Life and death in the Sahara

The first memory I have of life is my third birthday on a cherry farm in England, it is also my only memory of my uncle, Simon Dunn. My uncle was a classical adventurer - his motorbike taking him through many countries, including South America and the Antarctic.

Twenty two years ago, almost exactly to the day, my uncle took a wrong turn on his motorbike while riding from Dhanet to Tamanrasset. The track (known as pistes) disappeared and he ran out of petrol while trying to make his way back. For four days he recorded in his diary his efforts to preserve water, search for signs of human life and finally his acceptance of his fate. One of the last entries in his diary is a phrase that now has a place in our family as the model of calm acceptance of the inevitable - "It's time to die now I suppose". He was 27 years old.

Three days later his body was found by Tuareg nomads and he was buried by Brother Antoine in Tamanrasset. My mum had never had the chance to say farewell to her little brother.

Brother Antoine and the Petites Soeurs de Sacre Coeur have tended his grave since his burial and we were shown his resting place, his grave netsled among other adventurers sharing similar fates as his.

Together as a family we said goodbye to Simon.

I think the fact that his death required a journey that brought us to this little known part of the world would have made him happy, I also think that he would have pleased to see his spirit of adventure carried on through his nephews and nieces.

The desert is a very quiet and still place, the relentless sun and dry wind finally gives way to cool starry nights.

Towering chiselled cliffs, sparse struggling trees, rocky endless landscapes. One can imagine nothing at all changing here for thousands of years.