It was my father's tales of his upbringing in Egypt that sparked my interest in photography and travel writing, eventually leading me to Tunisia’s Grand Erg Oriental where I was lucky to meet an extraordinary man by the name of Ali Ben Ghannem. At the venerable age of 68, he was my guide, the sole remaining individual to know the way through the Erg, and the vivacious leader of our caravan—nineteen camels and seven cameleers strong.

And so, one afternoon, while we rest in the comforting shade of a bush amidst the midday heat, I finally find a quiet moment to ask him some questions.

“Ali," I inquire, "how have you come to know the desert so well?”

"I know the desert as Isabelle knows Isabelle," he replies, his weathered face smiling serenely.

For a moment, I ponder this notion of self-awareness. Do I possess such intimate knowledge of myself? I’d like to think that I do, but traveling always seems to uncover a new layer of oneself, suggesting perhaps that I'm merely scratching at the surface of my own understanding?

I gently press him further, and he starts to recount his upbringing. Born in a tent, his parents continuously traversed the desert in search of fresh grazing for their livestock. It was in his thirties that an unexpected, prolonged drought gripped the region, leaving countless animals dead. Determined to save what remained of his family's herd, he took the flock and embarked on a journey deep into the Erg, tirelessly searching for better grazing. It wasn't until two years later, having only encountered a handful of others along the way, that he returned a hero.

“Were you ever lonely?” I ask.

“God was with me. Being out here is my biggest joy - the desert is where I belong,” he says as he gets up, and with that, gently concluding our conversation.