I Don’t Think There’s Supposed To Be Sand In There – Merzouga, Morocco

I Don’t Think There’s Supposed To Be Sand In There…
Merzouga, Morocco

Saturday night, 7:30, Fes bus station

Karim carefully checks his hair and smoothes his moustache before casually
making his way over toward the two marks just inside the entrance. His mind
pieces together the clues quickly. They appear slightly confused, but they’ve been here
before at least once, probably already have tickets. Trying to look sure of
themselves, braced for the hard sell, try to make friends first.

“Bonjour, mon ami. Parlez-vous Francais? Non? Anglais? Hello, hello, I am
Karim. Where you from? Canada? Quebec? Non? Where you go? Rissani? Yes, this
way, this way. (He follows them to the CTM window) Let me help you with your
bags. No trouble, no trouble. You go Merzouga, yes? You need hotel? You do
desert trek? Here, over here, take these chairs, is no problem. I have
friend in Merzouga, nice hotel, beautiful. Mohammed, he’ll pick you up in
Rissani. I’ll call and he’ll be waiting. No, really, no trouble. Hey, no
problem, I just try to help. (I’m close, very close, what could close the
deal? Hmmm. I think it’s time to use the “I nailed a white broad” card. They
can’t help but stay at my hotel once they know that)

“My girlfriend is from Canada. Here, look at my pictures.”

We slept nearly the entire 10 hour overnight journey to Rissani, waking up
at sunrise in a vast landscape of red desert. Kind of a shock, really, but
it wasn’t long before even that took a backseat as the desert dropped away
into a bright green oasis full of palm trees, clay houses and a small river.
Definitely new territory now.

Not long after, we rolled in to Merzouga on their recently paved road (before
there was only a track through the desert called a piste). We arrived during
a bit of a sandstorm and as we left the pavement we couldn’t see more than
20 feet in any direction, and our “hotel” (four mud-brick walls with a few rooms
inside) appeared out of nowhere like a mirage. After agreeing with our
driver/hotelier, Zaouie, that we were, indeed, interested in a desert trek,
he summoned Omar, a tall rough-looking guy in a djellaba and headgear who
fit the Berber desert guide look to a T. After some poor haggling on our
part (the kind where we eventually accept their first offer) the details
were arranged and we settled in to spend the day relaxing until 5 pm when it
would be cool enough to head out. When we did go, it was actually with
Hassan, a camel-handler (it’s not what you think), since Omar, now back in
jeans and an ill-fitting cap, turned out to be just one of the crew, no more
than a nice guy with very unfortunate teeth.

Sorry, this dune is taken

Moving on, we spent the next 2½ hours swaying and bouncing through the
dunes on the back of our camels (Laynni, predictably, named hers Cammie; I
left mine nameless, preferring to avoid labels). Unbelievable dunes as far
as the eye could see, and roughly as far as my ass could handle. It was a
level of ass abuse I had truly hoped never to experience…again. On
arrival at the oasis we dismounted and hobbled off like drunken John
Waynes. Since it wasn’t quite dark yet, we set off to climb the gigantic sand
dune overlooking the oasis to watch the sunset. Unfortunately, though, about
halfway up I got some sand in my shoe and we had to stop.

Meanwhile, Hassan was setting up a table and lounging area outside our tent
as well as getting supper ready with the help of some old guy in Blue
Blockers whose name I couldn’t pronounce. Apparently he doesn’t really speak
Arabic, Berber or French, but more of his own dialect. It also turns out
that he actually lives at the oasis in a tiny patchwork hut. It’s a touching
story about a man and his burro.

After a while Hassan brought some bread and tajine (similar to stew) along
with yet more tea/sugar (called “Berber Whiskey” with a hearty chuckle
by pretty much everyone we met), and set the one big plate on the table and
basically said dig in. No plates, cutlery, rags, etc. OK, no problem,
personal hygiene has never been my strong suit anyway. However, do you have
any idea how difficult it is to take the meat off a steaming hot chicken
leg, in the middle of the stew, with just your fingers and a piece of bread?
Let’s just say it’s your loss that there exists no video clip of my attempt.

Rent-a-Camel

Not too long after that we cozied up inside our Berber tent, a kind of
pieced-together outfit of blankets and canvas. It looked pretty well
covered. At 1 am, we wake up to howling winds and I find I have difficulty
lifting my head, as it turns out, mostly due to the 30 lbs of sand weighing
it down. A flick of the flashlight soon reveals that the whole place now
resembles a very lifelike sand sculpture. I also had some hearing issues
that appeared to be caused by the “hourglass effect” meaning, in basic
terms, sand pouring from the roof into my ear. The roof above Laynni was
flawed as well, but she described it as “The Salt Shaker”, whereby each gust
of wind tossed a new batch of sand at her head. The whole experience led me
to realize that all those spotless walk-in desert tents we see in the movies
are, of course, owned by Sheiks, Sultans, or maybe Union Leaders, but never
the common Joe.

The following morning Laynni’s trip back was made less comfortable by her
inability to find an opportunity to relieve herself before we left. That job
is au naturale in the desert and with the other trekkers perched on the
dunes high above still enjoying the morning she was unable to find, shall we
say, comfort in solitude.

Finally, our desert experience was at an end. We promptly crossed “Desert
Camel Trek” off our Things to Do list and moved on. Camionette, grand taxi,
bus, grand taxi later we arrived in Todra Gorge. This steeply-walled canyon
climbed slowly upward into the Atlas mountains with dozens of palmeraies and
kasbahs lining the small river in the centre. We did a couple pretty cool
hikes in the valley and stopped in at the Todra Bar in Tinerghir, the town
at the base of the gorge. This was the first bar we’d seen in Morocco and
according to Steve, a British guy staying there, Laynni could very well have
been the first woman through its doors. Breaking down the gender barrier
she boldly entered man’s domain and ordered….a mini-Coke.