Space is a crucial element in fiction. In my case, it’s paramount. Only when the space is established can the characters come to life, and only when the characters find their place in their world can the story begin. Until then, fragmented ideas and superficial characters exist only as “possibilities,” lost in a sea of uncertainty.

Space must fulfill two requirements. First, it must be the setting for the story. This refers to the physical world inhabited by the protagonist. Second, this physical world must contain a metaphorical abyss that reflects the protagonist’s inner landscape.

The space, therefore, is a dual realm where the heavens and the earth, myth and fairytale, body and spirit intertwine. That’s why I refer to space as “their universe.”

There are countless ways to find this “space.” Through books, history, maps, imagination… My preferred method is travel. I go to the place that feels like “the place.” It’s an intuitive journey, and failure is always a possibility. No hunter hits their mark every time. But even a one-in-three success rate seems worthwhile. Even in failure, there’s the consolation of new experiences and cherished memories, a win-win scenario, if you will.

I’ve digressed long enough. In short, that morning we set off for the Bahariya Oasis. This was the real reason I had come to Egypt. My female protagonist in the novel I was working on, Eternal Paradise, was Haesang, an animal behaviorist who loved fennec foxes and suffered from Lou Gehrig’s disease (ALS). Her soul, trapped within a shrinking and paralyzing body, was gradually withering. I envisioned the desert as a space that symbolized her. The problem was that I was stuck at the point where Jae, Haesang’s older brother, embarked on a desert journey with her. I had no idea what these two loving siblings were supposed to do in the desert. It was around that time that a stroke of luck came in the form of an invitation to a literary event. And it was an invitation from a country where the Bahariya Oasis is, perhaps the very place where the Little Prince and the fennec fox might have met. My only thought was: “Thank you.”

Jinny and I left Cairo in a white SUV. We were the only passengers. Originally, more people were supposed to join us, but the travel
agency owner (the third Mohamed we’d encountered) informed us that due to unforeseen circumstances, it would just be the two of us. The driver, a young Egyptian man, was yet another Mohamed. He expounded on the glories of his name, claiming it was so popular that eight out of ten men in the street would turn around if you called it out. I decided to call him “Mohamed 4.”

He informed us that it would take about five hours to reach the Bedouin village, which served as our base camp. There, we would meet the guide and driver who would be responsible for us during our two-day, one-night desert excursion. His mission was simply to transport us to the rendezvous point.

Egypt seemed to be a country made entirely of desert. After leaving Cairo, a desolate expanse of sand unfolded before us. Tumbleweeds rolled across the ochre sand, driven by the wind, and crows soared above the reddish cliffs. It was a plateau devoid of people, civilization or even a single tree. The landscape felt like an ominous premonition of Haesang’s fate.

We arrived at the Bedouin village around lunchtime. A young girl with braided hair stood at the open gate of a house. The SUV passed through the gate and parked in a courtyard where a Jeep was already waiting. “Mohamed 4” asked if we had enjoyed the trip. I asked him how to say “awesome” in Arabic. He raised his thumb.

“Meya meya.”

For the first time since arriving in Egypt, we met men who weren’t named Mohamed. Our guide was a young man in his twenties named Sen, and our driver was Ale, a Bedouin. We were shown to our room. As we ate lunch, we realized that there were similarities between the Egyptian and Korean tables. Rice and aish baladi (traditional Egyptian flatbread) were served with various side dishes. The previous night, at Koshary Abou Tarek, a well-known restaurant in Cairo serving koshary (popular dish featuring rice, pasta, lentils and chickpeas topped with fried onion and tomato sauce). I’d also noticed a familiar flavor profile. The fact that koshary, a dish I’d never tasted before, felt so familiar suggested a deeper connection.

“They’re telling us to be careful,” Jinny said with a chuckle.

“What?” I asked. She showed me her phone. A text message from a friend. The message expressed concern about two women camping in the remote desert with two young men. I took a bite of bread. “Well,” I said, “I think those young men are the ones who should be worried.”

At 1:00 PM, we boarded Ale’s Jeep. We left our heavy suitcases at the base camp, packing only essentials for the desert in our backpacks: lightweight parkas, wet wipes, goggles, hats, sunscreen. We switched our footwear to three-striped slippers (popular in Korea), apparently the optimal footwear for desert camping.
The Jeep left the village and entered the open road. About an hour later, we arrived at Bahariya’s first stop: the Black Desert. Sen explained that Bahariya meant “of the sea.” In ancient times, underwater volcanoes may have erupted, causing the water to evaporate and leaving behind the desert.

The remnants of that volcanic activity were evident in the Black Desert. The surrounding sand dunes, hills and peaks were covered in black sand. Upon closer inspection of the peaks, the “sand” proved to be more akin to rough, sharp fragments of basalt.

Our next destination was an oasis. Surprisingly, it was also a hot spring, the result of the past volcanic activity. Even more surprisingly, bikini-clad women were taking selfies. The most surprising of all was that this was the last “civilized” restroom. From then on, we would have to rely on nature. Sen advised us to make use of the facilities. We did. And from that moment on, we abstained from drinking water. The prospect of having to relieve ourselves under the wide-open desert sky was a scenario we desperately wanted to avoid.

Our third stop was the Crystal Mountain. It was formed when volcanic heat transformed sand into quartz. The glittering dunes and sun-reflecting cliffs were so dazzling that I had to put on my goggles. Seizing the opportunity, I struck a pose like a professional climber and snapped a photo.

Ale began to pick up speed as he traversed the desert road. When a steep sand dune appeared, he accelerated, launching the Jeep into the air and then gliding down the slope. The desert roller coaster ride had begun.

A soprano-pitched scream erupted. As we ascended and descended a dune twice as high, the scream rose two octaves. With the next even higher ascent and descent, a dolphin-like shriek emerged. If a crow had been flying nearby, it would have likely bled from its ears.

Ale parked the car atop the highest dune. Sen suggested sandboarding. I, for one, had never been on a board in my life, and I wasn’t particularly skilled at sports requiring balance. But who could resist such an exhilarating opportunity? I sat on the board, my rear end firmly planted. Sen secured my feet with straps, offering encouragement.

“Don’t take your feet out of the straps. You’ll be fine.” Sen released the end of the board. I began to slide, the board picking up speed. The slope was steeper than it looked. A terrifying sensation of speed overwhelmed me. A tingling sensation, like a baseball, formed in my stomach and traveled up my throat. It erupted in a sound.

“Meya meya!”

Around sunset, we reached the third desert. Our campsite for the night and the ultimate destination of our trip: the White Desert. It was a world of pure white limestone, as the name suggested. It felt like being transported to Antarctica, surrounded by glaciers and ice floes. Scattered across the landscape were columnar cliffs and rocks sculpted into a myriad of forms, all bathed in a pristine white hue. Even the rippled patterns on the sand were white. Sen spoke.

“Welcome to the primordial sea.”

Ale began setting up camp. Sen suggested a walk. He mentioned that with luck, we might find fossils of ancient shells or ammonites. He hinted that we could even take one home as a souvenir. Jinny and I began to stroll across the limestone waves.

The sun was sinking on the distant horizon. A blood-red glow spread beneath crimson clouds, enveloping the desert in a fiery embrace. We stood facing the horizon, motionless, gazing at the breathtaking spectacle of the crimson, limitless world. Thoughts crossed my mind, a mix of awe at nature’s grandeur and baseless intuition. A vibrant sunset often foreshadowed rain. Would tonight bring the legendary desert rain? Rain meant no stars, no foxes venturing out of their dens. While missing the stars would be a disappointment, we really needed to encounter a fennec fox…

We returned to the Jeep. Camp had been set up. Four stakes were driven into the ground, forming a perimeter, with rugs hung as walls. Four mattresses lay on the ground, topped with sleeping bags and blankets.

There was no roof. No tent. A flicker of hope ignited. “Two desert experts haven’t pitched a tent” translated to “It won’t rain.” We sat beside a large pot emitting white steam. The aroma of cooking rice wafted through the air. Ale was preparing vegetables. A few steps away, a campfire blazed, the main course grilling above the flames. Sen informed us it was lamb and chicken.

Ale’s culinary skills were exceptional. The meat, the rice, the stew — everything was delicious. How could anything taste less than perfect when savored under a starlit desert sky? I regretted not having enough room in my stomach to finish every last morsel. But an even greater disappointment loomed. An unwelcome visitor arrived, just as we had feared. It wasn’t rain, but something arguably worse. A dense fog, as thick and white as the limestone, swiftly engulfed the desert, obscuring the stars and transforming the landscape into an eerie, otherworldly realm. The white sky descended, reaching our foreheads. It felt like camping in a blizzard, without a tent, on a snow-covered landscape. The howling of wolves seemed to echo from the white darkness. According to Sen, fog in the White Desert was as rare as a torrential downpour.

It was baffling. Why did my intuition only seem to work in these pointless situations? Still, Jinny and I refused to abandon hope. Perhaps we could still see a fox. Ale had placed food and water for it nearby. If only I could lecture the elusive creature on the laws of survival. Fog or no fog, you need to eat. Don’t you?

As the campfire dwindled to embers, I heard a sound. It was faint, but unmistakable. The sound of tiny footsteps. Approaching from a distance. Something was coming. Perhaps the thing I so desperately yearned for, piercing the white darkness that shrouded the desert, carefully treading on the limestone floor, pitter-patter.

After a moment, the footsteps ceased. For a minute, maybe more, there was silence. Just as I began to think it had turned back, the footsteps resumed. Then, another pause. I was on edge. My neck hairs stood on end, a prickly sensation spreading across my skin. When the footsteps started again, I felt my breath catch. Come on, just come. If it was coming, why the hesitation?

The footsteps stopped for the third time. About twenty meters away. I strained my ears, and I heard the sound of something eating. Jinny waited until the sound of eating was steady before switching on her phone’s flashlight. To avoid startling the creature, she aimed the beam at the ground and slowly moved it forward. The light, diffused by the fog, crept forward like a sluggish cloud before finally settling on its target.

Within the circle of light, hazy with fog particles, stood a fox. I stopped breathing. It was the moment I met the creature’s glistening black eyes. I held my breath, our gazes locked for a fleeting moment — one second, maybe two. A sudden clarity, like a bell ringing in the depths of my mind, the sound of a long-avoided truth surfacing from my subconscious:

“Jae isn’t Haesang’s sibling. He’s meant to be her romantic partner.”

I probably knew all along, from the moment I conceived of Eternal Paradise, that Haesang and Jae had to be lovers. But I lacked the courage to explore such a tragic love story. The fear of ruining the novel was overwhelming. The source of this fear was a romance novel I’d written in my obscure, early days. A friend who read the manuscript avoided my gaze without a word. A more candid friend offered a terse critique:

“Just don’t write love stories.”

I never attempted the genre again. When romance was necessary, I treated it like a dry news report, brief and detached. I believed that writing compelling love stories was a skill reserved for other writers. That was why I’d stubbornly cast Haesang and Jae as siblings. And that was precisely why the novel had been adrift for months. Only in that moment in Bahariya, facing the fox’s gaze, did I confront the issue head-on. There was only one solution: confront my fear and revisit the path where I had stumbled.

The Bahariya Oasis became the world of Haesang and Jae in my new novel, Eternal Paradise. It was the stage for their tragic love story, the universe that symbolized Haesang’s inner landscape. Jinny, my first reader, commented after reading the story of Haesang and Jae, “It would have been a disaster if they’d been siblings.”

The Bahariya fox gifted me with courage. The courage to confront my most formidable adversary, the one that resided within, and to throw myself wholeheartedly into the battle.

It wasn’t the first time a journey had offered such a gift. Twelve years ago, after completing my first round of treatment for cancer, my body had recovered, but my creative spirit remained dormant. I sought refuge by climbing Annapurna in the Himalayas. Climbing to the 5,416m summit of the Thorong La Pass, I posed a question to the majestic Annapurna: “Will I have the strength to return to the world and face my struggles?”

Annapurna’s answer was clear: “Until your dying breath.”

Before writing The Good Son, a novel exploring the inner world of a psychopath, I embarked on my longest journey. Seeking to dismantle the social constructs that shaped my identity, I set off on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage. After walking 1,000 kilometers, carrying an 8-kilogram backpack, I arrived at Finisterre, a coastal town in western Spain. There, I experienced a seismic shift, a complete upheaval of my soul. The countless wounds of my life, the repressed inferiority complex, the pent-up anger, the grief over the premature loss of my mother, and a deep, inexplicable sorrow — all erupted like a volcano, consuming me.
I collapsed on a hill overlooking the ocean and wept like a child. When the tears subsided, I was ready to give birth to the psychopath in my novel.

Some travel for relaxation. Some seek healing from emotional wounds, reconciliation with their inner selves. Some embark on journeys to reach a state of enlightenment. I travel to find their universes. Or to gain the courage to confront my inner demons. As long as I live, I imagine I will continue these journeys. For now, Oze, Japan’s largest highland marsh, awaits.

• Written by Jeong Youjeong
• Illustration by Kwon Minho & Hwal