NEW TALES OF THE GOBI DESERT
Shekou International School, Prisha Kapur, Fiction: Group 3
A
lmost there”, I thought to myself, as I took yet another step in the very unstable sand.
You’d think it would get easier, after days of walking through the same unforgiving
landscape. But no, it was anything but easier. Even such a simple thing as taking a
step was a challenge out here. It was entirely different form any other place on earth.
In most places the people were the rulers, who ruled over the powers of nature. This was nature,
at its core. No force standing in its way. This was the Gobi desert.
I had been walking through the sand for days, following my guide, Bataar. He had told me
many stories about the desert that he had heard as a child growing up in Mongolia. His name,
meant ‘hero’ in the Mongolian language, and I guess he was a hero in many respects. This was
his job, traveling though this dust bowl. And that in my eyes, was a job only a hero could handle.
I had thoroughly researched about the Gobi desert before I planned my trip, so I was glad I
came in the summer time. When the temperatures were at least bearable. Bataar told me that the
temperature drops below freezing during the winter, and in absolute extreme weather, it could go
reach -40 degrees centigrade.
We would spend most of the day walking, and rest at night. I had my camera strap around
my neck at all times, taking as many pictures as possible. There was not much to see in the first
glance, but when I looked closer, I could see this whole new world. Different from anything I had
ever know before. We had crossed around two groups of people during our trip. They were both
small nomadic groups, who were originally form Mongolia. Their lifestyle was what intrigued me
the most. What was it like? Going wherever the wind takes you, arriving at a place, staying there
for a while and soaking in all it had to offer. And then one day, packing your bags, and leaving to
discover a new part of the world.
I had captured all these memories, in a little journal I kept in my pocket. Every time I saw
something intriguing, I would write it down it that journal. That journal was my getaway. It was
my getaway when I was back at home. With all of those distractions around me, my journal was
a way to escape. My parents never understood, and I had no expectations for them to understand
anymore. I remember the day that I told my parents what I wanted to do. They didn’t understand
then, and they don’t understand now. “Are you crazy Dianna?”, my mother yelled, “you can’t go to
the Gobi desert! What were you thinking? You have a perfectly good accounting job here, in New
York. Why do you keep on coming up with these absurd ideas to ruin your life?”, she looked at me,
her eyes filled with disappointment, she was trying to make me fell guilty. That was her number
one trick. But I would not fall for it, not anymore. “I am not running my life mom!” I roared,” This
is what I love to do. I love to travel, to write, to explore! I HATE my accounting job! And I am sick
of doing what others want me to do.” I had reached my limit. I had listened to my parents all my
life; I had followed their orders, concealing my own passions and dreams. But I was done with
all of that. I was done trying to be the perfect girl. I was done with the pretending. And nothing
could change my mind now. “ Mom, I am quitting my job, I am going to the Gobi desert. And I
want to be writer. I want to write books and travel. This is my final decision.” I declared.
And here I was, in the Gobi desert. Doing exactly what I wanted to do. I hadn’t heard from mom in
a long time. But none of that mattered anymore. I was finally free. I loved writing. I loved traveling.
“
