We are maybe an hour up a deceptively steep desert path. It winds out of the ravine where our quiet neighborhood rests, and then aligns at the top of the hill where a vast flat desert stretches on into infinite. Eventually a triangular intersection in the dirt leads it north following a riverbed snaking into the majestic foothills. The long flat desert hills fall away replaced by ever-steeper, wind-chiseled rock faces. We have just crossed the deep sandy bed of the parched river. Our bikes cast oblong, slender shadows rippling along the rocks and pebbles. To our left, a beautiful sculpture of deep red dirt and rock cleaves up into the sky framing the moon still visible in bright daylight. To our right, a bit further off, a wide round mountain pulls away from the riverbed, curving around towards the taller purple mountains behind it. A herd of sheep and goats numbering in the hundreds trot across its face like water pouring sideways, separating and rejoining around outcropped boulders, always finding the path of least resistance. A shepherd wearing a green turban scrambles up the rocks directing the animals and staring down the valley at a pair of tourists on bikes. There's something unusual about them he can't place. They seem more at home than they should. Way up ahead, we will encounter a single fig tree carefully propped up by a stick. It grows from an unlikely babbling stone well at the top of a desolate hill. But that will be later. We are still near the riverbed being watched by the shepherd. Bumping down the road ahead of us is a large green truck with colorful yellow and red decorations and a white grill. We have pulled our bikes off into the brush to let the truck pass. We are waiting, watching the sheep and goats flow by. The truck trundles to a stop at our side, still loud and chugging. The driver asks us where we are going. We ask him where he has been, and say we are going there. He smiles, reaches across to the far end of his dashboard, and then stretches his hands down to us. His hand opens to reveal a collection of golden dates. Amber takes the handful and he repeats this action offering another handful to me. "Llah yrhm welidin", we chant (God bless your parents). The truck lets out a squeak and a long grunt and is off again on the bumpy road, dust and diesel rolling on after it. A breeze blows down the mountain cooling the sweat on our temples. We watch the shepherd watching us. We turn and look at the moon. We eat our dates.
