06 Apr The collector of deserts

Legend has it that in order to curb Mussolini's desire to invade Ethiopia, Mussolini was asked to occupy the Ethiopian Ogaden Desert, part of the Danakil Desert and to extend his territories into Libya, but he angrily replied that he was "not a collector of deserts".

Well, I don't know what's wrong with that, I do collect them, and I want to see them all, from the sea of dunes of the Azefal, to the erg of Bilma or the black dunes of Qattara. All of them. I have a moleskine at home that is my downfall, in which I write down every desert that appears in my life, and which, after taking up a page of my diary, becomes my next obsession. And then I can't stop until I go to it. I remember that on the first page of that notebook I wrote down the red dunes of Achkar, then followed the black peaks of Tibesti, Amukruz and its acacia forests, the undulating dunes of Amatlich, or the colourful lagoons of Ounianga where herons and flamingos rested from their long journey... I wrote down so many places for fear that time would erase from my memory those dreams I had.

That's why I came to the south of Libya, near the Akakus mountains, pursuing that obsession, delighted to enjoy everything the Duce didn't want. I wanted to escape to the other side of the dune, to swim in the Ubari lakes, one of the most beautiful oases in the world, or to see the ruins of Germa, the capital of the Garamantes, the kingdom of the sands.

And that's why I accepted the invitation of a friend who asked me to accompany him to Djibouti, well, because of that and because I have never refused a fight, I've never made a girl's money, nor have I ever said no to an adventure... (or to anything else for that matter). So I went there, in order to close another page of my notebook that was left open on my last visit to this country. And there, on the other side of Djibouti, is one of the places rejected in that famous deal, and in the middle of the Danakil desert, Lake Abbe, which was exactly what I had in mind and wanted to tell you about today.

The journey is not easy, the landscape is harsh, the road crosses the deserts of Great and Little Bara before disappearing at Dikhil, the last village, the heat is extreme, the food is scarce and the accommodation non-existent, but as Livingstone said, on this expedition, it is not all pleasures...

The only pleasure is that of the view, I remember describing my first sight of the place as follows: The spectacle paralyses you, fills you, moves you. You want to stop and contemplate it and at the same time you want to walk all over it. You want it all. You're glad that the place is so remote, harsh and unknown that it's just for you... but at the same time you want to share it. (I don't remember if I had been drinking when I wrote this, but I don't rule it out).

The landscape was incredible, there was a desert, white, and a volcano, a blue lake, and hundreds of smoking chimneys, and caravans of camels and thousands of pink flamingos in the lake, and ostriches, hyenas, warthogs, gazelles ..... And that guide, Jacob, whom I took up in Dikhil to lead me through that maze of chimneys. No one else. Only the two of them, and some Afar shepherds, this is their territory, a hard people even in their dealings, like the land they are attached to. In the old days they were feared for their custom of cutting off the testicles of their enemies and hanging them around their necks. It seems that they have given up such an ugly habit, or at least they didn't leave me "nenuco", but the truth is that just in case I didn't sleep at night.

We camped right there among the rocks, I had no intention of leaving, we built a fire, talked about life, chewed qat and drank gin and tonics, a classic. After a while, I was dozing off and all I could hear was the crackling of the fire and the laughter of the hyenas prowling around.

As he fell, I imagined how Rimbaud, the cursed poet turned adventurer, must have felt when he arrived there on his wind-soled shoes. He was the first to see it. Then came Henry de Monfreid, sailing captain in the Red Sea, arms and hashish dealer, pearl fisherman, hunter in Kenya, photographer, painter... an intense life. I arrived much later, but there were not many more in between. And so it remains, eternal, just as Rimbaud saw it, waiting for you to arrive and start your collection.