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Published: December 30th 2017
After breakfast more delightful conversation with Akmed and Said, we leave the Kasbah – note; just because one stays in the Kasbah, one is not obligated to “rock” same. From Wikipedia: In Morocco and in Iberia, the Arabic word form of kasbah frequently refers to multiple buildings in a keep, a citadel or several structures behind a defensive wall. When we turn around and get our first look at the Kasbah we are already leaving, it’s really quite nice!
Next up, African musicians and Berber pizza. Again, understand that we are touristing like a motherfucker right now, so don’t expect anything off-the-beaten-track or challenging. But that doesn’t mean things can’t be interesting. For instance, the African music. We’re led into a small hut like building from which we can already hear rhythms pouring forth. Inside, there's a single bench along a back wall lined with whities. On the other side of the room dressed in white but with skin as black as skin can be, are the musicians. They sing, dance and clap metallic Afro-castanet thingies. The sound is not at all unpleasant and the performance is surprisingly spirited given the constant showtimes. We are expected to purchase the CD,
Mining for some mineral we can't remember
But the work is very dangerous and the pay isn't great.and we do, but modernity will have to take hold somehow as the medium itself is all but arcane.
Next up, Berber pizza. It’s really more of a Berber calzone as it’s a big round stuffed thing. We’re not quite sure what’s in it, but with a prayer that it’s not actual Berbers, we dig in. Pretty damn yummy! The restaurant’s host is a black African (it’s amazing how fast one’s politically correct brain will designate someone African American in spite of the African never having been to America) with a great gleam in his eye and playful attitude.
Okay, the time, she have come; we must change for our trip into the Sahara. This is the moment that Steve’s multiple viewings of Ishtar have led him to, a stupid destiny, indeed. We are given a hotel room near the departure point for the sole purpose of bundling up. We have been warned by other tourists that the desert will be the kind of cold that falls into the “very fucking” variety, so we put on… everything! Two thermal shirts, then a heavy shirt, then a hoody, then a jacket, thermal underwear, then jeans, thermal socks, then socks,
scarves and gloves. We waddle our way across a wide field out to where the camels stand ready to receive us. It is not that cold yet, so we just feel over-dressed.
Mounting the camel, which, due to its possession of a single hump is actually a dromedary, but nobody says dromedary, so we won’t either, is simpler than mounting a horse because the camel drops down to its haunches for you. When it rises, you are dipped waay forward, then waay back, and then you’re straight. We are tied off together in a line and they march into the desert begins. It’s pretty much a carnival pony ride but with grownups and camels. We will be on these guys for about two hours, but their gate is soothing and smooth. Fun fact: horses walk with alternating front and back legs and camels walk with both right, then both left legs. The sun-backed sand surrounds us and provides the kind of Sahara Desert view one hopes for. We have departed in time to arrive for sunset, so the sun is sinking and taking the temperature with it. By the time we reach camp, it’s cold… but not as cold
as it’s going to be.
Okay, this is where things kind of start sucking. The camp is poorly managed, no welcome to speak of, no hot tea, which is something you get just walking into a shop, and there is no heat available in our tent (in spite of a reassurance from Ali at Realy Morocco Tours, whose business will suffer a touch from his dishonesty once we report it in our Tripadvisor review), nor in the dining tent where the heater standing in the center is either conceptual art or a means of visual torture. The meal is perfunctory (who guessed meat?), the after-dinner entertainment and “bon fire” are pathetic. Meanwhile, there’s no escape as our tent is as cold as a Seattle native’s attitude. The only saving grace is the night sky. Cleverly pulling a thick blanket from our tent, we set ourselves up on the carpeted ground by the door, pull from a small bottle of whiskey we had the foresight to procure en route, and gaze into the heavens. The haze of the galaxy streams from end-to-end across the velvet black sky, highlighting more stars than may ever have been counted.
Sleep is hard
because for us to have enough blankets to stay warm requires trying to rest under what feels like a hundred pounds of wool. Our breathing is labored, we both have colds (Steve almost had his beat and Julie is now doomed), so we cough and gasp until morning. This might be fun in the spring, but DO NOT DO THIS IN THE WINTER!!!
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