The camel is not a comfortable steed. We were riding at walking pace. Our Berber guides Mohamed and Ibrahim led the convoy of camelback tourists.
We travelled the featureless terrain, criss crossing the sand dunes. It may be easier for me to just walk. But I’ve learned that in a harsh environment, your survival chance could diminish by being a smart ass. Heed the locals.
Our tour package from Inside Morocco was quite exclusive. We were touring Morocco in a private limousine van. There were only two of us when we booked, but the tour company asked if we don’t mind if another tourist joined in. The costs will be divided too.
We’re both extroverts. One of our joys of travelling is meeting new people. But we’re also old enough to know that inviting strangers to join our party can ruin the whole experience. We decided to take the gamble. Anyone interested in exploring a desert, willing to bear discomforts for a once in a lifetime experience, should not be a horrible person.
That and the fact we were in our last leg of our London based travel. I’ve completed my master studies and the last of the scholarships monies have been spent. Anything to save my depleting Poundsterlings account.
We picked the third wheel at a cafe near Djemaa-el-Fna square. Philipp is a Swiss biologist. Late twenties with a PhD. He just finished a conference in Marrakech. He is a sputnik.
Our camp was only a 30 minutes ride from civilisation, a hotel with a swimming pool at the edge of the Sahara desert. My friend who took a cheap tour package said that his camp was a 4 hours camel ride. My crotch thanked the ‘exclusive’ tour package.
We had to walk a few meters from the camel hitching ground to the camp. I was wearing Altama desert boots, yet my feet sank to the soft sands as I walked. The camels’ feet have evolved to walk the desert. Their wide hooves distributed their weight.
I watched the Berbers. They didn’t sink. They know which ground is solid enough to bear their weight (that’s why it is inefficient to walk in a straight line). A city boy like me can’t see the difference in the sand textures.
Our camp hosted a group of Spaniards, Brazilians, an Australian senior couple, and us—an Indonesian couple with a Swiss tag-along. We were told to climb to one of the tall sand dunes to watch the sunset while our hosts prepared dinner.
I was a clumsy hiker. Relied only on my strength to climb the ever sinking sands. Philipp being the smarter one learned the Berber way of walking. His Swiss national service training also helped. We were heaving and puffing at the top of the dune.
The Australian granddad arrived not so long after us. Philipp said we’re not so tough, even a 70 year old man could catch us up.
Ning Cai and Pamela Ho, in The Adventures of 2 Girls, met a fellow traveller who goes to Erg Chebbi as an annual pilgrimage. The sunset there restored her balance. The desert is her place, a place where she can feel the connection to the universe.
My Sahara sunset was cloudy. I was expecting to hear the sound of the desert, the sound of silence. But four ATVs kept roaring.
I know it must have been thrilling to ride ATVs in the Sahara under the dusk light. Imagining that you’re a Stormtrooper riding a speeder. But I wanted a solemn moment like Ning had. And since my desire leaves less carbon footprints, I have the moral high ground to judge those philistine tourists.
We sat on a dune. The grains of sands are so soft and fine, it seeped into the sensor of my entry level DSLR. The Berbers kept asking if we’re Japanese, and insisted we are because we look Japanese. I wonder if the Saharans think that all Asians are Japanese or Chinese. Maybe we’re not brown enough to be identified as South Asians.
Mohamed and Ibrahim could not pronounce Dinda’s name properly. They are polyglots, speak Arabic, French, Spanish, English, and a little Japanese; but Sankrit tongue is too foreign. So they gave her an Arabic name: Fatima. Fatima is her grandma’s name.
They could not pronounce my name either. I google translated my name to Arabic. ‘Tawhaj.’ Next time, in Arabic speaking countries, I’d introduce myself as ‘Abu Tawhaj’.
We could see towns, villages, on the west horizon. When the sun set into night, the artificial ground lights further reduced my expectations of a romantic Scherezade sunset.
Our hosts called for dinner. The Brazillian tourists could not hide that Berber foods served were too exotic for their taste. Philipp asked if I like rice. A silly question to ask an Asian. The food was not the best Moroccan cuisine, especially after we had been lodged at Chez Pierre the night before. But we were dining in the middle of a desert.
The feast did not stop with food. Drums and tambourines and dances to desert tunes. The Aussie grandad, Dinda and Philipp played the tende drums. I was given a pair of qaraqib which are too big for my Asian hands. A cheerful party without any alcohol served.
I imagined ourselves to be the privileged academics-aristocrats in The English Patient. Morocco is one of the few countries that does not require a visa for Indonesian. I always envy travellers with stronger passports. But that night, we tasted a world without maps for a night. Our nationalities were made irrelevant.
Our beds were spring beds. Another luxury given the environment; I was prepared to sleep on a mattress. I woke up past midnight to pee. The camp has an outhouse with dysfunctioning plumbing.
I met Philipp there. He said ‘look and listen.’ It was not a full moon, but the camp was lit by the lights from the night sky. The stars were unobstructed by air and light pollution. Cloudless and windless, I heard the sound of silence.
Our sunrise was glorious. The eastern horizon is an expanse of desert. No ATV tours in the morning. I could hear the sounds of wind and sand. I read that the desert tribes named the winds. Ghibli is a wind. Hayao Miyazaki may have read Herodotus and Oondatje.
We packed our bags and rode out from the desert. We tipped our Berber guides. They asked us to tell our countrymen to visit Morocco.
On the road, a goatherd kid approached us, carrying a baby goat asking if we wanted a photo for a dirham. I was hesitant because I worry my dirham would disincentive the boy from pursuing education.
Philipp gave the money. I followed suit. Maybe his family can’t afford to send him to school anyway. I justified our charitable short termism act.
This is one of the places where the economy relies on tourism. Unlike their Arab neighbours, Morocco is not oil rich. It’s a chaotic beauty. Touts offering guide services, locals misleading your way in the medina, two women fighting over a boy (too bad the local men intervened before it became a proper cat fight), and donkeys in the city. Many mopeds are modified to have pedals; the riders would cycle them when the petrol ran out.
The desert is harsh, but it insulates. A different, detached world. I had a glimpse of Almásy’s world. It was a decompression chamber prior to our return to third world Indonesia after living in first world Europe.