The tour guide who was on the phone placed his index finger vertically in front of his mouth,
apparently signaling me to keep quiet. When he finished the conversation with whoever it was, he
asked, “What made you shout?” I was not able to say anything. The frog was simply disguisting. I
hate frogs. I pointed at the creature. The tour guide bent down in to take a closer look.
“It IS a frog,” said the tour guide in the calmest way I had ever seen him talking. “Okay. I
think we’ve got enough rest. Let’s continue our journey.”
He got to his legs and started moving. I plugged up my courage and bent down to examine the
frog. It opened its mouth widely, sticking out its long tongue. How abnormal! I remembered frogs
do not live in a desert. Tropical forests are their homes. This frog should be dehydrating due to
the exceptionally high temperatures here. It’s dying. But what’s more important was why this frog
ended up in a desert. It was not its usual habitat.
“Hey! What are you doing? We have to get out of here before sunset,” said the tour guide.
“Coming!”
We finally walked out of the green area and the memory card of my camera was nearly full.
Its battery was flat, and I was tired but satisfied. It was night. We set up a tent and had some rest
inside it. The tour guide was fast sound asleep. There was no one to talk to. There was no story
to listen to. Bored, alone and sleepless, I quietly climbed out the tent. Anyone who looked up
to the sky then would be amazed - the Gobi Desert was dark, with countless of stars twinkling
next to the crescent moon glowing dimly but beautifully. Mother Moon was telling stories to
her thousands of billions of star children. I bet that even Mother Moon could not remember all
of the names of her children. I chuckled when I thought of this. The sky was without boundary,
without an end. A spark sliding across the sky caught my attention. What was that? Was it smoke?
Why was there smoke in a desert? I ran towards it, hoping to find the source of the smoke. I kept
running until …. Bomb! I bumped head-on into a huge door of old wood before bouncing back
onto the ground. I looked up and faintly saw the words ‘Home Sweet Home’ carved on the door.
Opening it was a young lady.
“Who are you? And where are you from?” she asked.
“I...I am a photographer and...” I answered
“You are not from the government, aren’t you?” her tone suddenly became serious.
“No, I am not,” I replied.
“Oh, you should have told me much earlier. Please come in. I think your head hurts,right?”
Before I could thank for her kindness, a group of children pulled me up and pushed me into
the house. I was given a chair to sit on. The furniture inside the house was all very old and dirty.
It was obvious that this family was plainly poor. The corners of the cabinets were occupied by
spiders webs. The young lady handed me a cup of tea and sat next to me.
“Why is the furniture in your home so old? There are webs in the cabinet. You should clean
them frequently or else your children will get sick easily.” I said.
“We... we can’t afford to buy a cleaner,” replied the lady with a low, soft voice.
“All families in this village are poor.”
“Why? And why were you so concerned about whether I was from the government?”
“The government of this country only cares about money and economic and totally neglects
the needs of the citizens. The government is always draining money on developing spaceships and
aircrafts while people down there are living in serious poverty,” said the lady who nearly cried.
“But where is the government? There is not a government here in the desert, is there?”
