In this special moment: be happy!

♥Don’t worry, be happy, and happy new year, courtesy Getty Images

My thought goes to whom  they can not celebrate it…



As you approached the desert city-oasis  of El Oued by air, the well-known city of thousand domes; you are in dalliance awe, a coup-de-foudre when you fall in love for the first time in your life, with the city,  as it extends its resplendent scenery offered before your eyes, in a magnificent panoramic view, and revealed itself,  to vanishing horizon, such as in front of an  Art of Monet_The “Hyphae’s”;

at bird-eye, these are grooves of dates palm-trees; like thousands china saucers  with their glasses tea-cups dressed on top, a couple of mint leaves inside them, all that set incrusted  on a table-cloth of white sands. Then, as the Convair 640 airplane hovered over the palm grove near to the airport, in a circle at 45º angle, the pilot aligned it before landing on the runway, the plane resumed then to disappear from the view in seconds as it  glided, nosed up then touched ground in two bounds, and landed.

As soon as the door opened, the atmospheric ambience was ethereal; a  breath of heath blew on your face, wrapped you up right into your skin, then  never leaves you, and let you linger  for a moment longing for the attractive interior freshness of the cabin. As you stood stunned, as the lasting  images remained whirling in your head while the vibrations of the old plane still crawling like ants on your body. The first step you put on the tarmac; a square mat of crisp gravels the size of a handkerchief, over an immensity sea of sand, you spot at a distance the silhouettes of palm trees, behind,  the cubics-ocher houses and the few buildings facility of aerodrome  with  their particular domed ceilings; the loss in translation we guaranty it: a postcard grand view worth to be  in your travel notebook, to impress you friends later on, when back home. The  director of the airport welcomed us with a warmth-lasting smile, at the feet of the plane, accompanied by a little girl handing a pitcher of sour sweet goat milk with a sprig of rosemary in it on one  hand, and a plate of succulent black round dates on the other hand. We followed him to his office, where on the desk, a tray with a tea-pot of the tea a-la menthe and tiny glasses were waiting for us. And a beginning of a thirty years long as flight-attendant.

Apart from the generous hospitality of the Sahara desert, from all the schmooze of the Grand Opening which are of  pure  formalities; to a handful fist of sands fleeting from the fingers, remained to us  the  only remembrance of the men of the desert, the gentleness and a dear friend.

Why My Slougui Blog

Why My Slougui Blog

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
– Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

At what might be My Slougui dreaming of? It might be simply, reveries, dreams of ignorance, or perhaps, of those faraway horizons, remembrances of gallops on hot sands of the Algerian Sahara desert, running after gazelles, hares, and the like. Then in the aftermath of a hunt, you took a rest looking for some freshness, under a tent,  in the shades of  the leafy oasis of BouSaada, at the Gate of the Algerian Sahara Desert.

Have you ever run bare foot on a beach, felt the crispy and scolding grains of sand under your feet, then you dived in to the waters? certainly yes, in deed! Then, imagine the cool waters of the oasis running on your skin, as you step out quivering for some heat.  Or It might be also, that and as it happened often, you went asleep for a nap while  listening  with an absent-minded ear, to a stirring conversation between your master and his visiting guests, while the groom is preparing a tea for them under the  convivial atmosphere of the tent. Since you are  the concerned subject among other topics of their conversation, in view of the ritual preparations of the for forthcoming hunting party of the morrow, and that is, he is proud of you and of your pedigree reputation,  as you made history among the community, in the vicinity around. But anyway, it’s inasmuch a human language, as it is a stranger to you it can be, apart from your master love and care for you, even though you are used to it, and apart from being familiar signs of communications, and body language  to you. By then, the golden tea in a copper kettle  is brought to the guests and ready to be served in  foaming tiny glasses, the smell of mint tea embalmed the tent, and you stirred up from your daydreams, as your master is  calling you while he  tended to you a piece of your favorite treat; a sun-dried camel meat.

Nota Bene: The character of the hound is known for being whimsical, do you breed Jurassic raptors?

On Home and Tea and Coffee perhaps

Home is a Cup of Tea


Perhaps the house I felt ready for
wasn’t a physical place,
but an emotional one.

Perhaps my search for home
wasn’t over just yet.

— “Home Is a Cup of Tea”

Courtesy to

A 3 cups of tea, is a tradition proper to the Men of the Sahara Desert, the Tuaregs. Just like offering of a cup of a hot tea to a wanderer  guest, passer-by into a  rudimentary stone house at a perched village clung downhill on one of  the Karakorum Himalayan mountainous sides ; it’s a  sign of showing hospitality to visitors, with a refinement and elegance, be it inside a Japanese tea house, and in a Japanese way, a ritual proper to  the “country of quite morning”,  in that far eastern part of the world, and or with a spontaneous welcome and warmth, and simplicity of manners, in this wast land which  is the Sahara desert. A digne Touareg has always with him in is travel bag, a kettle, a bag of tea, dried mint leaves,  hard sugar slabs, and a wrap of dried curried camel meat, and a must have, a gourd   of water, always.

And always think, that  is to humble oneself before the modest present , and seat right on the ground, to honor the house host by accepting to take a cup of tea from his hands, to sit on a Tatami, or on the sands, at the detour of a dune under a scarce tree and a faintly shade.

On parlance of coffee, this is  another story, there is also green coffee with cardamom, nutmeg and other spices added, like there are great green teas,  black and white teas, brought by caravans in exchange of  salt_ back to ages, as salt was considered a reliable source as money for trades_from journeys throughout to far away souks, and markets, nestled deep into the heart of the African countries. In the desert,  it’s a domestic chore,  wich preparation is a reserved domain, for women living under the Khymas, a nomadic tent woven with fine camels wool. The best  preparation  of the coffee and the ritual can take several days, first because of the sun-dried coffee beans, then the roasting process could take a couple of hours, and last but not the least the brew with meticulously mix of spices, or drop of orange blossoms water. Then comes the moment  of delight, the time of the savoring the 4 o’clock afternoon coffee. Usually it takes place when the muezzin  calls for the mid-afternoon prayer, and the time of milking the goats.

What is the mysterious thing that attracted writers, artists and exegetical scholars in this fascinating desert? to stop at its doors,  and spent his entire life, like Etienne Dinet did at the oasis of Bousaadah, in Algeria, or André Gide, a simple passage to Touggourt , and or to the point to spear one’s own life  as Le Pere Foucault did it, between Tamenrasset and Bechar, on the extreme borders. There are too many writers and artists who wrote novels, books and diaries, from Tunis to Rabat, like The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles, or simply lived their life and made history, for posterity like Isabelle Eberhart,and the list is long. Tinged of total mystery and attractive charm, the desert remains  a challenge of questions inspiring poetry and mysticism till today.

l have posted this blog 4 years ago, and then as I continued  receiving prompts and following WPress blogs, when I read the post on Home and Tea, it send me back in a split of a second to the time when I was hovering over the oases of the Sahara desert as a flight attendant, and the standby in the tiny airports, for refueling and between the time of disembarking and boarding passengers, for the crew taking a little break to sip syrupy tea mints. But those moments are lost among other things of life.