We got up to a slightly cooler room temperature in Erfoud (maybe it was down to 87 degrees?). We both took showers and without a hair dryer our hair was dry in a record 45 minutes.
We didn’t really know how to go about getting to Merzouga easily, but the guy that infringed on our dinner last night said the grand taxis from here to Rissani and a second taxi from Rissani to the kasbah of choice was the way to go. He was right, not that it worked out for us that way, of course.
We went over to the taxi stand coordinator and got assaulted by the minivan drivers (a different method of transportation than taxis). The minivan driver lied to us and said that he would leave at 11am instead of 1pm for 20 dirhams each. We settled into the cafe (all men in the cafe, of course, except for me.. the Odd Western Woman that kept getting sidelong glances from men walking by). We had fresh orange juice, another litre of water (still haven’t gotten hydrated, still not convinced it will ever happen), and sat and waited in the shade and evaporated. After realizing that the van (if it existed) wasn’t really going to leave until 1 pm (if we were really talking to the true drivers), I wandered off by myself over to the ‘grocery store’. This is a series of open air stalls in a building that have piles of olives (with flies), meat shank kiosks (with more flies), nuts (few flies) and fruit (average number of flies) all for display. I looked for some fruit that I could peel and finally spied some peaches and made a purchase. They ended up being peelable (you never know with peaches) and the best we’ve had in years. America should really send some tree ripened fruit to its grocery stores, so you remember what a real sun ripened juicy peach tastes like.
Upon return from my shopping expedition, I found Derrell chatting with two New Zealanders. They were the other half of the mini-van party that we had been waiting for. It is now 12:30 and my scam alert is starting to chirp inside my head, but only as a minor scam. The only real question is how to actually get where we want to go without it costing us triple price. They too agree that this travel day isn’t quite going to plan. The two minivan drivers return and say we should take a taxi and have the four of us split it. Okay, fine, that is 25 dirhams instead of the 20 a piece. We agree readily, since that was our original plan, but there were no other tourists to share the taxi with this morning.
The four of us pile in the taxi (at exactly 1 pm - sigh) and I go to sit in the front seat, but the two minivan drivers nudge me to the back door and instead climb in the front seat. I look at the taxi driver and he raises his eyebrows, but the New Zealanders say that they agreed that these two goofballs come along.
Derrell and I roll our eyes. Okay, I’m hoping the goofballs end up at their kasbah and not ours. The New Zealanders seem well traveled so maybe Derrell and I might learn something? Nah.
We arrive at the kasbah that Derrell and I had picked out; total taxi cost turns out to be 30 dirhams… The New Zealanders inform us that the goofballs stated that the camel trek is run by their Uncle who is the owner of the kasbah we had picked out. Yeah, right and they have a bridge to sell us that spans the Saharan desert? Anyhow, the hotel staff basically ignores us, so I correctly guessed that these goofballs are just touts for one of the kasbahs down the road. Somehow we get through the negotiation for the camel trek and ended up with the four of us going out for a three day trek. We get a reasonable price (thank Allah for Lonely Planet guides to get you into the correct bargaining ballpark for prices).
We are informed we need to head over to the staging area, since we will head out at 5 pm. Ah, the fabled ‘other’ kasbah appears. We made a good decision to stay at the first kasbah, not that we will get a chance until we return from the trek. The second kasbah had squat toilets and rooms that were even hotter than the hotel rooms in Erfoud, much to our suprise.
We lounged around and met two other travelers doing the same in the common room (which was the finest part of the kasbah). We lost our New Zealanders at this point, due to the man having a meal that must have been worse dietically than Derrell’s dusty smoky birthday dinner. So it turns out it will just be Derrell and I going out on the trek and we may be able to catch up with them tomorrow night.
The big moment arrives at 5 pm and we carry our small day pack and climb up on the camels. I can’t get over the cheesy-ness of the moment. Our guide, yet another of the Mohamed clan (we actually met a person named, Omar), walks ahead of the camels and we ride along with our nights blankets, food supplies and water. Okay, they are actually dromedaries (one hump, not two… two are from Saudi Arabia area). What an uncomfortable way to travel. Camels are not horses. Camels sway. Camels are noisy from constantly burping and outgassing. Camels actually are fairly calm creatures. Camels can be lead to the water well, but won’t drink (either day of the trek). Camels sound a lot like sea lions when they have something to say. Camels like scratching their heads against the sleep/saddle blanket that your partner is sitting upon (making you spontaneously wonder whether camels bite or not).
Clouds are rolling in and some large drops of water threaten us, but stay away. The wind picks up and we discover why everyone stays so wrapped up in cloth out here. After two plus hours we arrive at the oasis (oasis being defined as any area in the red Saharan sand dunes that have a water well and at least two palm trees). The sand dunes are huge and change color as the sun recedes for the evening. The wind makes interesting patterns over the ridges and keeps the sand close to the ground until an obstacle creates a drift.
The tents at the ‘oasis’ are traditional Berber tents and one of the nomadic Berber families has become non-Nomadic and sort of monitors the 10 or so tents in the location (and stores the requisite mint tea teapot and propane tank for our guide).
We sit outside in the blowing sand, considering just how windy and uncomfortable it is to sit in blowing sand. Looking up at the gigantic red sand dunes sort of makes up for it though. Our guide (he is 21, soft spoken, kind to the camels, careful of the camp and nice to us) brings out mint tea while he starts cooking a chicken tagine. We contemplate the hygiene of the cooking world while we camp, uh-oh. We finally give up on sitting out in the wind and crawl in the large tent woven from rough wool. It is hot out, so the edge of the tent is lifted. It is windy, so the edge keeps collapsing down. This gives us something to do while we wait for dinner to finish cooking. Fold the cloth on top of the tent, sit down, refold, sit, refold, sit, refold, sit. The (sandy/crunchy) tagine is eaten by the light of a single candle that keeps tipping over due to the wax being soft from the heat of the day. We eat in the traditional manner of using bread to scoop up the vegetables and chicken (with our right hand.. suddenly, using your right hand becomes important as we contemplate the no toilet paper part of this society). The tagine is good. The leftovers are fed to the camels, not that there was much left over.
We are invited to come have some music with the six others in the next tent (one crazy German who brought a bottle of Cuban rum, one crazy Moroccan from the coast that sponsored some kif getting everyone stoned, two english guys who were ignoring the evening and waxing philosophical about digital cameras, our guide, the infamous ‘Crazy Berber’, and the two of us). The ‘Crazy Berber’ was an excellent drummer and singer, about 18, very stoned and working on getting drunk, and almost had the lyrics to Bob Marley correct. Our guide was a good drummer, as well, and although not into the full debauchery of the evening was outlasting everyone else into the wee hours of the morning. Derrell got the name ‘Ali Baba’ due to his goatee, and I got nicknamed ‘Fatima Cous-cous’ for no apparent reason other than it seemed correct in the haze of the evening.
Moroccans always seem to spiral into the ‘word game’. This involves teaching you a word usually Berber or Arabic, sometimes French, and you teaching them an English word. Many smiles, nods and laughter are exchanged as both sides mis-pronounce words (I can’t roll an Rrrr for anything and neither Arabic glottal stop is a possibility with my vocal cords — one is the sound of someone being strangled), and many repetitions are made of the words. They knew Japanese, Dutch, German, English, New York.. the list is seemingly infinite. There isn’t much else to do with your evenings while camping but learn languages and drum. Those that are guides become extremely proficient in both skills.
The moon was waning from a full moon a few nights earlier and had a great effect on the dunes. We slept outside and were actually glad for the wool blankets by the time the sun came up in the morning. It was cool, and quite comfortable after the heat of the day and evening. The digital camera guys and the crazy German had climbed to the top of the largest dune to watch the sun come up. It took them about an hour to descend back to the camp. By that time we had finished our breakfast of mint tea and bread with orange marmalade. They departed to return to civilization and we headed out for our second day on the sand. [Note to Honey, Tava, and Ten: The Sahara is the ultimate cat box. The cat box that all cats dream about, sort of like a luxury bathroom for a Sultan´s cat...]
We are sore from the camel ride the day before and bemoan to ourselves that the New Zealanders got us into a two day trek, but the hours in the heat of the day were going to be long without them there to chat with (at this point Derrell and I don’t have much of anything new to discuss beyond Derrell´s insistence on reitterating the complete lack of hygene associated with this trek´s food sources). We headed out for the morning and two hours later, find the shade of a small patch of palm trees. We look at each other and shrugged, guess we will be sitting and napping in 100 degree weather for the duration of the day. Hmm. This is sort of picturesque, the camels are interesting to watch (they have quite the sensitve, malleable lips.. and no issues with sitting in the sun instead of wandering over to the shade of a bush, or eating the bush for that matter), Mohamed is interesting to talk with although the language barrier makes it a bit of a slow conversation, the white bird that owns the palm tree patch is also interesting to watch. The only real downside beyond the heat are the flies. These are the most persistent buzzing things on the planet. Derrell added them to the list of annoying insects, just below the mosquito entry.
I made a small mistake and stepped on some sand that was in the sun and came very close to burning the bottom of my feet. Yikes, is it hot in the Saharan desert in summer (like duh, eh?) I kept getting images in my mind of a guy wrapped in a scarf crawling on hands and knees across the sands towards a water well at one of the oasises. We both came to really respect the caravans that crossed the deserts to keep trade going. Not a job that I’d want.
We survived the sit and headed out again for another two hour camel ride. This time the skies were clear and there was no wind, so we could fully enjoy the landscape. Derrell became convinced that the better position in the trek was walking the camels rather than riding them. I think he may be right, it took us three days before the soreness in our legs and back dissapaited. We opted for returning to our first camp rather than heading out to stay with one of the nomadic families. This reduced the camel ride to only two hours the next morning, instead of five. Our guide looked somewhat relieved. It is just as hard on him in the summer, as it is us. Worse, actually, since he also loads and unloads the camels and cooks (cleaning apparently involves ritually dropping the cooking implements into the sand, much to Derrell´s dismay), on top of the trekking.
When we got back to camp, we found our New Zealanders. He had recovered enough, and we had a good time chatting with them throughout dinner. Just as we went to lie down for the evening, the clear quiet skies with thousands of stars turned extremely windy. We decided to sleep outside regardless and woke up in the morning with a 6 inch drift of sand at our feet and sand in every crevice of our clothes, nose and ears.
The desert is very quiet, there is no airplane traffic, no motorized vehicles (but we did hear of 4-wheel drive and dune buggy outings), and very few people (tourists included).
We loaded ourselves back on our camels, inwardly groaning. The night winds had rearranged many of the dunes to the point we didn’t quite recognize the path back out. Derrell’s digestive system wasn’t going well and he had given up on eating the day before, I think it was too much sand. We made it back in one piece with a thousand sore muscles and I dumped Derrell at the first kasbah, Kasbah Mohayut, to check-in. Mohammed’s brother helped me carry his backpack between the kasbahs and I got a new appreciation for the amount of effort it takes to lead camels when walking over sand in the late morning heat.
Tomorrow, Glue Guy…
