In the dry and fiery deserts of Central Asia, among the mythical sites of both the first human and the end of all days, I found evidence that life restores itself even on the bleakest edge of ecological apocalypse.
What remained of the South Aral was visible from the yurt camp, a panoramic view over eerily still water. The unreal mirror of its surface captured the changes of the sky as it slid from dawn to dusk, from blue to blood orange. Each morning started with a ritual: The 30 or so tourists who had come here on their separate tours — Canadians, Japanese, Spanish, Russians — were roused from sleeping in their yurts to watch the sun rise over the sea, which produced a light effect I had never seen anywhere before, a reflection like a bar of gold, perfectly vertical, that split the body of the water into scintillating halves. The desert glowed Martian red; the water ran with blood and flames; the half-asleep spectators took pictures on their phones. It occurred to me that this was another form of fire worship — a ball of flame, symbolizing life, rising over the ebb tide of something dying.
It can’t be a coincidence that an ancient faith that venerates fire took root in a region that is soaked with fossil fuels. Our turbocharged industrial culture venerates fire too — but rather than symbolizing renewal, our addiction to petrochemicals, in an age of climate breakdown, signifies the opposite. If fire represents both life and death, we have chosen the latter option.