The scorching wind mingled the dirt and sand, blowing it in the pilgrims’ faces. The sun burned and shrivelled everything. The camels stepped to the monotonous melody of iron and brass bells, their necks swaying rhythmically, their frowning snouts and hanging muzzles revealing their dissatisfaction with their fate.

Through the dust, the caravan moved slowly in the middle of the grey dirt road. The ash-colored, dry, sandy desert stretched as far as the eye could see, shimmering in the heat and at times forming a series of low mounds at the side of the road. For miles not even a date palm relieved the monotony. Wherever there was a handful of stagnant water in a ditch a family had pitched a shelter. The air burned everything, taking one's breath away. It was like stepping into the corridor of hell.

The caravan had been on the road for thirty-six days. Their mouths dry, their bodies weak, their pockets empty, the pilgrims had watched their money supply diminish like snow under the hot Arabian sun.