Zoë of Arabia
Written By Brett Paesel
print
single page
comments
Into the Dunes
The terrain of the Sahara is at once rugged and smooth, windy and still. We drive in a Jeep through dry riverbeds known as wadis. At first I find it impossible to believe that we're driving along what was once the floor of a deep river. But the evidence is here, gradations in monolithic rock formations, indicating the changing water level over millions of years.
Our party is made up of four vehicles that ferry three other families, with kids ranging from 6 to 10. One does not go deep into the desert in only one Jeep. I get a bit of a thrill knowing I'm heading into country so dangerous that we have to take precautions like bringing walkie-talkies, GPS navigators, vast amounts of water. The journey is so bumpy it allows for little but concentration on driving.
Keir tells me that because they stop so often, Zoë's not confined to her rear-facing child seat for too long. She's mostly entertained by the constant jostling, or she falls asleep. This, I think, is the extreme version of what a mommy friend in Los Angeles calls "nap drives."
I soon discover the main reason for the periodic stops: One of the SUVs gets stuck in the sand. As the drivers get out to assess the situation, Robyn shakes out a stiff blanket and sits in the shadow of the SUV to nurse. I join Robyn and Zoë on the blanket as Keir and a couple of guys bring out ropes, shovels, and sand plates.
"Keir loves this," she says. "They all do. Look at them, figuring it all out."
I look over at a couple of men who now lie on their bellies, peering under the SUV. Keir is tying a rope to the front. Later he'll confirm what Robyn tells me: "Getting stuck is part of the whole adventure. Those are your war stories."
Watching the men toil in sandy 110-degree heat has its charms for an unfettered visitor like me, but would be a royal pain in the ass if it happened every weekend while I was holding a 1-year-old child at my breast. My patience for standing in line at an air-conditioned bank while jiggling a toddler on my hip runs out at about four minutes. I ask Robyn if she likes getting stuck as much as Keir does.
"Not so much," she says. "But it gives Zoë a chance to run around."
See, this is the glass-is-half-full attitude I lack. I'll keep this in mind next time our transmission gives out on the highway instead of doing what I usually do: burst into tears and tell the kids that Mommy and Daddy are really upset right now, so they should find an activity that doesn't involve talking or moving.
Nomad's Land
We get stuck three more times before finding a campsite. As the adults strap windbreaks to the SUVs to keep everything from blowing over, the kids explore. Zoë pats sand with a shovel. Robyn says kids love the desert: There's endless space and tons of stuff to examine.
She tells me that a friend with older kids brings a shoe box that they fill with rocks and other finds. He says he won't bring anything home that doesn't fit in the box.
Later I realize I should impose the shoe box rule on myself. I fill Keir's glove compartment with shells of sand snails, petrified wood, and a couple of pieces of flint. I can't wait to show my hoard to my sons. As the sun sets, Keir tells me he has a friend whose two teenage daughters now refuse to go into the desert with him, preferring instead to meet up with their posse.
"It would kill me if Zoë didn't love the desert like I do," he says.
Welcome to parenthood, old man, I think but don't say. If you're successful at developing your child's independence and confidence, it's entirely likely that she'll make different choices than you have. But I watch Zoë squealing as she darts in and out of a tent and assure Keir he's years away from that possibility.
When it gets dark and the air grows cooler, a fat, bright moon shines on the sand. The kids play a safe distance from the fire, stopping sometimes to watch it dance. Zoë sits on Robyn's lap, transfixed.
Keir watches Zoë 's rapt face. "Desert TV," he says.
I want to describe what it's like to fall asleep under the Egyptian sky. But all that comes to my mind are clichés with words like peace, moonlight, vast, profound. I stare into the night inspired by the way Keir and Robyn share all this beauty with their child. I promise myself to take my sons camping near the ocean instead of hanging a blanket from the top bunk and announcing, "It's a tent!" And I promise to respect natural beauty more. If Keir and Robyn can manage in the Sahara with cloth diapers, surely I can cut out juice boxes.
The Road Less Traveled
The next day, we visit the ruins of Dimeh, a Roman town built in the fourth century BCE, then head back to Cairo. It takes four hours of driving before we hit paved road. Zoë holds up like a champ. After we get home and shower off the sand, we collapse and watch Zoë take the books off the shelves.
I remind Keir of the times he and Robyn said they didn't plan to have kids because they might impede his lifelong goal of seeing every country in the world. I ask him what changed his mind.
"I guess I realized," he says, "that having a child is the ultimate adventure."
"That's corny," I say. "You sound too heroic. I'm talking about the down days. The times when you're at a total loss."
Keir looks at Robyn. "Oh yeah," he says, with such conviction I realize there have been many of those times. "This summer. In Mexico."
Robyn nods. "It was a horrid little room with bugs buzzing around one lightbulb. Zoë threw up all night. We'd wash her clothes in the sink, and she'd throw up again."
"She had a fever," Keir says. "The sheets had all been vomited on."
"None of us slept," Robyn says. "I told Keir I wanted to fly back to the States."
"You didn't just tell me," he says to Robyn.
He turns back to me. "She was yelling and crying. She wanted to fly out the next day."
"See?" I say. "Stories like that. Aren't there times when you want to chuck it all and settle down?" "Oh, not really," Robyn says. "In the morning Zoë was better, and we went on. That was just a bad night."
I think about what's stopped me from being more adventurous with my children — that very fear of getting stuck, even if it's in the bathroom of The Cheesecake Factory after Murphy's had an accident and I've forgotten the auxiliary pair of pants. Keir and Robyn don't seem to fear getting stuck half as much as they enjoy getting unstuck. If I carry that same spirit of adventurousness home with me, who knows what might lie ahead?
About the Author: Brett Paesel has written for Wondertime about lies (Sept/Oct 2007), greed (Dec/Jan 2008), and sloth (March 2008). Now she can check envy off the list. Keir, Robyn, and Zoë are moving to India next year, so stay tuned for "Toddler Takes Delhi."
