Journey to the Sahara
“It’s only when you’re alone that you realize where you are. You have nothing to fall
back on except your own resources.”
— Paul Theroux
Unlike many travelers, I eschew a predetermined plan, preferring to let structure emerge
from process. The original plan in this case was to fly TAP to Marrakesh from Newark
with a 90-minute stopover in Lisbon. At the last minute I decided to stop in Lisbon and
hang out for a while. The city is filled with ancient charm, a pleasure to walk around for
hours. There are dozens of vintage clothing shops that caused me to succumb to
temptation. The Portuguese are lovely people, full of good humor and graceful
hospitality. During the month of January, the weather in Lisbon changes every five
minutes or so. Within the course of a single day I experienced the full range weather from
balmy, blue skies to gale-force winds and pelting rain. After spending a few days in
Lisbon, the next stop was, what the hell, Malaga. The bus there from Lisbon takes about
9 hours so I hopped on a cheap (slightly grimy) Ryanair flight.
Spanish culture is considered to be the liveliest in Europe. At least that’s what Spanish
people tell me. I enjoyed mixing with the friendly but always polite and considerate
people of Malaga. There’s plenty of high-end, consumption to be enjoyed on the Spanish
coast, particularly during this visit in January when many northlanders go there to seek
mild relief from the fog, cold and damp of northern Europe.
The city center is teaming with tourists, but Pacifica, a section south of the city where I
stayed was filled with families and local folks enjoying a beautiful pathway along the sea.
But I digress, this is supposed to be a blog about Morocco.
I took another Ryanair flight from Malaga to Marrakesh. The energy level amps up 100%
as soon as you hit the street. Moroccans walk faster and talk a mile a minute. In general
Moroccans offer tidings of warmth and welcome when you meet them. “Welcome my
brother “. Their ambitions need to be illimitable in order to simply make ends meet. The
vastly popular Jemaa el-Fnaa square is filled with snake charmers and Gnawa musicians
trying make a few dirhams off the hordes of international tourists. The Medinas are
stuffed with little booths occupied by eager hawkers selling pottery, scarves, counterfeit
designer clothes, counterfeit jewelry, fake leather bags, and of course, replica Rolex
watches. More noteworthy are the artisans who make the pottery, the rugs, as well as the
Berbers who come from the Atlas Mountains to spend the winter season carefully curing
and preparing their leathers for sale in the markets. You can see the towering snowy-
capped peaks of the High Atlas range from any third-floor terrace.
Fruit vendors make smoothies and shout out to passers-by holding up tall plastic cups and
aggressively imploring them to take just one little sip. You can’t make a living by being
shy. It’s mostly just “Hey You!!!“. The vendors will laugh and slap each other on the
back, overjoyed by the sheer game of it. If you even slow down to look at an item in the
Medina or in the Souks, you will be instantly approached by a salesperson who will latch
onto to you like a dog humping your leg.
I had visited Marrakesh once previously and stuck to the tourist areas, but this time I
encountered a middle-aged, hijabed women in the streets who, for reasons I couldn’t
quite fathom, convinced me that I should follow her to a tannery where the Indigenous
Amazigh (Berber) leather works as they were only in town for a few more days. Fatama
led me quickly and quietly through the slums of Marrakesh where I’ve never been. Half
the buildings were crumbling into rubble. Like the old days in The Bowery there were
broken, zombie-like men lying, hopelessly on the sidewalks. I felt a strange, naive faith.
In another city, I might think she was leading me into a trap where I will be held at
gunpoint and robbed. I was vigilant, but I faithfully followed her until we arrived safely
at the Amazigh leather production facilities. She introduced me to another man who
would accompany me from that spot. He asked us if we were married. I answered,
“maybe tomorrow”.
They processed raw animal hide in round concrete pools of water mixed with secret herbs
and chemicals. The whole place smelt so bad that they gave me a sprig of mint to hold
next to my nose. Being a long-time vegetarian I have limited tolerance for the smell of
slaughtered meat. Predictably, we ended up in an expansive sales room where all the
various leather products were on display. In Morocco there is always a sales pitch at the
end of the tour. The leather was soft and of exquisite quality. I took an interest in a
leather cap with a flat top. The kind associated with salty, old seamen. The salesperson
told me I looked like an artist wearing it. I couldn’t argue with him.
He told me I could have it for €90. This is part of the usual game. I told him that €90 was
purely out of the question. He asked me what my price was. I told him €30. He raised his
eyebrows in mock outrage my parsimonious offer but countered that he’d be willing to go
down to €85. I said that it still wasn’t anywhere near what I wanted to pay and proceeded
to walk away, but that’s all part of the game. He said OK 75. I told him it was still way
too much, but I might be willing to do €45. He countered with €55 and we shook hands
laughing the whole time. He told me if I lived in Morocco, we would be the best of
friends.
I came to Morocco with the intention of visiting the cinnamon-colored sand dunes in the
extreme eastern part of the country where it borders Algeria. Merzouga piqued my
interest. Strolling through Jemaa el-Fnaa square I came upon a large A-shaped sign that
advertised 3-day excursions to Merzouga. A guy came right up to me and went into his
sales pitch. My guard went up when he led me to a dingy office in the basement of a
nearby building. I know I should be more mistrustful but hell, the whole thing would cost
$200. I signed up and the next day I boarded a bus filled with cheerful, mostly Spanish-
speaking people. It’s a 10-hour bus ride from Marrakesh to Merzouga. We managed to
get 10 miles out of the city when we were stranded for four hours in stopped traffic.
There had been heavy snowfall in the High Atlas Mountains, and we had to wait for the
road to be safely cleared before we crossed over them.
I pulled out my travel violin and drew a crowd of tourists who desperately needed to be
cheered up with some fiddle tunes.
Our 10-hour bus ride stretched out to14 hours, and it was 9:30 before we checked into
our bare-bones hotel in Drâa-Tafilalet. After a bit of couscous, I settled into an unadorned
room in the style of a mid-20th century hospital, with three single beds. In the morning, I
looked out the window to a view of an ancient village surrounded by desert.
Our bus whisked us off to the Gorges du Toudra just a few miles away, where we hiked
around for few hours along a riverbed with 500 ft, canyon cliffs the tower above us on
either send and a long row of vendors selling Berber goods. There were nomadic tents
where some of the vendors lived temporarily
The next stop was Ait Benhaddou, a desert village (Ksar) where the following movies
were made.
Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Sodom and Gomorrah (1963)
Oedipus Rex (1967)
The Man Who Would Be King (1975)
The Message (1976)
Jesus of Nazareth (1977)
Time Bandits (1981)
Marco Polo (1982)
The Jewel of the Nile (1985)
The Living Daylights (1987)
The Last Temptation of Christ (1988)
The Sheltering Sky(1990)
Kundun (1997)
The Mummy (1999)
Gladiator (2000) [13]
Alexander (2004)
Kingdom of Heaven (2005)
Babel (2006)
One Night with the King (2006)
Prince of Persia (2010)
Son of God (2014)
Queen of the Desert (2015)
A Life on Our Planet (2020)
The Odyssey (2026)
This place was filled with guides, buses, and tour groups. The village is a Ksar – a walled
city where all the structures are the same color as the surrounding desert. Ait Benhaddou
is obviously a perfect setting for the movies. It was also where they filmed season 3 of
Game of Thrones.
After another 4 hours on the bus, we finally arrived in Merzouga where the group set off
in small subsets to different camps situated miles out into the desert. I had elected to stay
at a luxury camp. In the US we call this glamping. I was the only one from the group
staying at this particular camp. To get there, it takes an hour ride on a camel which I
passed on or 15-20 minutes of death-defying jeep transportation which I paid extra €30
for. The ride is a thrill insofar as you go through the dunes at angles that made me
“Yeehaw”
.
The quiet stillness of the camp itself flooded my soul with tranquility. I took a long walk
in the desert and yes, I got a bunch of sand in my shoes, but who cares this place is dropdead gorgeous. I
t’s a rare lifetime event to visit these cinematic, cinnamon-colored dunes.
I felt alive and free wandering through the vastness, breathing the fresh desert air. I
trudged to the top of a dune (no small effort) at sunset and watched the colors shift and
the subtle shadows move. This was the gift of nature’s artwork. The highest form of art.
Many of the people who work in Merzouga, including the driver of the jeep and the hosts
at the Camp, are impressively bilingual. They told me that they had learned a little bit of
French in school, but they became fluid in English and Spanish simply by encountering
so many people who spoke those languages. It’s a kind of language immersion, learning
by osmosis. Most of the locals wear traditional Amazigh dress.
At night, we had Moroccan food which consists of mostly bread, olives and then maybe
couscous or perhaps Tagine. Tagine is served in a conical shaped s clay pot.On top are mushy
overcooked potatoes, carrots and other green vegetables underneath is
either couscous or chicken. Since I’m a vegetarian, I don’t go with the chicken. There are
many variations of tagine, but it is the most common dinner food I encountered. Oranges
are served for dessert. They are mouthwatering and grow abundantly in most areas of
Morocco.
After dinner, we gathered around the fireplace and the Amazigh hosts entertained us with
a wide variety of drums. I pulled out my trusty travel violin, and we had a fantastic jam
session that was enjoyed by the other campers. Included in this group was about a dozen
young men in their 20s from northern Spain. They managed to sneak in some local
cervesas and drank to excess. By the end of the night, they were bawdily singing Spanish
songs in a way that was both amusing and absurd.
The night was cold in the tent, but I burrowed underneath five blankets and kept
contentedly warm. They claimed to have hot water in the en-suite bathroom, but despite
my resolute determination, I was unable to get any hot water from the shower or tap.
I exited the camp on a another daredevil jeep drive with a fun guy who’d grown up in a
military family and moved around Morocco quite a bit. He was more worldly and
educated than many of the hosts I met in Merzouga. He had almost finished his
bachelor’s degree, but he took a break to have four daughters with his wife. Now he’s
working hard to pay their way through university.
The trip back from the desert is long and arduous. I took a bus ride in what may have
been plush coach at one point, but it was worn and filthy. The seats made me itch and the
trip took 10 hours from Merzouga to Fez with many stops along the roadside. The
passengers were simple people from local communities. Women wearing hijabs toting
mobs of young children. The men sat alone or with another male friend. I received many
smiles and greetings from people who wanted to welcome the stranger. At 2-hour
Intervals we stopped in at the larger bus stations to get out and stretch, use the squat
toilets, and buy snacks. There were only a few other foreigners who boarded during the
endless ride. Young children would look at us in a sustained, curious manner. What the
hell I’m happy to give them a show. If I was lucky the kid would give me a cute little
smile before shyly ducking behind the seat.
The next day I planned to take a leisurely 4-hour train ride from Fez to Tangier on the
express train. We were scheduled to depart at 2:10 the afternoon. At 1:45, I approached
the gate and presented my ticket to the train guy. All he said was, “Not today”. I stood
with my mouth agape. “Not today “, he repeated.
I had to wait in line at the ticket office to ensure that I got a refund. As you might
imagine, there was a clamoring crowd if people in the ticket office raising their voices.
Moroccans can get very loud. Upon hearing “not today “, they get loud. The police were
summoned to quell the wrath and avoid any violent confrontations, which seemed imminent.
In desperation, I hailed a taxi over to the bus station. They said they could
book me on a bus at midnight!!! This would posit me in a grimy Tangier bus station at
about 5 AM. Given my long, devitalizing bus trip from the previous day, I crept back to
my posh hotel near the Royal Palace and took a long nap. Looking to save money I dined
on bread, butter and a bottle of cheap Moroccan wine from the Carrefour next door.
I booked a private taxi from Fez to Tangier. It would cost €200 but I wasn’t taking any
more chances with the public transportation. From Tangier, if all went well, I’d take the
boat across the Mediterranean to Tarifa. Hopefully I’d get to see the rock of Gibraltar
before dark. Adventure and adversity have the same prefix. That’s not an accident.
I was hoping for pleasant and easy sail across the Mediterranean to Spain, however, the
Village of Tangier port was closed. There were gale force winds and choppy seas. For the
second time in two days, I was confronted with a “not today” situation.
Dutifully, my driver took me to Tangier Med, the next possible ferry station, 45
kilometers away. There I joined a long queue that consisted of everyone else who had
been turned away at the other terminal. The ticket booth was staffed by only one
bewildered young man with an achingly slow computer. Some customers took as long as
20 minutes. I spent an hour in the queue until I was issued a new ticket for a 7PM
departure. Sadly, that evolved into a 10PM departure. At 10:04 there was still no news. I
did yoga breathing exercises.
four breaths in, pause, five breaths out, pause.
About 50 of us were stranded in a freezing cold waiting room. It’s hard not to worry that
the boat won’t sail at all and that we will end up spending the night.
“Not today”
I was shattered; my nerves frayed. The 50 or so of my fellow stranded refugees seemed to
be in the same shape. I’ve already booked a room on the other side and Algeciras.
At 2 AM we climbed onto two buses and rode for what seemed like 2 miles through the
shipyards, and then mercifully climbed the gangplanks onto the ferry. Families quickly
nestled into the cozy bar lounge chairs, and the airplane-like seats on the next floor up
and tried to sleep.
It was 5 AM by the time I got to my room at the Marriott in Algeciras. I fell asleep right
away and was rudely awakened by my cell phone alarm at 11:15 in the morning.
This gave me enough time to get some breakfast and hunt for a cooperative cash machine
so I could hook up with some euros.
Then a short, magnificent bus ride along the Mediterranean coast, sighting small glimpses
of Gibraltar, then past hillsides dotted with stucco white buildings with red terra-cotta roofs.
Then Malaga, where I had three unspectacular hours to wait for a plane to Lisbon. I
passed the time window shopping. The restaurant food wasn’t too bad either. It’s strange
when you travel as a vegetarian you end up eating a lot of bread, cheese, fruit, pan
chocolate and little wafer bars. The world is full of meat.
In Lisbon I stayed at the best hotel of the trip. Dare Lisbon River was artistically evolved,
and they offered you a free bottle of wine upon your arrival. My room had a view out
onto the bay. I stored my luggage there until I had to catch a flight home in the early
evening.
This gave me time to walk for miles through a city filled historic places: The Belém
Tower, Castelo de São Jorge, Palácio dos Marqueses de Fronteira, Rua Augusta Arch. There
was all manner of vintage shops and wine bars at the LX market.
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