The Barstow desert is defined by the I-15 splitting the valley in two. On one side, the sun-damaged town is filled with passersby on their way to or from Las Vegas. On the other, a sprawling, empty desert. There’s nothing to this area. There’s no reason to live here. Paying California home prices while living in an oasis of trailers and trash doesn’t make any sense.
I was invited to a vacation home on the outskirts of town that sat on a manmade lake — a self-described "fishing community" with dead fish and salt-stained boats. It was a free vacation to a new place with good friends, so I didn’t see a reason to decline. There wasn’t much to do besides sit in the sun, drink, and take the off-road vehicles into the desert.
The first day was nothing but plugging our noses to drown out the still-water smell and drinking ourselves to sleep. The trip was only supposed to be four days, but we were already thinking of cutting it short.
On the second day, we went to an interstate 50s retro diner for breakfast to plan out the rest of our time. We couldn’t think of anything besides continuing our bender and taking the off-road vehicles out.
We took the Can-Am onto a trail paralleled by telephone poles leading nowhere. There was nothing out there. Just hills with granite rocks scattered around us. Nothing special. We drove through a canyon for thirty minutes, which opened into a rolling valley. Then we lost the trail, wandered off the beaten path, and ended up on a sharp gravel incline.
It wasn’t long before the tire popped.
No spare. No cell service. Just four guys stranded in the desert in 100-degree heat. The silence stretched longer between us. The only supplies we had were a bottle of water, two joints, and a large flask of off-brand bourbon. The essentials of desert survival.
We ditched the Can-Am and started walking. The heat gnawed at us, the ground loose and unforgiving beneath our feet. We had no destination — just a vague sense of direction. Every so often, we’d stop for a smoke break, as if weed would somehow make the situation better. No Boy Scout skills between the four of us.
The water ran out fast. The bourbon started looking tempting. The sun was relentless, pressing down on us like it wanted us gone. We reached the base of a hill and found a patch of shade beneath an overhanging rock. This was where we stayed — sitting, thinking, drinking, letting the weed haze settle over us.
We talked about life. Regrets. Accomplishments. Then paranoia crept in. A few hours earlier, this had been just another stupid misadventure. Now, we actually wondered if we were in real danger. Then, in the distance, we heard a rumble.
An engine. Faint, but there.
One of the guys climbed the rock for a better vantage point. His voice cracked when he yelled, “It’s a truck!”
A Toyota Tacoma rolled down the trail next to us. We waved it down like shipwrecked sailors.
The driver pulled over, rolled down the window, and studied us. He wore a black turban and traditional Middle Eastern clothing. Not what we expected.
“You all okay?” he asked.
Trevor, our host for the trip, barely hesitated. “No.”
The man told us we could ride with him to his destination, where we could call someone for help. He wasn’t clear on where he was going, but with the four of us together, we weren’t too worried. We climbed into the truck bed — gravel roads and all.
As we drove, one of the guys nudged me. “Look ahead.”
I sat up. Over the cab of the truck, a bright white structure emerged on the horizon. The closer we got, the more surreal it looked. A temple. A moat. A barbed-wire fence surrounded it all. The desert had been nothing but rock and dust for miles, and now this. It felt like we’d crossed into a different world.
This was his destination. There was nothing else out here.
We pulled into the driveway, approaching a guard shack where another man in identical clothing stood. Beyond the fence, women in long black abayas and niqābs walked the perimeter, gliding more than moving.
After a brief exchange between the two men, the guard lifted the gate and let us in.
We drove through the commune — kids were playing, women staring, no men in sight. The quiet was unsettling. It wasn’t the absence of noise but the weight of it. Like this place existed outside of time.
When we finally parked, I asked the driver, “What is this place?”
“A church,” he said. “If you want to learn more, we can talk over dinner.”
Dinner?
He led us into a massive mess hall. The smell hit first — kofta, shawarma, falafel, baklava, lamb soup. A feast, but for who? At the peak of my high, this was the best-case scenario.
The driver introduced himself as Ahmed. We ate in silence before anyone even mentioned how we were getting home. The tension eased. For a moment, we were just guests at a gathering, not four lost idiots who’d stumbled into something bigger than ourselves.
Eventually, a man next to Ahmed introduced himself as Rami and asked what we needed.
“Just a phone,” I said.
He pointed to a wall phone in the corner. Trevor went to call his dad while we stuffed ourselves with baklava.
I asked Rami what this place was. He explained they were religious refugees from Egypt who had made a pilgrimage to the birthplace of their misunderstood savior, Black Moses. Which was, apparently, Barstow, California.
They built the temple first. Then, as the community grew, they added homes, a school, a mess hall — everything a town needs.
By the time Trevor returned, his expression said it all. No answer. Just voicemail.
Rami offered us a place to sleep for the night. We followed him to a long, barracks-style building with metal bunks lined up against the walls. There was no sign of anyone else staying there. Two younger women arrived with sheets, long white robes, and Ziploc bags filled with toiletries. Rami told us we could leave our clothes outside, and they'd be cleaned by morning.
The showers ran lukewarm, smelling faintly of salt. The water felt thick, almost oily, but feeling clean again made it worth it. We laughed at how ridiculous we looked in matching robes. Eventually, exhaustion won out, and one by one, we passed out.
The next morning, we woke to the sound of morning prayers echoing from the speakers. We all sat at the edge of our beds and laughed. A knock on the door, followed by unintelligible words, turned out to be our freshly cleaned clothes. They smelled of eucalyptus, and not a wrinkle could be found. Perfectly pressed. As we got dressed, Rami stepped inside and asked us to join him for breakfast.
Music flowed through the commune as members made their way toward the mess hall. After a morning prayer, we joined the line to fill our plates with beid bel basturma, a dish of eggs and cured beef.
The morning was loud, but breakfast felt rushed. People ate quickly and then left to go about their day. Trevor tried calling his dad again — no luck. Rami asked us to join him for a tour.
He first led us to the schoolhouse, where children were taught until high school age. He explained that older students studied separately, taking online college courses. We never saw that classroom, but I assumed it was some kind of accelerated homeschool program.
Next, Rami took us down a paved path leading to the main temple. The exterior was polished marble and light granite. Inside, it resembled a Christian church with Middle Eastern influences — no pews, just tiered seating rising in increments of six inches. A priest stood at the altar, flipping through a Bible. He waved but seemed uninterested in engaging us. The ceiling was covered in religious depictions, but the mural behind the altar stood out. It told the story of their savior’s rebirth, detailed enough that even without context, you could follow the narrative just by studying it.
Rami motioned for us to follow him toward an arched doorway to the left of the altar. As we approached, he stopped us. “Don’t stare too long. And don’t touch the glass.”
We hesitated but followed him inside. Lining the walls were glass enclosures, each containing a preserved corpse. Rami explained that they immortalized their past leaders to educate future generations. The bodies weren’t rotting; they looked flat and gray, dressed in ornate gowns with jewelry draped over them. One of the guys turned pale and quietly excused himself.
After leaving the room of mummies, we wandered around a pond before making our way back to the main part of the commune. Rami wasn’t much of a tour guide — we got the sense he was only allowed to show us so much. We couldn’t help but wonder how this place functioned. How did they afford to feed so many people? Where was the money coming from? That question was never answered.
Back at the mess hall, we grabbed some snacks. Trevor made another call to his dad — this time, he finally got through. His dad explained they had left for Vegas the night before but would be back later that night to help us out. Trevor asked him to bring the spare tire for the Can-Am and gave him our location, which seemed to light a fire under his dad. He said he’d be there around 6 p.m., giving us several more hours to kill.
Ahmed found us in the mess hall and asked how we were doing. None of us had an answer beyond a simple “good.” He chuckled, probably sensing how strange this situation was for us outsiders. He turned to Rami, and the two spoke in hushed tones in their native language.
Ahmed then asked if we wanted to see their sacred area before we left. With nothing better to do, we agreed. The next few hours were spent idly hitting a tetherball chained to a post and debriefing on the outside benches.
An announcement echoed over the speakers, and all the members began filing out of the buildings. Rami and Ahmed gathered us, and we joined the communal procession toward the main gate, following the same trail we had arrived on. Hundreds of people moved in silence through the desert until we reached the foot of a hill. A woman stood at the base of a manmade staircase, holding a large bowl of water. Each member dipped their fingers into the water, brushed it over their cheeks, whispered a prayer, and then ascended the steps.
We were the last to approach her. I mimicked the others, though instead of reciting the prayer, I gave a small bow, not knowing the language. Then we climbed. The stairs felt endless, and it took nearly twenty minutes to reach the top.
At the summit, a half-bowl amphitheater was carved into the rock, wrapping around a deep red cave. Candles flickered inside, illuminating the interior. The members gathered around and began to pray in unison. We stood off to the side, watching. There was nothing else we could do.
What initially looked like a sacrificial ritual turned out to be something else entirely. They prayed in song, recited poetry, and then, one by one, placed candles inside and around the cave’s entrance. Rami whispered that this was the very cave where Black Moses had been resurrected.
After half an hour, we followed them back down the hill and made the long trek back to the commune. The members returned directly to the mess hall, where a simple vegetable stew was waiting. We sat and ate, soaking in our last moments there before Ahmed approached us.
Trevor’s dad had arrived.
We stood, thanked them for their hospitality, and were met with waves from nearly everyone in the room.
I left with more questions than answers. And I don’t think I’d change a thing.