Desert cathedrales

Maoua, and Safa. Two points from which one comes and goes. These are also female Koranic names, and Maoua is the grand-daughter of S, and Safa is the daughter of the neighbour here, the one who comes everyday to check in on S.

I have been coming to and from with fair regularity now from the apartment to Ghardaïa, but today it stretched a bit horizontally. And immeasurably vertically.

Z and I visit her old friend, Bishop Rault, for lunch. At some point it dawned on me that I was regularly having breakfast with the Arch-Bishop Emeritus in Algiers, and now another Bishop encounter! It was 1 pm, and the midday call to prayer was in the air. Z asked if it was the Arabs or the Mozabites calling. And Père R, after 40-some years of service and listening, recited Allahu Akbar for us first in the recognizable Arabic chant and then in the Mozabite monotones. This is one for whom the desert is the cathedrale. He has the largest diocese in Algeria, effectively the entire Sahara. A nomad among the nomads, I read in his autobiography, he has spent much time roaming around. He will pass the torch in about a year, and is pensive about the change his life will take, particularly the more sedentary nature of what may be to come. How do you pin down a cloud? he wonders out loud to me.

I find him very sympathetic, very easy to connect to. He talks about how he tries to keep up with news in Canada on TV5, as he spent time in Port Arthur once, working on a native reserve. We talk about Rwanda while we do the dishes, about how advanced they are in certain ways there, such as the ban on plastic bags and the high representation of women in parliament. He led me to the research library they have - surprise! - and I will return tomorrow. Taking the minibus on my own, insh'a allah.

In the afternoon, I essentially crept even further into heaven in this oasis, oblivious to - or perhaps because of - the sand that is blowing everywhere. I finally visit the old town of El Atteuf proper.

Sometimes, when I see something that is supposed to be visited and seen, I wonder what it is that I am supposed to see. When I entered the Mosque of Sidi Ibrahim, it answered itself. It had light and it had dark. It had a beginning, and it had infinity. It was small, and yet immense - from a distance I would say you could not quite judge its size. It was regular, and irregular. One was born, and one was timeless. It was as if it might explain black holes, if one dwelled in it for awhile.