My Way Is The Highway

Marrakech Diary: A Sahara Sunrise

We were woken up at the stroke of 5:00 am. Youssef wanted to reach the base camp before the temperatures soared. There was barely anything to pack and we bade our one night desert camp goodbye.

Youssef was taking us back along a different route. By the time we had crossed several dune, the sky had started to light up. I climbed up a steep dune in time to see the sun peep above the farthest dune.

Sand, mostly sand and more sand! Literally hundreds and hundreds of swirling caramel and beige sand dunes as far as the eyes could see. The slanting rays of the sun are playing havoc with sand, eking out rich shades of ochre, brown and gold.

This is the Big Nothingness, the Infinite Emptiness , the largest sand desert of them all.  I was standing on the western most tip of “the great sea of sand in which no oar will ever be dipped”. From this point Sahara stretches all the way across North Africa right up to the land of the pharaohs, larger than the distance between the two coasts of America. The desert covers many countries – Mauritania, Mali, Niger, Chad, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya and Sudan before laying the carpet under Egypt and merging with the Sinai mountain range.  Some regions of this utterly desolate landscape has not seen rainfall in decades. Yet a throbbing nomadic community – Touregs, Moors and Chaamba – have made peace and deal with it daily.

Peter O’Toole’s character in the motion picture Lawrence of Arabia is told, “Only two kinds of creatures get fun in the desert. Bedouins and gods.” Probably that is true. In a remote corner of my mind, the corner that tracks wistful wishes, a tiny post-it with “Sahara as a Bedouin” got tacked. It would get tracked. “Sahara like a Bedouin” would eventually happen. For some time, some other time.

For now, I run down the dune to catch up our little caravan.

* * *

A caravan in Sahara

Marrakech Diary: A Night on the Sands of Sahara

We had walked fifteen minutes from the basecamp, crossing a couple of big dunes when the sun dipped below the dunes.

The sky was turning dark blue. Ramadan had ended five days ago and a waning almost full moon was high up in the sky. The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees as soon as the sunrays withdrew. Though the sand under my feet was still warm. “In a desert, no shoes are the best shoes”, I had read somewhere and had obediently left my chinos dangling at my camel’s pommel.

Using their long gait to their advantage, the camels had put a considerable distance between them and me. They disappeared over a dune and I decided to sit down for a bit. I waited till the jangling of the bells tied around the camel’s neck faded into the night and the night grew very quiet.

Finally, I had the desert of Sahara – or a few dunes actually – all to myself.

I laid down on my back, camera on my stomach lens pointing up like a periscope. The warm sand shifting under my weight felt therapeutic through my thin cotton shirt. A few stars had sprung in the saturated blue sky. Besides a rat scurrying behind a dry shrub, everything was still. They say these dune shift every night. A mini blizzard can overnight move dunes around several hundred meters. No wonder, other than a tuft of grass here and there, there was barely any vegetation.

It was so easy to fall asleep right here, I thought. Before I really did, I got up and scampered up to the top of the dune to see our little caravan disappearing down the next dune. I could see Rhea craning her neck looking for me. She called out when she spotted me.

“Papi, hurry up or you will get lost!”

I jogged down the dune, the loose sand aiding my descent. The ascent was not so easy. It had not rained for months and the sand easily rolled down. For the first time I realized how heavy my camera is.

It took me another 10 minutes to catch up with the caravan. The camels were tirelessly lumbering on, expertly swatting flies with their long tails. Astride them, the group was in a great mood. When Gayu complained that her camel was malodorously flatulent, the kids (and some adults) burst into peals of laughter. The two-year old Kabir was completely besides himself with unadulterated joy.

Ahead, Youssef was walking with long purposeful strides. Head down, the Toureg seemed predisposed at reaching the desert camp.

Riding the camel was no different than riding a horse, Rhea reported on her own initiative. A two humped camel was all she had seen so far and she had imagined being safely ensconced in the niche in between. So she was worried when I told her the camels in this part of the world only had one hump and was afraid she would slide down. Right now, she was happy as a lark. Nobody seemed in any apparent discomfort, especially my camel, who most certainly was happy to be not carrying any weight this day.

Swaying rhythmically to the camels footsteps, Rhea called for Youssef’s attention. He slowed down till he was alongside her.

“What is his name?” she asked pointing to the camel she was riding.

“Number 10”, he deadpanned. Just like a bus route.

“Can I name him?”, Rhea asked “Please?”

He grunted his nonchalance. A big tip was obviously not part of his business plan. Unflustered by his apathy, she ran through several names before settling on Lawrence of Arabia, my favorite desert movie.

We smelled smoke. We had been trekking for over an hour and the camp had to be nearby. We topped a dune and spotted the big fire and several tents nestling between two large dunes. The sound of the gaiety easily carried across the expanse and the camels automatically picked pace.

Rhea in front of our Berber tent (Photo courtesy Vijay Aski)

There were half a dozen Berber tents in two rows. At the head was what I imagined to be the kitchen tent. We were allotted a spacious tent all to ourselves. Made of thick canvas, they looked like they could easily withstand a sandstorm. We had to switch on our torches as it was completely dark inside. Neatly arranged on the floor were several mattresses with thick blankets and pillows. A lone table formed the rest of the furnishing. Sparse but clean.

We cleaned up behind the tent using our bottled water and were led to our table. Two large German groups were halfway through the dinner. After several glasses of sweet mint tea came the – you guessed it - tagines with bread and sliced delicious cantaloupes. There is not much to say about the food. I knew very well to not expect a cordon bleu to be hiding in that kitchen tent.

The roaring campfire had sprung little wooden stools around it. The Germans had already taken their seats. The camel handlers had brought out the banjos and the orchestra was led by none other than a very happy looking Youssef. The blue turban was gone. In its place was visible a mop of dreads that would be stylish even in New York. They started with a melodious local songs that got the audience clapping and foot-stomping. They raised the tempo until the group was dancing around the fire and singing songs to the wild bet of their drums. It was quite a jamboree.

Before retiring to bed, there was just a small little hurdle to cross. The desert camp had no toilets.

“But don’t worry”, a sweating Youssef, smiling ear to ear, waved in the direction of the massive dunes, “We have enough space”

We picked a bush a hundred meters away.  For one night, its okay.

The sky that night. They say experts can tell you the lat/long and date/time from that.

We were given a choice of sleeping in the tent or out in the open. It was a no brainer. Rhea and I carried a mattress outside and laid it down on a gentle slope behind our tent . The Aski’s had picked a spot a few feet away. Wearing two layers of fleece and snuggled under a thick clean blanket, it could not have been cozier. The sky was beautiful and spotless. Thousands of bright stars twinkled at us. We quickly spotted the majestic hunter of Orion but could not locate any other constellations. Rhea had a bright idea.

“Lets make our own!”

We conjured up a tortoise tracing the stars with our finger. Then we started on horse and did not realize when we gave in to Lord Morpheus.

The last waking words we heard were Kabir pleading to Preeti.

“Mummy, I don’t waaant to sleep, Mummy.”

* * *

[Next: A desert sunrise]

Marrakech Diary: Base Camp on the Edge of Sahara

The sunset was an hour away when we reached the sand-line of Sahara. We parked outside our base camp, a majestic structure built kasbah-style. It had a huge kitchen and a large dining area surrounded by rooms - for tourists who wanted to trek on the dunes but sleep on terra firma, many showers, restrooms and a small store.

We left our luggage in the 4X4 carrying just overnight bags. In my backpack, I had two layers of fleece pajamas, several torches, a big bottle of water, some snacks, a pocket Swiss knife, toiletries and a compass (just in case!). I had my camera in a separate backpack with all the paraphernalia – lenses, filters, flash, storage, batteries and tripod.

Sayeed introduced us to our camel handler, Youssef, who had been patiently waiting for us.

“Yalla! Yalla!” Youssef said.

I remember Sayeed telling us that one yalla meant “let’s go” and two stood for “let’s go RIGHT NOW!”. All other caravans had left almost an hour ago. Looks like we were a little late. Again.

Desert base camp on the sand-line of Sahara

Youssef must have been in his mid-twenties and wore the traditional indigo blue knee length shirt over loose cotton trousers. Behind his stylish goatee was a weather hardened bronze face of a Bedouin. With a mighty swagger for his tiny frame, he led us to our rides. A lineup of five single-hump camels decked with colorful rugs warily watched us approach. Rhea ran forward and pointed to one.

“That’s mine!” and having thus laid claim, immediately proceeded to fawn over the beast. We hung our backpacks on the saddle and got a quick primer from Youssef on camel riding. 

Rhea’s camel that she would later rechristen Lawrence of Arabia

“We will start loading from the back of the line,” he spoke with a thick Arabic accent though his grammar was accurate. He proceeded to explain. “Once one camel gets up, all the camels behind him will get up immediately.”

He bent forward and interlaced his fingers to form a makeshift stirrup for Vijay. “Hug the camel with your knees. Sit back. Hold here.”, he said as we walked around the camel making sure Vijay was safely perched.

“Hold tight now. This is the only time you can really fall off a camel”, he warned, and proceeded to spank the camel firmly in the rump. Grunting, the camel rocked forward and laboriously straightened his hind legs, pushing the base of his tail high in the air. Vijay, tilted at 45 degrees, hung on to the pommel for dear life. After what seemed ages, the camel gathered his front legs under him and heaved off the sand. It was then a simple matter of making sure the hat stayed on the head.

Rhea, the natural rider

I had decided to walk, photography and all, so here we were. All ready to walk into the mighty Sahara.

Off we go!