Vicarious Nomads: The Sands of the Sahara

I awoke this morning at dawn for the third morning in a row. The bus approached a roundabout on the outskirts of Marrakesh, rocking me awake. It is the second overnight bus ride in three nights. It also marks three months since we boarded a flight on Icelandic Air from New York to Paris.

By our last night in Fes on Sunday, we had begun to adjust to the pace and intensity of life in Morocco. We had the comforts of a hotel room, a cheap Internet cafe and the gates of the Medina only a few blocks away. Close enough for access. Far enough away for peace. Thus far, life in Morocco feels like an adventure at our doorstep. All we need to do is walk outside and see what happens. Mint tea in a carpet shop. Surprise tour of the medina. Tea on a riad rooftop looking at desert photos.

On Sunday morning we attended a church service for the first time since the states. It was in French with a choir of two dozen young Senegalese men and women. They filled the building with voices, spirits and drums. We spent Sunday evening watching the sun set over the city and drinking wine (which is no small feat in Fes) with our new friends who teach at the American School in Fes. We were introduced by our couchsurfing host, Abdul Jedidiah, a missionary kid from Canada who has been in Morocco for five years. His space was one room with a shared toilet shore that consisted of a pit toilet with a shower head above it and a gas canister on the window supplied to a wall mounted hot water. A bathroom like this makes shits become showers.

So, their invitation for dinner at their beautiful apartment with private bedrooms and a spacious salon decorated in tile and Arabic geometric designs was more than welcome. In addition to Annette, Abdul and myself, we were joined by Omar. He is from Fes. Thirty-one years old. Good to meet a Moroccan man who is not trying to sell us something. He is quiet and sweet. His new girl, Lauren, comes from Seattle by way of Middlebury College. Her two roommates, Marcy and ASCSCC are from Texas. Apparently the American school is a private school run by Texans. They are recent college graduates. Their house is beautiful and spacious for only $100 US per month. They have wide eyes and enjoy hearing about our travels almost as much as we appreciate the comforts of their home cooked lentil soup, multiple bottles of wine and conversation with thoughtful Americans.

On Monday we make arrangements for a desert trek. Ten-hour overnight bus ride to Rissani. Leaves at 9 p.m. Then four-wheel drive to a hotel near Merzouga with a pool where we rest. In the late afternoon, we then spend two hours via camel back to a desert camp. Dinner and tea, sunset and sleep there. Camel ride back in the morning. Then rest before another overnight bus on to Marrakesh.

The overnight bus ride to Rissani was uneventful and not particularly restful. The difference between CTM, the national Moroccan bus company, and the others is obvious. Private terminal. Only scheduled stops. Luggage check. On-time departure. Maybe $3 more per person than the competition.

In Rissani, we are greeted by Mustafa and his Toyota Land Cruiser. Twenty minutes later we turn off the sealed road to Merzouga, somewhere around kilometer marker 21. There is no road. Just a wasteland of dirt and stones with tire tracks zigging and zagging every which way. Mustafa turns and swerves like we are on a narrow road winding through a canyon. To my untrained eyes, the surface is flat and even in all directions. It seems like a straight line would make the best route. With each turn, we move closer to the patch of rose on the horizon amidst blues and grays. Erg Choubbi. The sands of the Sahara.

Finally, Mustafa pulls up to a palatial hotel – Auberge Dunes D'Or. The place is dead at this hour. 8 am. The pool with fountains pictured back at the travel agency in Fes right before we pulled out our credit card is covered and closed. The courtyard is wet from rain last night. When we are given a closed common area for our bags and rest, we negotiate a room, as we were promised back at Travel Source. We sleep and shower. Wake up refreshed to find the pool open, fountains spewing water into the air on all sides. We eat delicious kazia, a specialty of this region – chopped lamb, tomatoes, onions, prepared in a tajine to order.

At 4:30 pm, we are joined by an Italian couple and a 23 year-old in bright blue-green robe and golden head wrap. His name is Ahkmed. He is our guide. He will teach us how to play rummy with two decks of cards and the jokers while keeping a hookah packed with flavorful tobacco. For now, he has saddled up the camels and leads them on foot, rope wrapped around his torso.

We ride the camels away from the setting sun until we are surrounded by the sands of the Sahara. The colors glow from rose to gold to deep red as the sun recedes. The downhill steps are the most uncomfortable as gravity presses my balls against the camel's hump. Otherwise, it is a beautiful. Absent the occasional grunt of the camel, it is perfectly silent. The sand muffles the sound like snow following a blizzard. As we turn perpendicular to the setting sun, the camels shadows stretch across the sand, legs stilt-like as if from a Dali painting.

After close to two hours, we approach a series of camps in the shadow of a huge dune. Maybe eight camps in all. Each with water, toilets, cooking facilities and private tents. Each belongs to a different hotel, except the three on the outskirts. These are the homes of nomadic families. We drop our things and climb to see the sun set. But it is behind the clouds. So, we watch a lightning storm approach from the southeast. It moves quickly. Soon, it is evident there won't be any stars tonight. Just rain in the desert. Go figure. Fortunately, there is a common tent with a layer of plastic between its bamboo ceiling and fabric roof. Even to keep us dry for the night.

It is clear by morning sunrise. We hike the dune again to watch the ball of fire climb over the horizon. I pick up handfuls of sand, slowly letting the grains fall out of the bottom of my hand. They blow in the breeze and seem to never touch the ground. I imagine these sands shift mountains. Where I sit may not be here in a matter of months, as the sands take new shapes.

Once the sun has made its grand entrance, I borrow a snowboard from a nearby camp and take a ride down the dunes before mint tea and departure. The sand is firm from last night's rain, but still soft like powder.

We are back at the hotel by 8:30 and on a bus again in Erfoud by 6:15 that evening. It was a long trip, but worth every bit of it. The desert has a tranquility and a beauty that is indescribable. It must be experienced. And I am glad we did.

I awoke last night to canyon walls whose tops I couldn't see through the meter-high bus windows. We wound through mysterious nightscapes of the Atlas mountains. We stopped in small towns with cartloads of apples and roadside kebab stands. I awoke this morning to see Marrakesh glowing rose in the rising sun, adorned with palm trees. She is beautiful. Marrakesh has been a destination of mine since childhood. Marrakesh. The land where my parents first met. I wouldn't exist if it were not for this place. Marrakesh.