As I walked, I pondered: would it be a great misfortune not to have seen Smara at sunset, not to have sat before those ruins, not to have gazed at length on its buildings and horizons? Perhaps not. I don't feel inclined to imitate Chateaubriand in the Roman Forum.

That is not why I came here.

Bodily things: everything that would normally worry me - the prolapse of the organs, the bent back - are of scant importance here.

There are so few stops to come now, I hope - so few nights! And those last stops, when there is only one still to come, only two more nights with the sheikhs, how much more meaningful they become, or will seem to me: dividing the meat into five portions, drawing lots, and so on, as with those last few exquisite cherries at the bottom of the jar.

Going home: as well as the deep-felt, surprising joy arising from our renewed lives, or rather from our lives so rashly forced on to a wondrous path - of which I shall not speak - what pleasure it gave me to contemplate the hot bath I'd take right away - at the first possible moment - the first meal, the first night! A farewell to fleas, no longer to feel too cold or too hot. To sleep in a bed. To eat. To experience all those things once more after two gruelling months, the job done.

Yesterday evening, I walked from half past five until half past eight through undulating terrain and those were my thoughts as I walked.

"SMARA. The travel notebooks of a desert fanatic" by Michel Vieuchange, Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Pages 218-219.

Along the way I thought, ‘Is it so bad not to have seen Smara at sunset, not to have sat before those ruins, not to have let my eyes linger on its buildings and skyline?’ Possibly not. I’m in no mood to be like Chateaubriand at the Roman Forum.
I didn’t come here for that.
The human body - those things that used to preoccupy me, organ ptosis, hunch backs – has little meaning here.
Only a few more stopovers to go, I hope, only a few more nights! Those last few stopovers with the sheiks will take on a whole new meaning for me when there’s only one or two left: sharing the meat out into five portions, the drawing of lots etc – it’s like finding the best, most delicious cherries right at the bottom of the fruit bowl.
The Homecoming: besides feeling that wonderfully deep joy that stems from renewing our lives or rather roughly pushing them along a road of wonderment – I ‘ll say nothing more – I was just imagining with intense pleasure, the first hot bath I would take as soon as I got back, my first meal, my first night. No more head lice, no more extremes of hot and cold. Sleeping in a bed. Something to eat. Going back to all that after two very difficult months, job done.
Yesterday evening walked from 5.30 till 8.30 over some pretty steep foothills. It was during that walk that I had these thoughts (…)


"SMARA. Log books of a madman in the desert" by Michel Vieuchange Phébus Publishing House, Paris, 1990.

Along the road, I mused: Is it such a great shame not to have seen Smara under a setting sun, not to have sat before its ruins, not to have settled my eyes slowly along its edifices, upon its horizons?
Perhaps not. I’m not in the mood to imitate Chateaubriand at the Roman Forum.
I didn't come here for that.
The body: those things that would bother me, the sagging organs, the bowing back -- here, they hardly matter.
I hope that there will be only a few stops left -- only a few nights yet! These stopovers, the last ones, when there will only be one left, only two left to go with the sheikhs, what a renewed value they acquire, will acquire for me: the sharing of the meat into five parts, the drawing, etc., like the last, most beautiful cherries at the bottom of the dish.
The return: beyond this deep, awe-inspiring joy, emanating from our renewed lives or, rather, lives daringly pushed along a marvellous path -- which I would not at all say --, I imagined, with such pleasure, the hot bath that I would immediately take -- at the first minute -- of the first meal, of the first night. To be free of the lice, to no longer feel so cold or so hot. To sleep in a bed. To eat. To recover all this after two very hard months, the feat accomplished.
Walked last night from five thirty to eight thirty through rather steep rises. These thoughts came to me along that walk.

“Smara, the Forbidden City”, by Michel Vieuchange
Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Pages 218-219.

I was thinking along the way, is it really bad not to have seen Smara at sunset, not to have sat in front of those ruins, not to have let my eyes linger on its buildings, on its horizons? Perhaps not. I am not feeling in the mood to imitate Chateaubriand on the Roman Forum.

I did not come here for that.

The body. Those things that would normally worry me – organ ptosis, a stooped back. Here, little matters.

Few stops remain, I hope – yet so few nights! These stops are the final ones, and when there is only one stop left, just two with the sheiks, how meaningful they become again, or will become for me: dividing the meat into five portions, drawing lots, etc. Like the last, most beautiful cherries at the bottom of the fruit bowl.

The homecoming. In addition to that profound and marvellous joy we feel when our lives have been renewed, or rather, boldly propelled along a wondrous path (of which I will say nothing), I reflect, with the greatest of pleasure, on the hot bath I will take straightaway - within minutes - and on the first meal and the first night. No more lice, no more being too cold or too hot. To sleep in a bed. To eat. To rediscover all this after two very hard months, deed accomplished.

Walked yesterday evening from half past five to half past eight through some fairly steep foothills. It was during this walk that I had these thoughts; […]

Vieuchange, Michel. "SMARA. Travel Diary of a Desert Madman," Phebus, Paris, 1990, pp. 218-219

Along the way, I thought: was it wrong of me not to have seen Smara at sunset, not to have sat amid the ruins, not to have gazed long and hard at its buildings and prospects? Maybe not. I was in no mood to play Chateaubriand at the Forum in Rome.
That is not what I had come for.
My body and all of its cares: the prolapsed organs, the stooped back—none of that matters here.
Only a few more bivouacs—I hope. Only a few more nights to go! These last camps have—or will have—a fresher meaning for me. The last or next to last one to be spent with the sheikhs, cutting the meat into five portions, drawing lots, and all the rest—like the last and best cherries at the bottom of the bowl.
Coming home. To say nothing of the great, deep joy that comes from lives renewed or, better yet, boldly led along a wondrous path, I relished the thought of taking a hot bath—first thing and without a moment's delay. Then the first meal and the first night. No longer plagued by lice, or by too much heat or cold. Sleeping in a bed. Coming back to all of that after two hard months—mission accomplished.
Yesterday evening I walked from half-past five until half-past eight across some rather hilly ground. It was during that trek that I had these thoughts.

Translation: Jean-Marie Clarke

Walking along, I kept thinking to myself : Is it such a terrible thing not to have seen Smara under a setting sun, not to have sat down before those ruins, not to have cast a lingering gaze on her edifices, on her horizons? – Maybe not. I am not of a mind to emulate Chateaubriand as he stood atop the Forum in Rome.

That is not what I came here for.

The body : such worrisome things as a ptosis of the organs, a gradual stooping – those matter but little here.

How few the stops I am still expecting – how few the nights ! Those stops, the last ones, when only one remains, only two with the chikhs, what a renewed value they acquire, they will acquire for me : the slicing of the meat into five shares, the drawn lots, etc., like the last, most beautiful cherries at the bottom of the bowl.

The return home : beyond that deep, admirable elation born from our lives' having been regenerated or rather boldly coaxed along some wonderful path – one I shall not reveal – I envisioned, with a thrill of pleasure, the hot bath I would take right away – the very first minute –, the first meal, the first night. To be rid of lice, to suffer no longer such cold or such heat. To sleep in a bed. To eat. To enjoy all those things again after two exacting months, the deed finally done.

Walked last night from five thirty to eight thirty over some fairly steep rises and vales. It was during that trek that such musings crossed my mind; (…)



"SMARA . A desert addict's logbook" by Michel Vieuchange, published by Editions Phébus, Paris, 1990. pp. 218 - 219

I was thinking along the way – is it so very dreadful not to have seen Smara at sunset, nor sat before its ruins and feasted my eyes at leisure on its walls and vistas? Perhaps not. I have no inclination to imitate Chateaubriand’s descriptions of the Roman Forum.
That is not why I came here.
My body, the things which might otherwise cause me concern such as the prolapse of organs or becoming stooped over, matter little here.
Please let there be only a few stops more, I hope, and just a few nights! These stopovers, the final ones, when there are but one, but two more with the chikhs left to come, what fresh significance they take on, and will take on for me - sharing out the meat in five portions, drawing lots, etc – like the best cherries remaining in the bottom of a fruit bowl.
The return journey: in addition to a feeling of deep and admirable joy resulting from our lives thus reinvigorated or, rather, boldly driven forward onto a marvelous path – I shall not reveal which – I was dreaming with such pleasure of the hot bath that I would take at once, in the very first minute, of my first meal and my first night. No more lice, no longer feeling so cold or so hot. Sleeping in a bed. Eating. All this in store after two harsh months, the act accomplished.
Last night walked from 5 to 8.30 across a fairly steep and hilly terrain.
These are the thoughts which went through my mind whilst walking.

SMARA, “The travel journal of a desert disciple » by Michel Vieuchange, Editions Phébus, Paris, 1990, pages 218-219

On the way I was thinking: was there any great harm in not having seen Smara at sundown, in not having sat in front of those ruins, in not having long rested my eyes upon her buildings, her horizons? – Perhaps not. I am not in the mood of emulating Chateaubriand at the Roman Forum.

This is not what I came here for.

The body: those things that would worry me, organs sagging, back bowing – here matter little. So few are the stopovers I still look forward to – so few nights! Those stopovers, the last ones with the sheiks, when just one is left, or two, what new worth they acquire, they’ll acquire for me: splitting the meat five ways, pulling the odds, etc., like the last, loveliest cherries at the bottom of the fruit bowl.

Coming back: on top of this deep, admirable joy stemming from our lives renewed, or rather pushed hard along an enthralling road – which I wouldn’t say – with what delight was I thinking of the hot bath I would take right away – the very first minute, of the first meal, of the first night. No more fleas, no longer being too hot or too cold. Sleeping in a bed. Eating. Recovering all that after two very harsh months, mission accomplished. Walked last night from half past five to half past eight over fairly steep dunes. It’s during that walk that I mused(...)


“SMARA. Road Notes of One Madly in Love With The Desert,” by Michel Vieuchange, Éditions Phébus, Paris, 1990. Page 218-219.