally coming to an end.  Her reverence for the open space that stretched out all around her strengthened her appreciation for water, a scarce and frail resource for the denizens of the arid and mystifying Sahara.

The isolated oasis itself was nothing like any picture-book impressions she had ever seen. Humbly keeping its ground beneath the tormenting sun, it lay camouflaged against the sand-tolerant land. Stripped of all dignity, the oasis was vulnerable and unprotected from the ravages of the desert.

Other than the few miserly scattered date palms to warrant shade and dwarf variants squatting nearby, there was a mud-dried house with thick walls.

“Ta’alay ma’ee,” an elderly woman said, beckoning Mareijke to follow her.

She took Mareijke inside the house. Entering the cool interior, Mareijke was glad to escape the glare and heat of the day. Even though water was scant, she was able to wash off the sand that had stung her skin. Her reddened green eyes hurt, even when she closed them.

With night and temperatures falling fast, Mareijke found life tolerable again. The greatest relief was that the humming fly-swarms had all gone off to rest. Leaving the house reluctantly, she joined her travelling companions in a nomad camelhair-dining tent. She sat down on a beautifully woven rug and accepted the warm bowl of soup given to her by the elderly woman. She ate slowly. There were flour-cakes dipped in a fruity olive oil, couscous, meat, vegetables, bread and fruit. It was a colourful array of dishes, but with drained energy Mareijke had no desire to move and even less to eat.

After dinner, they left the carpeted tent to sit beneath the fresh and clear night dome. Mareijke looked at the distant deckle-edged mountains painted black against the fiery canvas of sky, while the melancholic cry of a lone fox lingered eerily in the silence pervading the air. Too exhausted to enjoy the company of the caravaneers on her first night in the desert bivouac, she quietly bade them goodnight and crawled into her tent to find solace in sleep. Mareijke fell asleep almost immediately. Not even the laughter and intriguing conversation of the caravaneers could keep her curious mind awake.

The night was long and even though she had hoped to wake before dawn to enjoy some new morning air before the intense heat of the day stumbled in, consciousness had evaded her. By the time Mareijke opened her eyes, the heat-evoked day was upon her quite unexpectedly and her skin already damp with perspiration.

It would have been more desirable if they had left the oasis before the sun had made its eastern ascension on the whitened horizon, but Mareijke’s travel guide had postponed their travels so that she could get all the rest she so desperately needed.

Hesitant and despondent, Mareijke listened to the activities outside her tent. Preparations were underway for their departure. She sat up and dressed in the small confined space. Like most of the native women, she covered much of her body puritanically with fine woollen clothing.

She emerged from the tent with strained eyes. The glaring day came as no surprise; there was sand everywhere. Mareijke had a sudden burning desire to take refuge beneath the surface of the sand, anything to escape the omnipresent blinding light.

Had the morning occurred during any other period in time, Mareijke may have found herself marvelling at the vast openness that spread out in front of her. Unfortunately, life had dealt her a tragic blow and her suffering now blinded her to the beauty of the desert.

“Good morning,” her handsome travel guide greeted affably. “You have rested well, but we must eat and leave before we swelter in the sun.”

“How much farther do we have to travel?” she asked, inwardly berating herself for her restless desire to end the jaded journey.

“It’s not that far, but we travel slowly.”

Less enthralled to hear that they would be crawling at tortoise pace across the foreboding sand, Mareijke swallowed her dismal apprehensions. She had barely arrived in Morocco and was already living the life of a sloth, dragging herself from one heat-impaired moment to the next.

Fortunately, the wet rest stop had made it possible for her to regain some of her sapped strength. Her parched throat welcomed the cool liquid that tumbled gently into her empty stomach. She had no idea what she was drinking, but the cool sweetness quenched her daunted nerves.

After breakfast, the ineluctable journey started again. The heavily loaded camels got up onto their spindly legs, whining and moaning very loudly. Mounted on one of the camels, which was part of the camel-train south, Mareijke watched her travel guide lead her away from the oasis. He had warned her that travelling across the wide-open plains would be dangerous. Yet, the perilous journey had to take place.

As the sun mercilessly scorched her view, Mareijke took a mental journey back to the early hours of that morning when her flight had departed from Cape Town.

It was a twelve-hour flight to London. Mareijke hated every minute of it. Throughout her life, she had never liked confinement. She had liked neither sitting inert nor waiting. Being stuck in the aircraft with its limitations made the flight an indolent tumour in her mind. The plane seemingly made little advancement across the stretch of sky and her thoughts charged up and down the aisles of her exhausted mind like little raging bulls in a china shop, shattering all optimism as far as they went.

The painless minutes sat on the face of her watch, lethargic like most of the passengers. The less Mareijke wanted to think, the more she was bound to thought. Her deep concerns about the Moroccan assignment became constant companions throughout the flight. It was the uncomfortable idea of travelling alone across the vast and isolated territory with an assigned travelling guide that weighed her down the most. Mareijke based her fears on her knowledge of Arabian men who dominated their women with disrespect. She knew the travelling guide was neither Arabian nor Moroccan. Yet, the thought of travelling with the stranger who had spent a lifetime in the company of these perceptions – against equality and women – was very discouraging.

She arrived at Heathrow Airport, pleased to find herself on hitch-free flight schedules to Casablanca and Agadir. Mareijke disembarked from the airplane at the Al Massira Airport feeling depleted and amort. The long procedure of entering the foreign country prolonged her meeting the travel guide, but after entering the terminal in Agadir, Mareijke’s mental metamorphosis became clear when she saw Béch Rousseau for the very first time.

Mareijke realized that he was nothing like she had expected. She found herself mesmerized by the stalwart man who stood against the rail in pensive mood. His white shirt enhanced his dark brown wind-tussled hair and bronze tan.

Béch stepped forward and inquired, “Mareijke van Staalduinen?”

“Yes,” she replied and wondered for the first time what impression her own dishevelled appearance was making upon the young man. She was comforted by his warm disposition: the glimmer in his light brown eyes, and his suave and cultivated voice. Her self-inflicted fears diminished within seconds, leaving her less reluctant to endure what lay ahead.

“Welcome to Morocco,” he said warmly. “I’ve booked a room for you at one of the hotels here in Agadir.”

“No!” she exclaimed imperiously.

Almost immediately she was embarrassed by her injunction, but her embarrassment evaporated quickly when an amused expression flickered subtly on Béch’s face. Mareijke was infuriated by it. Exhaustion was making her emotions mercurial and she realized she was in danger of exposing her vulnerability.

“You need to rest. The journey will be difficult and …”

“We must leave immediately,” she interrupted.

Their eyes locked. She was convinced that there would be a play for power, but Béch stepped back.

“I will see what I can arrange.”

For a moment, Mareijke was disappointed. She expected him to flout her orders and was prepared to take him on, but he gave in so easily. She watched him as he walked away. There was an air of supremacy in the way he walked. She continued to watch him until he disappeared from view.  Having no strength to dwell on his subtle act of surrender, Mareijke walked towards the bathroom to refresh and again, like so many times before, considered her father’s testament.  

Dawid van Staalduinen had instructed Mareijke, his only child, to travel to Morocco to retrieve three specific artifacts he had left behind the year of her birth. She had to return to Cape Town with the artifacts in order to receive her inheritance. Through the written testament, Dawid had assigned Béch Rousseau to assist her in her travels across the desert. After reading the testament to her, the executor of her father’s estate had arranged the entire journey. 

Her father had always spoken about his adventures in Morocco. The Arabs had brought Islam to Africa many centuries ago and for Dawid and some archaeology students from Stellenbosch, it had been a challenge to visit Morocco and preach the evangelistic message. It was on their travels through Casablanca at the start of the nineteen-eighties that Dawid had met Béch’s father, Armand Rousseau.

Armand had been working on an archaeological research programme at the time. Upon learning that the young missionaries were archaeologists, he had invited them to join him in his travels to the more remote areas around Casablanca. The young archaeologists had worked quite eagerly with Armand on his project, while Dawid preferred to spend his time preaching to the nomads. Béch spent his early childhood years growing up around the archaeological sites where his father and Dawid had worked.

Béch had turned six years old when Dawid van Staalduinen returned to South Africa to take over a family export business. Mareijke was born a year later and raised in Cape Town. While Dawid had spoken of Béch Rousseau many times, she had never met him. His visits to South Africa were rare, mostly because her father had preferred to do all the travelling.

Her father trusted Béch implicitly and had assigned him the mission because he knew Béch would keep Mareijke safe. But to her, he remained a stranger. With this thought hanging in her mind, she slowly returned to the air terminal. And there he was, waiting for her – as if he had never left.

 “Well?” she prompted.

“I have made several enquiries,” Béch informed her. “There’s a helicopter pilot here at the airport that may be able to help us. Would you like to wait here while I speak to him?”

“No,” she said quickly and followed him closely to where the pilot was waiting.

The French communication that took place between the two men was as incomprehensible to her as her father’s written testament. She didn’t understand why her father wanted her to personally retrieve the artifacts. He knew how she felt about travelling and his business. She didn’t know why having the artifacts would qualify her to inherit the business.  It would have been so much easier just to give the artifacts to Béch. Surely he would be more interested in them.

Mareijke watched the pilot intensely and soon discovered that he was not particularly well-disposed towards helping them. The pilot’s phone rang and he excused himself. She continued to watch him. The telephone conversation appeared to be very argumentative and the pilot’s unhappiness was evident, but then quite unexpectedly he looked at her. He listened, agreed to something and ended the call. She felt extremely uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny. He returned to Béch and agreed to take them to the designated oasis in the desert.

Béch’s foresight had made him send his caravaneers on the long trip to the oasis a few days prior to Mareijke’s arrival. He knew exactly what Dawid’s testament stipulated, which required them to make the journey by camel. While the experience was one that Dawid had believed would be appreciated in years to come, Béch was more concerned about the risks involved.

Times had changed and desert travel had become hazardous. With Mareijke being a woman, the stakes were higher. A newcomer to the desert region would also find it difficult to endure such a harsh journey. Dawid had been living in Morocco for almost seven years and was well acquainted with the desert and climate when he first joined a camel-train to the south. They also had more time in those days to travel the treacherous distance to the mountainous region.

In present times, given the circumstances, time was an archenemy on the vast open desert plains and Béch was unable to make it easier for Mareijke because his camels could only travel as far as 30 kilometres per day.

The helicopter flight seemed endless. Mareijke was too tired to enjoy the landscape and wished they would reach the oasis. She had no idea what to expect, but wanted the flight to end. Suddenly, the pilot received an urgent summon to return to Agadir. Béch understood the message clearly.

“He has to return to Agadir, Mareijke,” Béch informed her.

“How far is the oasis?”

“Not close enough, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t go back,” she said.

“Did you see the camel train that we passed a few minutes ago?” Béch asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“It’s travelling in the same direction as the oasis,” Béch continued. “The choice is yours. We can return to Agadir or travel with the caravan.”

“We have an agreement. He can’t just leave us here in the middle of nowhere,” Mareijke exclaimed.

“I don’t think he has much of a choice, but we do. Do we go back or travel with the caravan?”

“I’m not going back,” Mareijke said adamantly.

The helicopter had turned and was already heading for the coast. Once Béch spotted the camel train, he asked the pilot to land on a dry stretch of flat land. The pilot waited for Béch to reach an agreement with the caravaneers before lifting into the sky and leaving. The friendly young men welcomed Béch and Mareijke very warmly, but she knew their hospitality was misguided as soon as Béch started handing out wads of paper money.

As they approached the camel on which Mareijke was to travel, Béch warned her of the animal’s anti-social tendency to spit. She approached it with even greater care. It was the first time she had ever seen a living camel. She found nothing attractive in the way the tall beast stood sneering down at her with its enormous yellow teeth and breath that had been hung out to die. It was potently pungent.

The camel dropped gracefully onto its haunches to accommodate her. Béch told her that the camel’s ascension from the ground would occur in phases and explained in detail what she needed to expect and how she would have to react to prevent herself from falling. She climbed onto the leather saddle quite easily, but when the camel got up onto its spindly legs, she was lurched forward and thrown back. As it ascended in its phases, the whole procedure of being thrown forward and back was repeated. Alarmed at the prospect of losing both her balance and dignity, Mareijke was relieved to find herself still seated in the swaying saddle by the time the camel was up and standing on its broad feet. The camel-train then moved forward and Mareijke was gently lulled into the swaying rhythm of the camel’s gait.

“The money will prevent us from being marooned on this vast ocean of sand,” Béch said.

“That’s a relief,” Mareijke answered.

“I know that landing in this desolate area is not part of our plans,” Béch said warily. “But if I have to be honest, I prefer it.”

“Why?” Mareijke asked.

“There’s just something about the pilot I don’t trust.”

The only thing that comforted Mareijke at that point was her knowledge that the caravaneers at the oasis were Béch’s companions. They were people he trusted.

While trust did not come very easily for Mareijke, it was her father’s high opinion of the young man that had formed the basis of her trust in Béch Rousseau. It was the only reason why she had embarked on the journey in the first place.

Mareijke had no desire to travel across the desert to look for the artifacts her father had left behind.  Long before arriving in Morocco, she had already decided that she would not like the heat and discomforts that desert travelling offered and she preferred to stay true to her initial instincts.

Having rested at the oasis gave her new perspective and now, travelling away from it on a different camel, Mareijke sat quietly in awe of the vastness of the desert. She was living her father’s dream. She was experiencing the same immense infinity of sand-swept terrain as he had done so many years ago, her thoughts constantly shifting with the sand.

“Your mind is never in one place,” he had said. “Different thoughts filter through it on such a long and unique journey. It’s a journey, my child, where you learn to discover your true self.”

As camel hooves padded comfortably across the soft sand, a perfect line of dunes with endless red curves loomed on one side. A sea of sand on the other side swallowed Mareijke’s fears and thirst. She knew Béch would not make another desolate stop because of the contingent dangers that lurked behind the dunes.

As if anticipating danger, she looked up to the top of the nearest dune where a line of metal predators intruded on her thoughts. Carefully scanning the length of territory invaded by the unexpected visitors, Mareijke turned to look at Béch. He was wary of their company. He looked at her and his visage acknowledged his concern.

“Unfortunately, this is open territory,” he said calmly.

Mareijke’s imagination was given reins. It was the genesis of being preyed upon without safehold. They had nowhere to flee. They weren’t moving along a given track. They were mere specks of dust on the surface of the desert’s scale, yet visible and victim to a much greater force: the power of knowledge. The enemy had known about their journey and patiently anticipated their arrival.

The unsubdued sea of sand glistened as the Saharan light danced on the metallic pack of land cruisers.  She was given no time to contemplate an outcome as the sudden sound of engines tumbled down the side of the dune, vehicles in pursuit. There was no point in moving forward and Béch brought the camel-train to a stop.

Mareijke looked up at the cobalt-blue sky and left a prayer on the wind as she watched their assailants approach with noise and swirls of sand.

  

Who is right?

Like many Christians, I, too, can throw Bible verses around to try and win an argument; but, I don’t want to argue my way through life. For every argument, there is a counter-argument and living a life that’s based on debating isn’t my idea of fun. Arguments tend to become hot under the collar.

People should learn to respect one another. We all look at the world from our own windows. No one shares the same window, so the views are different. Each person has his own perspective and opinion as to what is acceptable and what is not acceptable. If, for example, you are fully convinced in your mind that what you esteem is better is indeed better, then who am I, fully convinced in my mind, perhaps that it is not better, to argue with you? My soul purpose here on earth is not to judge, condemn, force my opinion onto others or to control and master where others stand or fall.

When we live on earth and focus all our time on the ENERGY within and around us, there is no time to worry about small things, like what someone else is wearing, driving, eating, or drinking. People make choices on a daily basis according to their mood, health, attitude, circumstances, unforeseen situations, status, and the people in their lives. The list of reasons for our choices is endless. No one can tell another person how to live because they don’t share the same emotions or experiences. They don’t have the same levels of energy. Some people are inclined towards optimism and others are pessimistic. Why, then, do we want to manipulate or convince others to think the way we do? An opinion is an opinion. A fact is a fact. What is it, then, that drives us to demand homogeneity?

In my third novel, the main character swears profusely. Near the end of the novel, she meets up with the murderer in the story and the question comes to light: What is worse: to murder (a physical deed) or to swear (something that comes from the heart)? The main character tells the murderer that she can stop swearing at any time, but the person who was killed cannot be brought back to life. Many will argue this point. What comes from the heart is worse. Others will argue about the definition of swearing. Some people think that swearing is worse than smoking. They will even throw in a Bible verse to prove it: “It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person.” Matthew 15:11. Does this only include swearing or is quarreling included? The very question leads to more quarreling.

We should not quarrel about our perspectives or opinions. We should learn from each other. We should endeavour to understand what others think, feel and accept to be right. We need to understand another person’s perspective. Only then, we will learn. If we cannot understand their perspective, then there’s something within us, not them, that needs adjustment. We are students for life. We are here on earth to live and to learn. There is no law on earth that insists that we must be right with regard to everything.

If we can acknowledge everything that comes our way with thanksgiving, regardless of whether we accept it or not, we are indeed greater in being sincere than those who constantly want to impose their perspectives and opinions upon us!

Negativity stays with you

We have a detention system at our school. Every time the learners break the rules, they get negative points on the system. When these points add up to a total of -40, they attend a detention class on a Friday afternoon for three hours and spend the time writing out the rules of the school. If they don’t attend the detention class, they get double the points that got them there in the first place, i.e. -80.

Some of these children do positive things, like cleaning the classrooms for the teachers, to get positive points. This has been acceptable, until more recently when the principal decided that the learners have to be punished for their wrongdoing. He made an interesting statement with regard to this. If you drive through a green traffic light every day of your life and then drive through a red light on a given day, you can’t drive through five green lights and expect to be pardoned for driving through the red traffic light. This simply means that the learners can’t do positive things to get positive points to counter-balance the negative points. No good deed can pay for a crime.

How do these learners get positive points? Well, there’s no specific plan in action. The negative points are captured on the system and they stay there indefinitely. If the learners continue to misbehave or avoid detention classes, the negative points accumulate. The only way they can reduce the number of negative points is to sit in the detention class. When they attend the detention class, they are given +40 points. At the end of the year, the negative points are carried over to the next year; the burden of having negative points is dragged on into the New Year. This makes the learners despondent because they cannot redeem themselves in any way, other than attending the detention class. Some may feel that this is unfair, but is it?

When you wash your hands with a hand sanitizer that kills 99% of the germs on your hands, you tend to feel clean. Have you ever wondered what happens to the 99% of germs that have been killed? They’re still in your hands. Just like those dead germs stick to your hands, negative behaviour sticks to you. You cannot sanitize your negative behaviour. Everything you think, say, or do stays with you. Just like those detention points that add up, so, too, your bad behaviour adds up; it makes you who you are. The same can be said for all the goodness that you emit. Every good thought, word, and deed adds up and makes you who you are.

As you grow older, your conscience tends to lean towards focusing on the bad things. You learn to regret your past and break yourself down in the process. If you always focus your energy on doing good, your conscience won't be so heavy. This is what we learn in Leo Tolstoy’s story, The Three Questions. The answers to the three questions in the story bear the light. 

1)    What is the most important thing you must do in life? You must do what is good.

2)    When must you do it? You must do it now.

3)    Who are the most important people in your life to whom you must do it? Every person who is with you now is the most important person in your life and you must do what is good for that person.

These three questions are purpose-driven. So many people are searching for their purpose in life. There's no need to look for your purpose. Your purpose isn't something that will be given to you; it isn't something you can achieve. Your purpose is within you. The answers to these three questions should be your purpose. When you learn to serve others and you are good to them while they are with you, you will be motivated to serve even more. It’s the golden rule of life: Do to others as you would have them do to you (Luke 6:31). Sadly, many people are negative towards themselves. They have negative thoughts about themselves and they have nothing good to say about themselves. They also harm themselves through their negative behaviour. This is called self-abuse.

Charity begins at home. Learn to be good to yourself first before you are good to others. Everything you do, for yourself and others, will come back to you. Focus on what is good. Just like negativity stays with you, so, too, goodness stays with you. Be the light that shines, even in the shadows, and make a positive difference. It will change the way you see life.

The lunch walkers

I went to work at the University of Limpopo for nine days. Now, you must know how extensive a university campus is. There are many paths that meander in numerous directions. Getting lost became part of our daily routine. I’m not one to stretch the parameters of my comfort zone easily, so getting lost is really quite undesirable. 

Imagine my despair when the group of ladies decided to walk to the lunch venue. Just the thought of it made me perspire mentally. I don’t walk much unless it is necessitated. For example, I will walk away from an offensive vile smell, a burning building or if I’m exposed to pending danger, like a lion that’s loose on the premises. Walking to a lunch venue at midday, in the insufferable Bushveld heat, is not my idea of an option when there are cars available to take us there. 

They mentioned that the venue was not very far, but you know how it is with people. One person’s definition of far is alarmingly different from that of another’s. Nevertheless, not wanting to be a killjoy, I joined the lunch walkers. 

Going to the venue, we walked quite briskly – not because of hunger, eager enthusiasm, or team spirit. Our pace was set because we were walking downhill most of the way and also because some of the walkers actually participate in regular physical exercise. 

Breathless, with a heart palpitating in my unfit chest, I reached the restaurant every single day and went up the steps with flaccid legs, relieved to be alive. I ate my lunch because I was there. My hunger had been curbed from the long walk. After lunch, we were faced with the exhausting journey uphill back to the lecture room. In a sense, it was very educational because I discovered that I have more muscles in my legs than I have ever been aware of. 

Will this experience inspire me to start exercising, walking, or running? Will I enroll in a boot camp? No, no! Let’s not be silly. Just enjoy the photos, will you? If you’ve read all of this, you might as well stay a little longer and look at all the photos. These photos were taken from the restaurant, Glenda's Take 5, en route to the lecture room.