“What draws us into the desert is the search for something intimate in the remote.” -Edward Abbey
I have been looking forward to writing about the desert, I knew that the words and memories would come easily, my time there was transformative and I have been carrying the gift of those five days in my heart since I have returned. My two weeks in Morocco were a cultural revelation, but my days and nights in the Sahara were something else entirely. I had been hoping for a glimpse of some deeper observations and I had known from previous forays into desert landscapes that the stark geography can work its magic on a person. I was not disappointed.
Here I want to take a moment to acknowledge the brutal murder of two young female Scandinavian tourists in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the villages which were the subject of my last blog post. I’d read of this horrific crime right after posting and felt shock and disgust, and a deep regret. I have been talking about my own trepidation around travel to Morocco, the implicit cultural bias towards women endemic to the country and the Muslim faith in general. I had read tons of literature advising against solo female travel in Morocco and heeded those warnings to cover up and be aware. I’d written especially about the shift in my feelings of safety when I left the relative modernity of Marrakesh and traveled through the ancient villages in the Atlas Mountains. The uncomfortable way locals had of staring coldly at us, watching our every move. In my time there, I came to value and respect the precepts of Islam and its positive influences on things such as community and family. In retrospect, sleeping solo in a tent in the desert should have induced anxiety and fear in me, but maybe I was ignorant to the potential dangers. I was surrounded by my fellow travelers, as well as a caravan of Muslim drivers and cooks, and nomadic camel herders. I never once questioned my safety. And I am glad I did not have that specter of fear, I was able to open myself up to the experience in a way that changed me. For that, I am grateful. But I mourn for the loss of those two innocent lives, for the way they must have trusted the young men who befriended them. I’m sad for the people of Morocco, the ones who welcomed me with smiles and curiosity and hospitality. The ones who were eager to share the beauty of their culture, their faith, their way of life. Extremists exist in every culture and I would not hesitate to return to Morocco.
The desert literally started at the end of the road. There was macadam, and then there was nothing but sand and hard packed black rock. We drove for hours on no discernable path. It had rained in recent weeks and the usually dry mud-caked landscape was carpeted with brilliant green shrubs of flowering arugula tipped with lemon yellow blooms. It made for a startling sight, the monotony of rock and sand punctuated by vivid proof of life. In the distance, undulating ribbons of sand rose in walls of blinding white. I saw the familiar shape of camels lumbering through the greens, a tableau of such wildness and antiquity that I knew I’d come to the edge of something. I’ve always been attracted to the edges, the transition points between land and sky, beach and surf, meadow and forest, civilization and wilderness. There is a tension of spirit held in these places that exude great beauty.
The Sahara is a desolate place, inhabited by ancient Arabic-speaking nomadic tribes living as they have for centuries, surviving colonialism and dictatorship. It’s an inhospitable, harsh place to call home and the few who do are a singular people. As we moved deeper into the desert, we spotted nomadic dwellings, some merely stick huts, others more substantial with colorful cloth draped over an igloo-like skeleton made of reeds and tree branches. At one point, two small children came running full speed towards our vehicles, attempting to outrun our trajectory. They were gesturing wildly, laughing and leaping, like gazelles under the burning sun. Where did they come from? I could see no dwelling, no tents, no parents or any sign of life. They just appeared and as I turned to wave at them in the dust left behind my our tires, they disappeared, tiny mirages evaporating into the air.
Our first stop was at the base of a modest swell of sand, an opportunity to climb our first dune, a mini harbinger of things to come. We kept our eyes open for fossils in the rock escarpments jutting up from the sandy floor, part of the Blue Mountains.The Sahara is littered with evidence of primeval life, trilobites and ammonites can be found everywhere. We paused again for lunch in the middle of nowhere. Riad Nomad is a lonely outpost atop a towering dune reached by a steep semicircle drive. Empty but for us, I wondered at the location. From the open doorway where our table was set for lunch, I could see nothing for miles. Not a single human being, just dust and sand and rock and that brilliant lawn of arugula.
Our jeeps dropped us a few miles from our destination for the night. The plan was to walk into our camp, cresting our first real dune landscape and walking the windswept ridges before cascading ourselves down the shadowed backside of the sand mountain to our campsite. It was late afternoon and the wind at our backs was hot and dry. Scarab beetles scuttled between sharp-spined cactus and s-shaped funnels carved in the sand indicated the unseen presence of snakes. Our guide pointed in the distance to a neat line of linen colored canvas tents. All in a row like miniature pyramids. Two smaller tents were set away from where we would sleep. These were the shower and toilet tents. It looked impossibly romantic, though it was far from luxury camping.
Upon arrival that first night we were each given a thin mattress pad, a pillow and a sleeping bag. The tents were minimalistic, the floor covered with overlapping carpets. A dented tin bucket was placed outside each of our tents for washing and showering. I sponge washed my sweaty body that first night but truth be told, I didn’t bother the remainder of our time in the desert. Despite the heat and the sweat, I would be too exhausted to undress and wash my body, wet wipes do wonders.
That inaugural evening will remain with me until my final days. As the sun sank behind the horizon, we gathered in front of an impromptu fire. We were all excited to be here, it seemed each of us had been anticipating this portion of the trip with great expectations. As the light faded and the air cooled and all that was left of day was a thin strip of burnt orange at the edge of sky, the unmistakeable silhouettes of nomads leading our camels entered into our line of vision. It was as if someone had painted their crisply outlined shadows against the sky. They paused as we gasped, reaching for cameras, recognizing the gift of a perfect photo. We were all pretty pumped to meet our camels but we would have to wait until morning. The nomads sleep with their charges in the open air, under the night sky. We all joked about naming them and choosing favorites. It was then that I looked up and was startled by the world above me. The milky way had emerged in all its brilliance, the sparkling geometric forms of constellations brightening with my gaze. Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia. We sat there in wonder. Streaks of comets would cause someone to point and shout, others sighed with deep satisfaction. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had never in my lifetime seen a night sky so saturated with stars. It dawned on me that this is what I am searching for in my travels. A shifting of my reality, a way in to something deeper then I cannot access in my daily life. In my insignificance, sitting under that vast desert sky, a well of humility opened inside me. I felt a connection to the earth and at the same time to an unseen nameless beauty.
The first morning, we left camp as the sun began to rise behind the dunes and riding astride my camel was nothing short of magical. Despite the surprisingly jerky movement of the animal beneath me and the death-like grip I maintained on the cold iron bar that was attached to the saddle, I was mesmerized by the lapping waves of sand as far as I could see. Silence in the desert is a separate thing, there’s the subtle whoosh of shifting grains of sand, the rustle of wind through the leaves of the Acacia tree, the slide of the camel herders sandals on the sand.
After two hours, I began to feel uncomfortable, I’d attempted to mimic the cadence of my camel as it moved, letting my hips sway back and forth. I was beginning to feel cramped and was glad when we stopped at an empty riad for mint tea. We were given the opportunity to switch it up a bit and walk beside the camels if we chose. The day had heated up and it was still and I felt baked. It was to be a long day. 7 and a 1/2 hours later we staggered into camp after a day of alternating walking and riding. It was around the campfire that evening that many of us shared the unfortunate news: weeping blisters on our asses would prevent a few of us from enjoying the view from atop the camels the next day.
The next four days were a blur of blinding heat, shimmering mirages, unslakeable thirst and endless miles. Here’s the magic of walking in the desert. The scenery doesn’t change. The distant dunes never seem to get any closer, the sun beats down on your neck, the sweat soaks your spine and you walk. Conversation among us would waver and silence would eventually win out. Without distraction, the only movement of your body being the comforting placement of one foot in front of the other, the mind is at first busy, then it complains, finally settles down and something wonderful happens. You reside in your body. You pay attention to the metallic whooshing sound your hiking boot makes in the sand, you stoop to caress a black fossilized rock, slipping it into your pocket as treasure, you notice the angle of the sun and the occasional breeze that cools your forehead. There is no inner chatter, no monkey mind. You are in the moment. You capture that elusive thing, stillness.
One day, to my surprise, we were led into a dusty shadowed riad where Gnaoua musicians were waiting to give us an impromptu concert. After the silence of the desert, my ears perked up at the first sounds of the lilting guitar. The Gnaoua brotherhood is descended from black slaves brought to Morocco from Mali and Mauritania. They dress in distinctive robes and caps. The traditional music originally began as away to placate spirits(djinns) and involves repeated phrases and chants meant to induce a trance-like state. Today the music has evolved into an exuberant cultural expression of joy, dancing is accompanied by the rhythmic sounds of drums, the krakeb(iron castanets) and a three string lute known as a gimbri. I was drawn to it, there was a shadow of the American blues tradition in the chants and when one of the men gestured to me to join in the circle dance, I did not hesitate.
The best was saved for last. Our last day was a return to the camels for a brief overland to the base of Erg Chebbi, the tallest dunes in Morocco. Moroccan legend says that this sea of dunes were sent by God as punishment for turning away a weary traveler from the Sahara desert. Stretching to the Algerian border, they create a mystical and surreal landscape. Our goal was to climb to the highest point and we moved slowly, trying to find the firmest footing as we placed one foot forward while one slid back. We crested and began the final ascent on the carved knife’s edge of the dune, massive windwept bowls of burnt orange sand on either side of us. I was reminded of the Everest expedition photos, explorers bent over in the gales, moving like slow-moving ants. The high winds were whipping our scarves, spitting sand in our eyes and pushing us to our knees. When at last we came to the very top, the views stretched for miles, a great inland sea of frothy sculptural dunes. Sitting by myself, I took some time to give thanks for the gifts I had received on this trip before joining my travel buddies in an exuberant race to the bottom.
An Addendum: Lessons in Camel Riding
The bottom line is don’t do it. Well maybe, if you must, you can ride a camel for a few hours for the novelty of it, say you did it. I’d ridden a camel before in Australia to visit Uluru and it was a lark, but this adventure was an entirely different deal,. It occurred to me later that I never once saw a nomad riding a camel. They lead them while walking, the camel can carry up to 900lbs and is an efficient pack animal), but never did I see a Moroccan astride a camel. (ok our guide rode but I think he was humoring us…see? it can be done). Getting on a camel is tricky at best. They are mercurial beasts, moody and prone to baring their teeth and making frightening gutteral bellows from deep in their throats. Also, they will stand and sit according to their own whims. Their legs are structural marvels with joints So alighting one requires lightening quick mounting. No dawdling or loose grips or God forbid a mounting that is somewhat askew. Another thing one doesn’t think about when getting all geeked to ride a camel, they are huge animals. Once they do stand up, and the process of getting upright is an exercise in balance and seesaw, the ground is really far away. And forget the stirrups. There are none. Your legs dangle pitifully, your feet flap like birds wings as you move. You’ve no choice but to grip the camel with your inner thighs and hold on tightly. Once we all mastered the process of getting on and off the camels, I think we were all looking forward to the next few days, exploring the desert from the vantage point of a camels hump.
Ultimately, riding atop a camel is an experience I am glad I had, there is something extraordinary witnessing the sunrise over the dunes while astride these remarkable mammals. The blisters eventually healed(though I still bear the marks) and I am left with the memory of walking those long hot miles with the nomads leading the way. Sadly, most adventure outfitters are no longer offering five days in the desert. Most tourists want the shortened version. Two hours on the back of a camel and an overnight stay in a luxury camp. No one wants to hike long monotonous distances or make themselves uncomfortable. I understand that but I’m glad I was able to partake in the last camel trek in Morocco with my outfitter. If I had not welcomed a certain amount of suffering, I would had not woken in the night to the rustling of the desert wind flapping the sides of my tent, I would not have witnessed shooting stars race across a North African sky, I would not have tapped into the longing that resides in my soul, thats always there but rarely visible. I recognized that part of myself that is a nomadic child in the desert, leaping and shouting with unfettered joy.
“The desert sharpened the sweet ache of his longing, amplified it, gave shape to it in sere geology and clean slant of life”- Jon Krakauer
