Forget everything I said before. This place is not romantic. It’s deadly, unforgiving, and miserable. Full of pain and agony.

Do not come here. Do not let your loved ones come here.

Okay, maybe not that bad, but right now Laura and I are in low spirits. We’re tired. We ran out of mineral water, and can’t help but remember how Rashid carelessly drank some, and used some more for dishes and washing on our first day. Rashid can drink the well water, but we can’t for legitimate fear that the bacteria and microbes will make us sick. We’ve put some treatment pills in a bottle of well water, but have to wait two hours for them to do their work. We’re very thirsty, and have aches and pains throughout our bodies. Rashid said it would be an hour from our lunch spot, but it’s actually been about three, and the heat is the harshest we have experienced. My little travel compass/thermometer maxed out today at an unbearable 50 degrees Celsius.

We’re at Erg Chigaga as I write this, finally, but rather than feel proud or excited by this unique place, we feel hollow and taken advantage of. The man in Zagora who sold us our camel trek, Mohammed, was very friendly, with a sincerity of laughter that bespoke of a straight-forward and honest business man. So when we asked him questions about how long each leg of “the ride” would be, and how long we would be “on the camels on any given stretch”, his answer of three to four hours satisfied us. Yet here we are. It’s the end of our last day in the desert, we’re at Erg Chigaga, the great 40km expanse of dunes on the Algerian border, and we haven’t been on a damn camel once. We walked 60km through the Sahara Desert to get here, and we’re feeling too beat physically and mentally to climb the great 300m dune that’s just right over there.

Shariff and Mimoun drudge on. We try to keep up.

Erg Chigaga stretches for about 40km, and is also only about 40km from Algeria.

The dunes of Erg Chigaga. “Erg” means dune.

Dunes and tamarist trees.

We asked after the camels again when we arived. Rashid’s response was the same as usual: apres, apres, “after, after.” This time we pushed him. “After what, Rashid? After we set up camp?”

“Wahha, wahha,” he said. “Okay, okay.”

But then, before we knew it, he sent the camels off into the distant plain to feed. We can see them now, from where we sit atop a small dune. They’re at least 4km away and the light is failing fast. There’s no way we can muster the energy to get out to them, and no way Rashid can collect them before sun down. We simply can’t understand why he won’t let us ride them. Laura is very disappointed and upset. I can’t blame her, either. She never rode a camel while she lived in Saudi Arabia. During  her one opportunity she was too young and scared to give it a go, and her hopes of making up for it by spending three days on one have been sunk. Riding a camel was one of her main goals coming to Morocco, and we thought we had it all but cinched when we booked our tour.

At this moment, right now, we are in one of the lows that make the highs of travel feel so amazing in comparison. It sounds like a small thing, riding a camel, but after the beating heat and strain of walking 60km in the desert, that small thing is the whole world to us right now. We’re pissed off, frankly.

One of my goals on this trip, and in my life, is to “live without expectation,” what the Hindus call “relinquishing the fruits of your labour.” While I can’t claim to be there yet, I am trying. But it’s not easy. This trip was not what we expected. We’ve decided to take it up with Mohammed when we see him after. For now, I’m not sure my tired legs can even get me up one of the bigger dunes to watch the sun go down. My ankle is swollen like a baseball and each step is agony.

Epilogue

That was my last entry in my journal from the dessert. It’s a sour note to end on, and one I’m happy to say didn’t last long. Within five minutes of that entry, we had purged the negativity from our systems. Me, through writing it down, pretty much as you’ve just read it, and Laura through telling me how she was feeling and shedding a few stressed-out, tired, tears. We enjoyed a hug and felt some of the excitement and challenge come back to us. Aching, dehydrated, tired to the bone, we egged each other on and raced up the dunes, toward the highest peak of Erg Chigaga. The sunset was coming on fast. We could see several other visitors silhouetted at the top of one of the lesser dunes, watching the sunset we had sought for four days through the desert. No doubt they had been brought out that afternoon in the relative comfort of a 4WD, and the thought of them enjoying what we had earned while we sat and moped buoyed us on further, until we were panting and gasping for breath as our tired legs carried us up one, then another of the big dunes. Soon we were on the ridge leading to the top of the biggest. The 4WD crowd were no doubt too lazy to bother climbing it, we told each other, laughing.

“Good,” we declared. “We earned it. Those bastards couldn’t get through the desert. They probably have air-conditioned tents down there.”

And although we made the top moments after the sun had dipped below the horizon, the effort had redeemed us. The sunset didn’t matter. Being here didn’t really matter, either. But the effort of just getting here did, camels or no camels. That last sprint redeemed us, and it redeemed a desert trek that will live with us always, standing out among months of travel as something unlike anything else we’ve ever done.

It also didn’t hurt that we ran into Mohammed that night. The next morning, Laura got her camel ride after all.

Sunset over Erg Chigaga. The bastards on the top of the dune likely got out here by 4WD. Bastards.

The view from the top. The sun had just set on us.

Laura channels Arabian Nights.

Your intrepid bloggers. Yes, it is that big. Bigger even.

Camel rides, at last.

This is the final part of a six-part series on our camel trek in the Moroccoan Sahara. To read the full story, please click here.

Related posts:

1. Sahara Diaries, Part 3: Camel Trekking and Arabic Lessons
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 5: Night of the Thousand Stars, Snakes, and other Deadly Encounters
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 4: Rashid, Pain, and More Pain

Some night photography. I “light painted” the tent with my LED flashlight. This was a 30 second exposure.

May 16, 2010 — Midday

The nights out here have been wonderful. Not only do we get to rest while things cool off considerably and Rashid sets to work on the evening meal, but we also get to enjoy the type of clear, starry sky you can only find in a dry environment far from city lights, in the desert or the arctic. The company we paid to arrange this trek is called Caravane Mille Etoiles, the Caravan of the Thousand Stars, and the name is apt. The only thing they should work on is actually telling people that it is not a camel ride into the desert so much as a relentless death march in the baking sun.

The dunes themselves have also been enjoyable, even though we have only been camping among relatively small ones (maybe 50m tall). Burying one’s sore feet in the still-warm sand and watching the sun set over a sea of dunes must be one of life’s great pleasures. The colours and textures that come out of the sand are predictably beautiful, although serious photography is all but impossible due to the heat, fatigue and just wanting to enjoy the last light of day without looking through a camera viewfinder.

Rashid’s kitchen.

Taking these things off is the best part of the day. Actually, we both switched from sandals to our hiking shoes after the first day or two. This is the view from our tent.

Sunset over the Sahara.

Yours truly. Photo by Laura.

Laura, int he best light of the day, right before sunset.

One of the other highlights of our trek has been the array of desert life we’ve been lucky enough to come across. Of course living next to two huge, blundering camels has had its moments. Camels aren’t known for being shy about their bodily processes, pooping and peeing whenever and wherever the mood strikes them (including all over themselves), and burping and farting as they spend the night just outside our airy tent. It’s like a desert symphony to offset the beauty of the starry sky.

Shariff and Mimoun are also natural garbeurators, eating anything put within reach of their searching camel lips. They’ll eat anything from food scraps like orange and melon peels (they like these a lot) to the scrubbiest thorn bushes in the desert. And that’s just breakfast. Shariff even ate Laura’s prized fossilized rock.

Our most common view of the camels.

These desert birds live in pretty much all of the tamarist trees.

But we’ve enjoyed other wildlife as well, including plenty of scarab beetles, red ants, a burrowing owl, crows and small desert birds. This morning Laura spotted a dung beetle methodically rolling his breakfast (one of Shariff’s ping-pong sized droppings) home for the wife and kids. We’ve also seen lizards and had fatal encounters with a camel spider and snake. Thankfully, the encounters were fatal for the spider and snake, not us.

Actually, the snake was probably the most dangerous thing that has happened to us during the trek. Rashid was calm but stern after he spotted the snake on a nearby dune, not two minutes after leaving camp this morning. Laura and I went for our cameras as the snake slithered its way up a dune away from us, but if we went closer than about four meters, Rashid would say loudly, “Attencion! Attencion!”, motioning us back. When he snatched a tent pole and went after the creature, Laura and I both went into conservator mode, trying to tell Rashid that it wasn’t necessary to kill the thing, as the snake clearly only wanted to get away.

The Saharan Horned Viper.

But Rashid answered by hooking two fingers downward in the air with a quick hissing sound, in obvious imitation of snake fangs sinking into their prey. “Mort,” he said, simply. “Mort.”

So we watched as Rashid deftly decapitated the snake with one blow of the tent pole, followed by several more for good measure. After some prodding and our usual halted communication, we later learned from Rashid that this type of horned snake (he didn’t know the name in English, Arabic, Berber, or French) can kill a person with one bite. The venom is fatal every time, and the victim might only have one to three hours to live after a bite. (Update: After being spurred on by our friend Christine, who identified this beastie as a Saharan Horned Viper, or Cerastes Cerastes, I did a bit more research. The bite is not necessarily immediately fatal, but can lead to severe complications if gone untreated. Don’t believe everything you hear in the desert, apparently.)

Believe me when I say, we were very much on the lookout for other snakes after that. We were also quite grateful to have been ignorant of this knowledge during the first three and a half days of our trek.

This snake is deadly poisonous. If you are bitten, you can count your hours left on one hand.

We have one more hot afternoon of walking to go. We feel better now after eating and a short nap. Rashid says it is only about an hour more. After lunch the desert always feels more romantic and exciting. Our energy levels are up and we ready to set out again.

This is just one part of a six-part series on our camel trek in the Moroccoan Sahara. To read the full story, please click here.

Related posts:

1. Sahara Diaries, Part 3: Camel Trekking and Arabic Lessons
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 6: The Lows and the Highs
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 4: Rashid, Pain, and More Pain

Camels!

May 14, 2010

There is only an hour or two between the previous entry and this one. Since I wrote the last bit, we have eaten the day’s lunch. Rashid prepared and served us what he called “Berber Omelette,” an egg and tomato dish with peppers, onions and the usual spices that was remarkably like Turkish menemen. The camels are nearby, contented from the water we drew from a well right before lunch, and feeding on scraggly shrubs. Rashid is washing the dishes, which generally involves splashing some untreated well-water on everything and sloshing it around a basin. I try not to think that it’s the same basin the camels have drank out of, or that Rashid washed his feet in, or that Laura and I have also used to wash. Desert hygiene is not city hygiene.

At least he’s using soap.

Our guide, Rashid, drawing water for himself, the cuisine, cleaning, and the camels. Laura and I stayed to mineral water, mostly. Rashid’s body can handle the microbes, whereas ours are accustomed to completely different ones.

We came across essentially one well per day, which may surprise some, but we were technically on the edge of the desert. Beyond our final destination (Erg Chigaga) there are no wells.

Laura helping fill one of the two 10L gerry cans that got us through.

Laura and I are actually feeling spoiled and content on our rug in the shade. The day has already cooled somewhat and soon we’ll be packing up to continue the day’s journey. We haven’t actually ridden the camels yet, as they have been loaded down with our baggage to begin with, but we’re thinking we may this afternoon if the sand is too hot on our sandaled feet. Rashid has said vaguely that we will ride them apres, apres, “after, after.”

The afternoon winds are picking up a bit after the calm morning, and if we can expect the same hard winds as we experienced last night at the bivouac, then we will be heading westward into the setting sun and blowing sand, so the afternoon may present its own challenges.

Shariff (“Sha-reef”), the camel. Shariff is 20, and like his buddy Mimoun, will likely be doing this for ten more years. The nose ring is actually used by the camel guide to lead the animal.

Mimoun (“Mee-moon”) the camel. Mimoun is 19 years old, and will likely live to about 30. His job is to walk back and forth in the desert, poor guy.

I wanted to mention that we have been enjoying some very basic Arabic help (and I mean very basic). Our communications with Rashid now span French, English, and crude Arabic, but we’re able to communicate most things well enough. We also got some primers last night from the other fellows. Unfortunately I only pulled out the notebook part way through, so most of our impromptu Arabic lesson has been lost, strings of foreign syllables that simply don’t stick in my mind. This is all that remains, based on my notes and my memory:

La bass = Hello

La = No

Chukran = Thank you

Gh’la = watermelon

Schwee-ah, schwee-ah = little, little

Sa-ha = Cheers

Bis sa-ha = Bon apetite

Sabah-hak-hairh = good morning

Yella! = Let’s go / Hurry up

Wa-ha = Okay

*Spellings are phonetic interpretations. Try to pronounce each letter. The H’s are somewhat guttural.

Okay. Now, just walk to the other side. Simple!

This is just one part of a six-part series on our camel trek in the Moroccoan Sahara. To read the full story, please click here.

Related posts:

1. Sahara Diaries, Part 6: The Lows and the Highs
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 5: Night of the Thousand Stars, Snakes, and other Deadly Encounters
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 4: Rashid, Pain, and More Pain

The dusty streets of Zagora feel very far away and very long ago. It’s hard to believe it was only yesterday. The contrast between the desert and even a small town like Zagora couldn’t be more pronounced. When the wind dies down out here, it is perfectly still. Perfectly quiet.

The view from under our Tamarist tree. That’s another tamarist beside the dune. These trees are quite literally the only shade to be had out here, and tend to grow only in the dunes.

We are about six to ten kilometers from the camp where we spent last night. It is about 30 degrees Celsius in the shade right now, and we are passing the hottest part of the day under a desert tree. Our young guide, Rashid, 28, tells us it is called Tamarist in French, “Lit-luh” in Arabic, and “Tashwoodth” in Berber. He doesn’t know the English name. Rashid is himself Berber, descended from the desert nomads who once lived off the land in this area, but who have mostly settled down in nearby communities since Rashid’s grandfather’s time. He speaks only slightly more English than we do French, which is very little indeed, but we’ve been getting along well regardless of language difficulties. Hand gestures and our own searching French do surprisingly well, as we try various synonyms of what we want to say in the hopes of hitting upon the half-forgotten vocabulary of long-ago French classes. Although it is now just the three of us making our way into the desert, last night we enjoyed the company of four or five other young Berber men, most of them Rashid’s age.

The bivouac encampment we stayed in is design for some 20 to 40 visitors at capacity, but we were lucky enough to be the only two. It is just past the high season around here, a time when the desert starts to get too hot for most. The camp includes several heavy wool Berber tents for sleeping, a permanent squatter toilet outhouse, and a communal tent for preparing meals and relaxing among rugs, cushions and low tables.  Our mouths were watering as we sat in the communal tent (named, without a hint of irony, The Restaurant), smelling the tajine stewing in the next room and enjoying traditional Berber music. Tajine is probably Morocco’s most signature dish (alongside couscous), and you can find it on menus throughout the country. A good tajine can be made from pretty much anything you’d put into a stew, and the best tajines use only the freshest local ingredients; oil, carrots, potatoes, onion, yams, almonds, dates, lemon, olives, and peppers are all common, though seldom found altogether in the same tajine. It can be a vegetarian dish, or include beef, chicken, fish or lamb. Really, anything goes, but what makes every tajine a tajine is the conical ceramic cooking dish, or swaoui, a proper stewing time of several hours, and the inclusion of the typical Moroccan spice medley: saffron, paprika, cumin, ginger, salt and pepper. The night’s tajine was served with bread, communal style in a large  swaoui in the middle of the table, and was very delicious. We were surprised to get desert as well: a heaping plate of watermelon.

The warm and inviting “Restaurant” at our first night’s bivouac camp. It was way cozier in there than in the harsh winds of the evening. The winds died down after sunset, and we enjoyed the first of several beautiful night skies.

Laura wearing her turban. The first night out there was unbelievably windy, so these things were necessary to keep the sand out of our mouths. In the coming days, they would prove to be the most important garment we owned, providing shade and shelter from the beating sun and regulating our body temperature better than any single thing we did.

The music was a perfect way to bracket the meal, as our Berber companions began to “jam” while the tajine was just getting started, and picked up where they left off after dinner. It impresses me deeply whenever I am exposed to a culture or family with such integral music traditions. Although music is very important to me, and I was a musician myself some years ago, I was not raised in a participatory music tradition, and its not nearly as widespread in our culture than in many places in the world. In the West, musicians are specialized individuals who perform their trade for the entertainment of others. Among the Berbers, and cultures with similar traditions, everyone is a musician, and music is not something to watch or listen to so much as to make together. These traditions will always be stronger in a culture where individuals must depend on entertaining themselves and each other, rather than being entertained by electronic mass media.

But making and sharing music is universal; every culture in human history has folk music traditions. I think our easy access to prepackaged entertainment in the West has trained us away from the instinct to simply go for it.

Anyway, Laura and I did our best to simply go for it, taking our turns clapping along, as well as playing the cymbals, beating the drums and dancing. I also tried the lute, but with a foreign tuning scheme, ten strings and no frets, I found it far more difficult than guitar, and could only manage a few feeble notes. The Berber songs typically used a call-and-response singing structure and although the words were unintelligible to us, most of the songs were lamentations. The sorrowful wails in Arabic and (I assume) the Berber dialect of Tashelhit seemed to speak of tragedies and injustices borne out of the distant past. These were occasionally offset by more upbeat melodies, with the pounding rhythm of makeshift tam tams (drums) thumping into frenzied finales. Other songs were instrumental, led by the lute player, and seemed to include improvisational elements based around a traditional song structure.

After some encouragement Laura and I were induced to share the only piece of Canadiana that would come to mind, although I’m not sure “Barrett’s Privateers” has ever been accompanied by such African-influenced percussion. And I, for one, choose to believe it was that relentless rhythm that drove the lyrics clean out of my head, forcing us to repeat the first verse four or five times before begging off at last in an awkward ending that seemed to leave our new friends unsure what to make of it all. They didn’t ask us to sing again after that, which was fine by me.

We joined in when we could. It was a great evening.

We were treated to traditional Berber music, by Daoud (right), and our guide Rashid (left), among others.

I’ve been in other situations where the ease with which those present share and participate in music has humbled me, and each time it forces me to ask myself: “Where are my songs?” On T.V.? The radio? The punk rock clique I was into as a younger man? The other music cliques and genres I could have fallen into had I made different friends? The folk music of cowboys? Of the maritimes? I enjoy these things but am neither cowboy nor maritimer. Where are my songs?

These young men know every word, can join in and improvise on a dozen or more traditional songs, passing the main rhythm drum and other instruments back and forth at will, sharing singing duties as needed. For them playing together is a daily routine, something to be savoured whenever and wherever they can come together in one place and time. These songs and the experience of sharing them are central to what makes them Berber.

Where are our songs?

Our last meal. Before the desert at least. Bread, tea, confections like jam and butter. That was pretty much it for breakfasts. You can see the Berber sleeping tents of the bivouac in the background. We just slept in the Restaurant, as it was already cozy and blocked the sand much more effectively.

This is just one part of a six-part series on our camel trek in the Moroccoan Sahara. To read the full story, please click here.

Related posts:

1. Sahara Diaries, Part 3: Camel Trekking and Arabic Lessons
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 5: Night of the Thousand Stars, Snakes, and other Deadly Encounters
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 6: The Lows and the Highs

The view as I wrote the first draft of this entry into my little, bouncing notebook.

May 13, 2010

As I write this we’re only about two hours into our great Sahara adventure and it’s already the highlight of our Morocco trip. We’re in the back of a grand taxi—one of Morocco’s intercity shared taxis—speeding toward the small village of Tamegroute, where we will hopefully meet our desert guide and hop into a 4WD to head into the dunes.

After scouring the overpriced tours available in Marrakesh, we decided to simply head to the desert on our own in the hopes of arranging something on the ground. That has proven to be a good decision.

In Marrakesh we found several travel agents, who practiced varying-intensity versions of the hard sell, most of which we found in dirty, hot offices. One of them seemed to offer an excellent service, but at some-9,000 Moroccan dirhams for four day/three nights, was way out of our budget. Nine thousand dirhams is equivalent to about 900 Euros, or about $1,150 CDN. We hoped to spend less than half of this.

Anyone seeking a Sahara experience in Morocco has to make one big decision: go to Erg Chigaga, near the village of M’Hamid, or head for Erg Chebbi, near Merzouga. Erg Chebbi is the common choice, and has a bit more tourist infrastructure and more operators, but tends to also be a bit more over run by visitors, which, according to The Book (Lonely Planet’s Morocco) can spoil the romantic desolation of the desert. As such, I was fairly set on making the slightly more difficult voyage to Erg Chigaga in the south. Our plan was to take the bus from Marrakech across the Atlas Mountains to Ouarzazate (“War-za-zat”), through to Zagora, and then finally into M’Hamid, where we would spend the night, find a trek operator, and head out into the desert.

The scenery on the long bus ride from Marrakesh to Zagora was unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, at times like the American desert in the Southwest, at others like pictures I’ve seen of the Nile river, but mostly wholly unique. No written description can evoke the sense of awe we felt in crossing the harsh and rugged Tizi’n’test Pass, the road literally perched atop a mountain ridge falling away for hundreds of meters on both sides. Words can’t capture the abject terror of peering down 1000-foot drops from the cramped seat of a swaying bus while the driver seemed more intent on beating his own previous record of passing on blind corners than in actually ensuring his cargo arrives in one piece, or the wonder of the lush green palmeraie (palm grove) growing like a miracle along the length of the Draa River Valley.

Our bus ride was about nine hours. This woman was sitting in front of me for most of the way. Her hands are stained with henna and, presumably, other natural dyes.

The lush palmeraies are warrens of agriculture and development, including roads, mudbrick walls to demarcate property and all sorts of clever irrigation. Unfortunately, the Berbers who have been farming here for generations are facing the same problems of heritage that other cultures face. Each generation splits their land holdings among their sons, and now each holding is getting too small for each family to live off of.

Palm trees along the Draa Valley.

Another Draa landscape.

About eight hours out of Marrakesh we disembarked with relief in Zagora, rather than going the additional hour and a half all the way to M’Hamid. The bus ride had been long, at times frightening, and very difficult for Laura, who was suffering from some car sickness, and we figured (correctly) that there would be more options for accomodation and tours in the much-larger Zagora.

Zagora is a small, dusty city that originated as a launching point on the desert caravan route across the Sahara, was of some importance as a French colonial outpost during the protectorate and now seems almost wholly dedicated to getting tourists into the desert. We were beset immediately by a friendly but persistent tour operator named Younes, who insisted on walking us to our hotel and made a somewhat heavy-handed effort at booking us on one of his desert excursions. We spent the night at a budget hotel, with plans to rise early to meet Younes and check out the other options in Zagora. After consideration and some preliminary bargaining, we politely declined, and eventually booked with a much more laid-back operator named Mohammed, who not only beat everyone else we scoped out in price and friendliness, but also offered to extend our plans by one day at no additional cost.

For 4,000 dirham (about $500 CDN), we booked a 5-day/4-night camel trek, including a brief tour of the local palmeraie, as well as an old Jewish Kasbah where skilled artisans still create jewelry using the techniques of the long-gone Jewish residents. Mohammed walked us through these places this afternoon, explaining that many people, himself included, still call this 300-year-old fortress home. Tonight we sleep in a Berber tent in the desert, in order to be able to leave first thing in the morning on our trek. As we understand it, we will rise each morning with our guide, pack up camp, and mount the camels for a three or four hour ride (supplemented with some walking), before stopping for a long mid day break, and then doing a similar trek in the afternoon. Our goal is the great 300m dunes of Erg Chigaga, some 60 km into the desert from our base camp. After the crush of the tourist hordes in Marrakesh, we are actually thankful that our plans don’t include air-conditioned coaches or loud tour groups.

This man showed us around the jewelry workshop and showroom. He was very friendly.

Some of the knick-knacks on offer in the workshop showroom we visited.

This fellow hand-pours silver and other metals into cusotm molds, and then stamps them with custom designs in a traditional artisanal workshop that has been in use for hundreds of years. Those things that look like Moroccan grilled cheese sandwiches (Laura’s joke) are clay molds for the jewelry.

So this is how we’ve come to find ourselves in the toasty and cramped backseat of what has to be the sorriest old station wagon I’ve ever been in. Our fellow passengers are three Moroccan men, who along with the driver, have said exactly zero words since we left Zagora. Some Saharian music is blaring through the taxi’s tinny, burnt-out speakers, a mix between upbeat Middle eastern techno, African drums and call-and-response singing in what I assume is Arabic. We’re lucky to not be sharing the backseat with two other passengers, as it is not uncommon to fit six in a grand taxi. As it is, my legs are basically in my own lap and Laura and I are hunched over to avoid hitting our heads on the low roof with each bump of a very bumpy road.

We are currently ascending one of the last passes over a rocky ridge of jebels before we enter the Sahara proper, and the feeling I have right now is one of the reasons I wanted to travel. It is an intoxicating mix of anticipation, excitement and curiosity, with an added sense of accomplishment for deciding to come out to this remote place, and actually doing it; getting past the touts, salesmen and shoddy operators trying to snag as many dirhams from each tourist as possible, and making it this far.

Of course, thousands of others have made this journey before us, but somehow that doesn’t matter one bit. All that matters is that in a couple more hours we’ll be away from everything, on the edge of the Sahara desert, with only the stars and the sand, and a guide who supposedly even speaks some English.

Boys playing football.

A hotel in the lush Draa River Valley. I shot these from the bus. The tinted windows acted like huge polarizers.

An old Kasbah in the Draa.

Another old fortress of some type.

These Arabic scripts dotted the landscapes in many locations. Although I’m not sure about this one, a gentleman we met in the Gendarmerie told us they generaly say things like “Allah, Morocco, and King Mohammed VI” — as in, “Long live” these things.

The contrast between the dry, the lush, and the rugged mountains were what set these landscapes apart from anything I’ve ever encountered.

Getting dryer...

This is just one part of a six-part series on our camel trek in the Moroccan Sahara. To read the full story, please click here.

Related posts:

1. Sahara Diaries, Part 6: The Lows and the Highs
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 3: Camel Trekking and Arabic Lessons
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 4: Rashid, Pain, and More Pain

Just a quick video update from Fez, Morocco, where we just returned from 5 days in the desert, and endured a 24 hour bus ride to get here. We only have a few days left in Morocco, and we’re both quite drained from the constant travel in our attempt to get a feel for this place in a scant three weeks.

The video was recorded at the top of the highest dune at Erg Chigaga, a sprawling area of sand that sits on the northern Sahara less than 40 km from the Morocco/Algeria border. We trekked 4 days on foot to get there, over 60 km of brutal desert. This morning I finished typing up my notes from out there (somewhere, ha ha), and will be publishing those along with some photographs from the trip as part of a series of posts I’m calling Sahara Diaries. It’s something a little different from what we usually do around here. It’s a bit more personal and a bit more magazine-y. I hope you enjoy it.

We made this video in Zagora, the night we got out of the desert in order to tease our blog readers with the upcoming content and to let everyone know we were safe and sound. But after trying in three Internet cafes to get it online, we realized we had to wait for the faster connection speeds of a big city like Fez. So, here it is, a little late, but still worth a watch. Laura has some posts on Morocco in the works, and my series will start to be published in serial form over the next week or so. Check back soon!

Related posts:

1. Alive and well.
2. Sahara Diaries, Part 3: Camel Trekking and Arabic Lessons
3. Sahara Diaries, Part 5: Night of the Thousand Stars, Snakes, and other Deadly Encounters