It’s the DRIEST heat - a swelter.
His shirt, his dish-dash is wet with sweat.
The head-gear stick to the head!
The dirt is thick!
With great thirst, this drifter walked the desert.
Pack, walk, ride, write. Pack, walk, ride, write.
Write pages. Read. Take great pics!
WATER! WATER! WATER!
Spit. Take leaks. Crap. Strip. Sleep.
Realise that while at war, this artist created theatre.
His stage is the desert - he directs, he is the star.
The first act he sips tea with a sheik.
He takes a desert walk - a rare passage, a rare trek - with a sheik.
As this white takes this risk, he has their respect.
He faces the facts, he writes the facts.
This artist respects what he sees as the perfect life - WILD DESERT PEACE.
He has raw pride.
A pacifist at heart - a wild desert street priest preach peace - the desert is his escape.
The price is cheap.
He felt safe as he respected desert life.
He is sick with grief, fright, fear, he wipes sweat as he faces war, sees deaths at war - East Africa.
He wept, reacted with fright as he knew the raped, he knew the rapist.
At a war site, he faked his death. He fled.
The desert spark his artistic fire.
He writes pages that are read far, wide.