text: I climbed over a strip of brown sandstone rocks. It was like another planet. From the top, about ten metres above the surrounding sand, I looked around the landscape. The golden waves of the desert reached as far as the horizon, where they melted into the swirling air. I looked at the compass, I had to go further west, where the end of my journey would be. A friend heard that I was hitchhiking in the south of Africa and offered me a boat. Of course, I agreed and he promised to wait for me on the coast of Namibia. I was now in the middle of the Namib Desert, and the west coast was about 50 km away, which was about a two-day walk. It was also the first time I had ever been in a sandy desert. The guides tell you to stick to your path and not make unnecessary turns, because sand is a difficult terrain and besides, the desert is dangerous in itself. I saw three people north of me. I would have really kept on my route had it not been for the bad feeling in my stomach that made me look at the three. They were about a kilometre north of me, so I went toward them. I greeted them in English, the oldest of them answered me, with a strong accent. He was probably their guide, because he had the logo of a travel agency on his shirt. When I asked him his name, he mumbled something absently. The repetition of the question made him a little upset, so I decided to let it be. The three of them sat on the hot desert sand, just swaying. I asked the guide where they were going. He yelled at me again and hissed. I figured that the volume of my voice was bothering him. So I walked closer to him and asked about their destination. He repeated, one word, "sea, sea", pointing north, where the fata morgana rippled through the air. The desert really looked like the surface of the sea, but I knew the closest shore was on the west. I tried to explain it to him, but he kept pointing north and saying, "sea, sea." As I sat next to him, I noticed an ID card pinned to a bag around his waist. The name Mateo was written there, and he was a guide to a Spanish company, Tropico Tours. The man must have been around sixty, I guessed from the wrinkled face and white wreath of gray hair around his otherwise completely bald head. His female companions couldn't be much younger. I persuaded them to put on their headgear. In vain. Their faces were without expressions and they all swayed. I looked around and found only a two-liter bottle of water, half empty, which was definitely not enough for three people, certainly not if they wanted to go to the shore. I offered them some of my supplies, but Mateo declined my offer, "Drink later, drink later," and paused again, just swaying. I sat there with them for a while, silent because they didn't seem to like me talking. Mateo looked deep into my eyes and smiled. "Do you hear that? Música.” I listened for a moment, and indeed, I thought I heard quiet choral music. I looked for the ladies and suddenly I realized why they were all swaying. The four of us were hallucinating. The music, the angelic choir grew stronger and with it a sudden peace of mind and desire to stay here. At that moment the voice of reason prevailed in my head. I realized that the music was an illusion and decided to keep walking. The ill feeling was back, I also felt the desire to save all three from certain death in the desert. I grabbed Mateo, but he pushed me away and I landed in the hot sand. I hissed in pain, but I had not given up my intention yet. I growled, “Vámonos! Vámonos!”, which means “let's go” in Spanish, it didn't work with either of them. I tried to pull them up one by one and lift them to their feet, but without any success. The angelic choir, singing a beautiful chord in C major, grew louder, but I still wanted to help them. I grabbed Mateo's hands, but he pushed me away again and asked me to be quiet. All three swayed to the music, the angels screamed at the top of their lungs, and the sun painted an arc into the cloudless sky. I realized I should drink. I had a sip of water and the angelic music was gone like that. I put the bottle to the withered lips of a 60-year-old Spanish lady and begged her to drink. "Más tarde," she muttered, pushing my bottle away. It flew out of my hand and water began to pour into the Namibian sand. In that moment, I ran out of patience. I grabbed my bottle with the rest of water that didn't spill and set off. I turned for one last time and watched the three swing into illusory music. But I suddenly had an idea, I still wanted to help them, so I drew the approximate place where I found them on my folding map. I had a rescue plan. So I went west, as I had originally intended, and I walked quite fast, not only was I delayed by this encounter, the three Spaniards were losing valuable time. I decided to walk overnight to be on the coast as soon as possible. The friend was supposed to be there today, at least in the waters of the west coast. In addition to seawater desalination equipment, the boat also had a satellite telephone on board. It occurred to me to call a helicopter to save the three lost people. I was running out of water, my eyelids were heavy, but I knew I had no choice. I pushed myself through the sand dunes with one goal in mind. I had to help them. Even in the sweatshirt, I gritted my teeth at night, but I had to keep going. I shone my headlight on the ground and regularly checked the direction of my compass. West. I had sand in my shoes. My feet were aching. My legs hurt. West. I licked my dry lips. I kept a murderously fast pace, I mustn't stop. West. The headlamp began to flicker. Angels began to sing in my head again. I looked at the compass. I couldn't stop. West. It was dawn and when I climbed on top of a large dune, I finally saw the sea. Two kilometers, I guessed. I rubbed my tired eyes and walked on. Tired after an all-night march, I slowed my walking pace and the angelic choir started to sing again. I mustn't stop, I mustn't stop, I repeated to myself. I fell into the sand. The angelic choir sang beautifully and I didn't want go anywhere anymore. It seemed to me that where I was, it was the most beautiful place in the world. There was no need to hurry anymore. The angels sang and I swayed to the rythm of that beautiful music. I fell asleep. After a while, I woke up aboard a Robinson R44 helicopter. The fear of waking up at height was replaced by the calmness of finding out that I was safe. To my right sat an african pilot in a tracksuit. When he saw that I was awake, he grinned, and wished me a good morning, he asked me to put on my headset so we wouldn't have to yell at each other. "Your friend called. He could not find you. I'm from Swakopmund.” I smiled backed and watched the landscape below us. But then I remembered the three lost Spaniards. "We have to fly back," I muttered into the headset's microphone. I searched for my things, but I didn't have a backpack with the map with me. “Backpack on the backseat. But I can't return. Only one way paid!" “You don't understand! There are three people back in the desert, Spaniards! We have to find them!” “Why they not with you?” “I wanted to help them, but they didn't want to move nor drink. They just sat and hallucinated about an angelic choir. I actually heard it too." "When?" "I met them yesterday, shortly after noon." "Too late. If you don't drink, you die." I saw the roofs of Swakopmund on the horizon and our helicopter landed on a small concrete heliport. My friend was standing there, waving. When we landed, I got out of the cockpit and Emmanuel, the pilot, handed me my backpack. I searched inside and pulled out a crumpled map of south Africa. There was a circled place in the Namib desert where I assumed I was with the Spaniards yesterday. I handed the map to Emmanuel and told him to try to find them. "Pay," Emmanuel frowned. I pulled everything I had left in my wallet after my hitchhiking adventure and looked at Johnny, my boat friend, who worked in Johannesburg as a fisherman and captain of a sightseeing boat with which, poor man, he was waiting for me on the shore, and when he couldn't find me, he paid Emmanuel to search for me. "What if I brought you my fish, free of charge, what do you say, Emmanuel?" "Okay," Emmanuel grinned, starting the helicopter. Then, Johnny and I, talked about our adventures, he talked about his fishing on near the shore and I talked about hitchhiking and my adventure in the Namib Desert. When Emmanuel returned after two hours, he climbed out of Robinson's R44 with a grim expression and handed me the IDs of the three Spaniards. "It was too late, all dead, covered with sand.