Rain in the Desert

PC: Andrew Corbley ©

Regarding the human experience, I always say that it’s best and most productive when you are making waves; when things are happening to you and to the world on account of your actions; and better to make waves by throwing a large stone into a lake than throwing a small stone. Traveling is that large stone. You’re throwing yourself into the lake of life and creating waves of reactions that bounce off of the world, off one another, in a chain-response of action and reactions.

To experience rain, proper rain, in the desert is a magical experience; and all the more rare for those who don’t find themselves in the desert very often. I do love the desert, and have been in five unique desert ecosystems: The Moab in Utah, the Sonora in California, the Tabernas in Spain, the Namib-Naukluft in Namibia, and the Sahara in Morocco. I would say of these that the Sahara is the least likely of all to experience rain for the average short-term visitor. Indeed there had been no rain for 24 months preceding my visit in mid November. Nevertheless all storms must break, and it was falling asleep in an exposed sleeping bag on the summit of a lone sand dune that I felt the unmistakable yet unbelievable sensation of raindrops glancing off my cheek. “Really? The one night in my life I decide to sleep under the stars in the Sahara and it’s cloudy?” I had thought about an hour before. Suffice it to say my following thoughts were studded with far more disbelief. At first the drops came and went, and for that I was able to get 2 more hours of sleep until about midnight when the moisture from the rain’s return had permeated my sleeping bag. Half-naked and desperately trying to keep the sand from sticking to my clothes, I made my way back to the car even while the rain increased. The wind howled along the gully at the bottom of the dune at something like an A#.

The next morning the desert had completely transformed. Waves of clouds broke like California Mavericks over the mountains, river systems appeared where before there was flat sandy ground, and a land that can simmer under 45°C heat in summertime was chilled to a third of that. In some areas the road became impassable. At one of these flooded crossings I was left stranded on the opposite side to a gas station I very much needed to arrive at, when a pair of hydrologists studying the river systems in that part of the desert helped me find some diesel at a nearby village. They explained that the area was filled with salt, and that many of the small towns and hamlets had a hell of a time finding salt-free water. Finding some diesel, as well as a detour to our respective destinations, we both got on with our days: theirs waiting until the rain stopped to continue their research, and mine continuing to drive around and take pictures.

In the desert water is life, it is said, which I found to be doubly correct because when I think of the desert, I often think of silence. When it rains though there is constant sound, not only from the raindrops and the wind, but also from birds, which need no longer remain by water sources and therefore travel, along with their chirping. Rain in a forest doesn’t change the character of the forest much. One is likely to hear all the same sounds in a forest under rain as in a forest under sun. The desert under rain totally changes the soundscape of the environment.. A more apt comparison perhaps would be a forest under a fire to capture to differences. I enjoyed my time in a rainy Sahara; it brought my mind around to when I met my wife for a second date, it was also in the desert, also in Africa, and it was also raining then as well.