For six hours we shot through the landscape of the Karoo desert in South Africa. Just rocks and sand and baking sun. Knowing our journey was ending, Daniel and I just wanted to remember all we had seen and done. He used a camera. I used words. I had already finished three notebooks and was into the fourth, a beautiful leather notebook I'd bought in a market in Mozambique.
Southern Africa was full of stories and visions. We were almost drunk on sensations. The roaring of the water at Victoria Falls, the impossible silence of the Okavango Delta in Botswana. And then the other things: dogs in the streets, whole families in Soweto living in one room, a kilometre from clean water.
As we drove towards the setting sun, a quietness fell over us. The road was empty—we hadn't seen another car for hours. And as I drove, something caught my eye, something moving next to me. I glanced in the mirror of the car; I glanced sideways to the right, and that was when I saw them. Next to us, by the side of the road, thirty, forty wild horses were racing the car, a cloud of dust rising behind them—brown, muscular horses almost close enough to touch them, to smell their hot breath. I didn't know how long they had been there next to us.
I shouted to Dan: "Look!", but he was in a deep sleep, his camera lying useless by his feet. They raced the car for a few seconds, then disappeared far behind us, a memory of heroic forms in the red landscape. When Daniel woke up an hour later I told him what had happened.
"Wild horses?" he said. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
"I tried. But they were gone after a few seconds. "
"Are you sure you didn't dream it?"
"You were the one who was sleeping!"
"Typical, " he said. "The best photos are the ones we never take. "
We checked into a dusty hotel and slept the sleep of the dead.
