The night in the desert was as I had always dreamt, spent sipping mint tea in a bivouac under awe-inspiring, sheltering skies. What was not so picturesque were the dozen odd other travelers also camping with us, two of which, armed with their own private stash of aromatic herbs, annoyingly giggled the night away under the stars. We woke at dawn with sand and grit in our hair and swiftly mounted the same dromadaires (single-humped camel) we arrived in the evening before. Mine had the biggest hump, strong and proud between my thighs, not so lovely, and definitely not lady(lump)like.

Angeline: I'm naming my camel Fluffy. What's yours?
Rae: I'm calling my camel, Toe, but it's doing much more than that.

As I led the caravan out of the sand dunes back to base camp in the morning, I could see Mohammed, our driver, from afar, hovering about the vehicle, waiting eagerly. Our four-wheel drive was parked at the plateau, its bonnet open, stretched at an angle against the waking African sun. I grinned wryly and despite myself savoured that moment of feeling precious. Oh, the sweet rush of knowing one is wanted, as the very object of anticipation, even if by a way off shot of one's target demograhic. Way off.

At the beginning of our three day excursion to Merzouga, the south-western part of the Sahara, Mohammed had explained that driving the same route across the desert for him was a different journey every time. With hours and days on the road, he listens to music, which he writes himself. The question of what the source of inspiration is opened Pandora's box, I swear, her very own.

Mohammed injected the concept of love into our discussion with such fervour and agony in his voice, such sweet torment in his eyes, especially when he described the pure idea of la femme. His sympathy for the unjust treatment of women in Arabic culture was endearing, yet his chauvinism so blatantly obvious. I was curious. Just as our first day on the road was winding to a close, he delighted us with an explanation of the Berber massage, which, unlike certain types of massages in China, are sexual favours offered by men without consideration.

There was a muddy creek alongside the hotel, where Mohammed wanted to take me swimming. He took me by the hand and led me through a mosquito-ridden trail. I was half expecting an ambush of muslim fundamentalists tearing me away by the hair, to be condemned and stoned for such lascivious behaviour. I refused to swim, but it was a sweet, meaningful exchange that late afternoon, perched on those rocks by the mossy creek, about life, the universe, woman and man, his soul, my spirit. He was flattering, claiming that he had never met a woman that was whole both inside and out.

"Je veux vous embrasser." He declared, as we made our way back along the rubble of a river bank at dusk. He had stopped me in my tracks to pose that question with his eyes brimming with intent. It was exactly the environment where I would've loved a bit of rumble in the dirt, and all the talk about love and sexual taboos had indeed been so titillating. But for the love of allah, how could I overlook his lack of oral hygiene? How could I allow myself to be engulfed by that mouth of black teeth? At what point do I break out of this comic cliché?

"There is a reason for every encounter on earth, especially ours," I responded to his hopeful desire. "But I don't think it's a physical one," declining in what I hope to be graceful enough French. He was persistent in asking me to reconsider, and even proposed a private tête a tête à la terrasse after dinner. I smiled and bade him goodnight.

After lunch the following day, Mohammed plugged in a new MP3 adapter he had just bought for the car that he didn't own, to play the Chinese songs he found just for me, by a pop icon (邓丽君) he didn't know. And off we went, my face out the window, the wind in my hair, riding through the sweeping vastness of nothing in Northern Africa, languid in the August heat, listening to the dulcet melody of 小城故事.

Highlights: All About Love, Going Places

Once in a while, I like to wake up in a different environment. A year out of cancer circus, my birthday this year is also a little more special than others. On the morning of my 33rd birthday, I woke up in Shenyang, with PT poking my face. It was such a glorious day.

It was just delightful. We laughed the PT & Rae laugh.

Imperial Palace of Shenyang, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Highlights: Going Places