Jolly Gringos

Trips to Morocco’s desert are all the rage these days, a fact proven by the hoards of tourist who make the voyage not out of curiosity or intrigue, but to check off another item from their bucket list. Every guidebook on the planet hypes up the obligatory desert excursions with flowery phrases like “the perfectly sculpted seas of sand” and “the colour of the earth turns blood-red with the setting sun, and the sense that one has stumbled into a fairytale takes hold.” If you stop and really pay attention it’s pretty easy to smell a rat, or in the case of travel, a good scam masked by an over-marketed tourist attraction.

While most foreigners book all-inclusive tours up, down, and around Morocco’s mountains and deserts, we typically end up with the locals on some sort of public transport barreling towards destinations of our own choosing. Naturally this makes us more vulnerable to those who wish to take advantage of what they perceive as the weak, especially when we roll into an area that’s a hot spot for tourism (like the desert). Reluctant to sign-up for anything sight-unseen, we slowly made our way to the Sahara’s fringes to determine for ourselves what all the fuss was about, and if it all looked good maybe hop on board a camel caravan to check out the dunes. Mubarak had different plans in store for us.

As the lone tourists climbing off the sauna-box on wheels, we stood out a tad. The riffraff that typically lurk in the platform’s gates and shadows saw us before the bus showed signs of even slowing down, and fought for primo position to vomit their rehearsed spiel and offers in our faces. The sun was quickly setting, we still had 200 kilometers before we reached Merzouga, and it had been a very long day of travel as it was. A short man with caramel skin and honey colored eyes fought his way to the forefront and trotted along beside us as we exited the station. “I have two more seats in a grand taxi to Merzouga” he quickly spat out, “but we must hurry because it will be leaving shortly.” Instead of telling him to shove off and crawl back into his hole, we made the mistake of listening.

Grand taxis in Morocco are an interesting experience. Described as a fleet of “elderly Mercedes”, the sedans charge per head and can comfortably transport four adults at a time, though the drivers typically opt for seven to make a little extra cash. We raced through the dusty canyons with all four windows down and the radio blaring some Algerian pop hit, over all of which Mubarak persistently yelled details about where we were going and our options for accommodation. “You look at my family’s place, only 50 dirham each.” In Rissani we upgraded from the cramped tan Mercedes to a roomy 4×4 and continued following the signs. Merzouga 60 kilometers. Merzouga 40 kilometers. Right around the 20 mark our driver impulsively (so it seemed) pulled off the paved road and began following tracks that lead straight into the desert, all without even breaking speed. I looked over at Allen and he was wearing an expression that mirrored what I was thinking: oh shit. After what seemed like forever, signs of life began to appear in the form of compounds surrounded by adobe fortress walls and clusters of camels lazily loitering about. We were in the middle of nowhere, literally, and it was miles back to the highway or the nearest town. Not surprisingly, Mubarak was all smiles when we arrived at his place.

The room, which he sold for 50 DH a person on the ride, was actually 150 a person. The “hot water” that was part of the deal was only “hot” when the power was on, and even then only long enough to get shampoo in your hair. After 9:30 the power suspiciously failed, and we were left to light our way with wax candles. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get any information until he was ready to divulge. “So, when exactly is dinner?” He didn’t want to tell us until he’d had gone over the expedition options, four in all, none of which sounding very enticing. When it came to prices we were blown away. I’m sorry, you want how much for this? Allen and I looked at each other in exasperation. We were already on the hook for the night, but in the morning we would find out where the actual village was. This was nonsense.

The slippery little snake was in a foul mood the instant he realized we were going to be a hard sell. The more we all talked, the crankier he became, pulling out all the stops trying to confuse us into a deal. “It could be less if you have medicine to give the nomads. Like a trade.” “You saw our packs, we don’t have anything to trade. We don’t have much at all.” “I saw your packs! They’re tiny! The people who come with medicine come with huge duffle bags for the nomads. They come prepared! You can’t trade!” “Whyyyyyy did you even bring it up then?!” He didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t our idea in the first place. Finally, when it looked like he was at the breaking point, he crossed all our scribbles out, threw his hands in the air, and said, “What price do you want then?” We pointed to a figure we wrote earlier. “This one.” He looked at us, half pissed, and said “fine.” And that was that. He was in excellent spirits for the rest of the night.

Once they had our money, all bets were off. We ate whatever they felt like feeding us, whenever they got around to serving it, and left for the excursion only after Allen stirred our guide from his catnap. Hours behind their proposed schedule, we followed Hamul to the camels outside the compound where he helped each of us on our ride, then took the lead rope in his hand and began walking towards the dune. I immediately felt like a schmuck – this guy was going to walk the whole way, meaning we weren’t going very far. What a joke.

The remainder of the trip went about as well as expected. The first night was spent in a tent at the “river” (read: gravel pit), where Allen was condemned by some snot-nosed teenager for his inadequate drumming skills. The following day we stopped for a “picnic lunch” at a mud-brick lean-to in the desert. Lunch consisted of one can of sardines, one tomato, one onion, one cucumber, and bread, all to be split by three. Hamul took leave while we were eating and didn’t return for three hours. When we finally started going again I was feeling a bit surly and made several comments about how much we paid vs. what we were getting out of the deal. He was too consumed with texting on his cell to hear me.

That evening we came to a “nomadic” settlement where Berbers continue to live their torturous lives on the border between Morocco and Algeria. We passed a few places with satellites protruding out the side of the mud-brick walls, but the house we ended up staying at was without a doubt a throwback from prehistoric times. The severe desert life filled with anguish and poverty had transformed the matriarch from a normal 40-something woman into an ancient-looking, hunched creature with deep folds that completely concealed her features. She, her daughter, several toddlers, and a few other strays shared a single room that was littered with trash and shredded blankets, and wouldn’t be fit for most average American’s dogs. Mubarak had greedily taken our dirham and arranged for us to stay a night with this poor decrepit woman, without distributing some of the wealth her direction.

We fell asleep to the sounds of the goats and camels outside our burlap tent, while the wind whipped sand into the air and caused it to rain back down on us through gaping holes above our heads. When our final morning in the desert dawned we were more inclined to walk back to the compound than mount those blasted beasts yet again, but did so dutifully. As far as animal transport goes, the camel isn’t exactly a Cadillac; it’s more like riding the wrong side of a washing machine up and down the dunes.

In the end we too had checked off this particular “must do” from our Moroccan Visitor’s list, just like so many before us and so many after. Was it worth it? Not really. Are we sorry? Not really. I suppose one must have these experiences to appreciate all the others, and deal with shady people to value the honest ones. Our bums would be sore for the rest of the week, and a lifetime’s supply of sand would forever be stashed in our organs, but there’s always a silver lining. The sun setting over the desert, bonding with our fellow mates who also got suckered into the deal, and losing a few pounds at the Sahara Fat Camp, to name a few. Once back within the adobe fortress we piled into the 4×4 with haste, and without so much as a backwards glance or a wave, we were off.