TWO DAYS and ten packages of re-hydration salts later, Tamara and I are back on the ferry to Algeciras, swapping travel tales with a Swiss backpacker. I am waiting until we get back to Spain to go to a hospital, so I’m in pretty rough shape. I mention the Ourzazate military man who spoke of Northrop Frye and earth, wind, fire and water.

“Archetypes, you mean?” the Swiss girl clarifies.

I search my dusty mental filing cabinet but come up empty.

“Supposedly,” she says, “archetypes are part of our collective consciousness. Carl Jung wrote about them. The sacred elements of earth, wind, fire and water are an ancient way people perceived the world around them.”

Another piece of dormant education flickers to life.

“And with the environmental crisis today,” she continues, “it totally makes sense that these elements are resurfacing from our subconscious into our conscience.”

Tamara looks at me. “What were you saying in the desert about water?”

“That it’s connected to the soul,” I say. “And the Englishman said that water symbolized consciousness.”

The Swiss gal nods. “Yeah…that sounds about right.” Then she leans back in her chair and thinks a moment. “Although, maybe what we call our ‘soul’ is actually consciousness?”

As much as I’d like to continue this discussion, I’m hit with another stomach cramp and race to the toilet. When I get back, the Swiss girl is telling Tamara about a recently intercepted email between the CEOs of two large American corporations. “It caused quite a fuss because it mentioned that the race for control of the world’s water supply is already well underway. Contrary to popular belief, we can live without oil—but not without water.”

“Are you all right?” Tamara asks me.

I rest my head against the window. “I think I’m outta water.”

“She lost her soul mate eight months ago,” Tamara explains to our new friend.

The backpacker looks at me. “I don’t think anything real is ever lost.”

Tamara laughs. “Oh, we’ve figured out that much. He pops up all over the place.”

IN RONDA, Spain, Tamara sleeps in the hospital waiting room while I spend the night in emergency, hooked up to an IV recovering from severe dehydration.

In the morning, I call my mom and fill her in. She freaks.

Then I call Sam’s parents and chat to his dad. Having a great time, I say.

Next on the clipboard of fun is Seville, where we’re inside a Roman Catholic Church when Tamara, staring at a large metal sculpture on the wall, suddenly bursts into tears. I lead her outside and we sit together on the church steps: she sobbing, me with my arm around her.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I have no idea! I was just looking at that sculpture and then it…transformed into this huge twisted mass of metal. And there was all this smoke and people were screaming and I—well, it was like I could feel their pain.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s kinda weird.”

She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe how much it hurt.”

It’s kinda nice to be able to be the one to give the raised eyebrows for once.

WE END our journey in Lagos, Portugal. Now Tamara is the one drinking while I frantically try to complete the first draft of the manuscript by the nine-month anniversary. It’s not quality material I’m cranking out but at least I’m keeping my promise to myself.

Tamara places a glass of wine on the patio table for me. “Look at you go.”

I put down my pen and take a sip of wine. “I’m trying to describe the mixture Sam’s mom prepared for his forty-day anniversary.”

“What’s significant about forty days?”

“The Greeks believe that on the fortieth day after a person dies, Michael the Archangel takes their soul to God and they’re told what work they’ll do in heaven.”

“What’s in the mixture?” she asks.

“Wheat seeds, which represent the soul that goes on to eternal life after the death of the body. But there were also these red pomegranate seeds in there and now I can’t remember what they symbolized.”

She thinks about this. “Remember the red light I saw above the door in Nerja?”

“Yeah.”

“That was about the size of a pomegranate seed.”

I nod. “That’s right…the pomegranate seed also symbolizes the soul.”

Tamara takes another sip of wine.

I smile. “And rebirth, I think.”

ON THE morning of June 29th, I complete the first draft of the manuscript. It’s an ugly baby but it’s out. In celebration, Tamara and I are spending the afternoon sipping fruity cocktails beneath our beach umbrella when a man wearing a big, floppy hat and carrying a canvas bag comes up to us. “Carved animals for sale,” he says.

I smile. “Do you have a gazelle?”

He frowns. “A gazelle?”

“Yeah.”

“No. But I have giraffes, elephants and many beautiful necklaces.”

I buy a necklace for my mom. But just as he’s about to leave, he roots around in his canvas bag again, pulls out a wooden gazelle and hands it to me. “I guess I have one after all.”

Tamara laughs. “When we get back to Canada, I’ll make her a tiny pink jelabah.”

AFTER A dinner of sea bass and beer, we’re walking back to our pension when we pass a building with graffiti on the side that reads: Without truth you are the loser.

I’m wearing funky new tie-dyed pants, a fitted T-shirt and my favourite jean jacket. On the outside, at least, I’m looking better. The Sahara Desert dehydration diet has slimmed me down considerably. I hand Tamara my camera then stand beneath the graffiti.

She leans back and snaps my photo. “Got it.”