Matt Barnes: Secrets, Missions, Postcards and Packages

Salt Block from The Sahara

Matt Barnes took the small cup of steaming tea from the dark-skinned man's crusty hands and nodded as a silent thank-you. In an hour or two the man who led this caravan through the Sahara Desert would not be so thoughtful of Matt Barnes.

"Drink, the night soon get cold," the man said in broken English. He smiled broadly, revealing a row of missing teeth.

In a small woven tent, they sat on worn pillows. The cushions once-very long ago-were velvety and soft. Now, the cloth was tearing apart at the seams and the cushioning had formed to a certain position like clay in the sun.

As the old pillows, the host had been worn down by his many treks across the Sahara. His body once was limber but it was now calloused. He knew the toll the trips had taken on him because of the unforgiving wasteland. At his age, he felt no real pain.

Matt Barnes, however, felt several blisters rubbing against his boots and a sore big toe. The arch of his foot ached from his walk. His feet had been limber too but were tearing apart and each step was painful.

His forehead and scalp had been singed during the day's walk. The sun had burned his neck and by now the skin had tightened. If he twisted or turned his neck, whether quickly or slowly, it would sting and feel like it was releasing pent up heat. As night came, the burns made him shiver with cold.

Too hot by mid-morning, too cold by midnight, the desert was unforgiving, unless a man, like the smiling man sitting before Matt Barnes, only knew the temperature extremes, never mildness.

Matt Barnes sipped the bitter tea and burned his tongue. He had to straighten his chest as the drink slid down his throat, passed his heart and into his stomach.

After a few deep breaths, Matt Barnes thanked the man for taking him in earlier that day. "I don't know what I would have done otherwise."

The thin man only nodded furiously and huffed excitedly.

Matt Barnes took another drink, wearily. The tea had cooled slightly, but its bitter taste still curled his tongue.

He was unsure about this caravan of camels that was hauling salt in the earliest mode of transportation. But it was his truck that had overheated and stopped running, not even one of the barking camels that were overladen with the blocks had collapsed. So much for modern advances.

His orders were to remain distant from the caravan and simply tail it to Timbuktu, the ancient city in Mali, West Africa. Yet, quite the opposite had happened. A very young scout with the caravan, sitting atop a camel, had noticed his truck through high-powered binoculars. And he was now a supposed guest in the tent of the leader of the caravan.

Matt Barnes took another sip of bitter tea. The dark-skinned man stared at him and his smile spread wider. He seemed as happy as a hyena who had found meat. Matt Barnes may have been too easy a meal, if anything.

"Another cup," the man said, taking the cup, and pouring more hot tea. Then he added a spoonful of sugar, stirred it and handed it back to his guest.

Before he sipped it, the curtain swished slightly, as someone moved behind it. The man in front of Matt Barnes scrambled to move his cushion aside and put a giant one in its place. Then the curtain opened. A large man entered the room and sat in the cushion that was fit for this man, his size and respect.

"Mr. Barnes," he said, tsking his tongue, addressing him as a principal would to a student in trouble. "I am not surprised to meet you here in the middle of the Sahara. But in such a predicament as an overheated truck? Be glad I took you in. The desert is unfriendly to those who don't know its ways."