SHIFTING SANDS
Salt was a key trading hub in the time of the Ottoman Empire, and the town’s architecture – with its arched windows, stained glass and ironwork – has been retained since its heyday at the turn of the 20th century.
We climb into the back seats of a banged-up jeep at last light, but darkness drops like a stone out here in the desert and by the time we’re heading off road it’s pitch black outside apart from the dim amber halo cast by the headlights. A cluster of charms clatters against the windscreen while I ricochet up and down and grip the headrest in front in a futile fight against gravity. For all I know, the land could fall away at either side of this mountainous trail and, with my heart in my throat, I swallow the thought and silently will the driver to keep his eyes on the road as he fumbles with his iPhone for music. But it’s OK, he knows this land like a handprint.
After 20 turbulent minutes, our home for the night emerges from the valley floor and we’re ushered into an earthy reception area lit entirely by candles. Less than 24 hours later, we’re driving back along the same rocky track – which looks somewhat less treacherous in daylight – and up and over the mountains towards our next destination. My clothes are full of wood smoke, my eyes smudged with kohl and I’ve got slabs of bread, freshly baked in ash, stuffed in my pockets for later at the generous insistence of our hosts. I feel elemental and
