Walking
from Moha's Camel's House about two blocks to the edge of town, we
four tourists are ready to mount our camels and head into Erg Chebbi,
the Red Dunes of the Sahara. Not all deserts are composed of sand
although this may be the popular notion; sand composes only about
twenty per cent of the deserts on earth.
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| Photo: Doug Baum |
It
will be my second time of desert camping; what will this be like
compared to the elegant "glamping" in Oman's Wahiba Sands?
Happily, the saddles are of minimal construction, i.e. minimal in the
use of wood or metal; the soft form fits around the animal's hump and
with a blanket or two across, are very comfortable (could someone
tell Tunisians about this)?
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
My
companions ―
Heather, Catherine, and Mark ―
and I mount one at a time. I'd had my eye on the young black camel
but he was relegated to Mark. Mine is called Akawi. Our leader Doug
is not riding yet;
he is running like a madman beside us, ahead of us, behind us, taking
photographs. The man is tireless. In fact he made a video:
https://www.facebook.com/texascamelcorps/videos/1321974761172514/
Too
bad he deleted the shot where I tore my shirt open to show my Canada
T-shirt.
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| Photo: Doug Baum |
I
soon understand that riding in the soft sand dunes is not like the
usual experience of riding on level terrain. Stepping down
a dune, even going on a diagonal (not straight forward!) the camel's
front legs plunge into the shifting sand ―
at which point you'd better be using a strong arm or two to maintain
your balance. Traversing up
a dune is the opposite. Either way, excellent core muscles are
another big advantage.
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
We
meander, or so it seems, absorbing our golden environment, marvelling
at the burnished colour of the desert sands completely surrounding
us. Hassan, leading the camels, is often barefoot; Moha is free to
supervise and also take photos. The colours of their garb are a feast
for the eye. Because it's March, early spring, we are not subject to
blistering heat. Over an hour later we spot our camp, nested so
naturally in the dunes, seemingly miles from everywhere. If we keep
riding east we would soon be in Algeria.
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
The
camp tents are the traditional woven goat hair, very sturdy fabric,
cobbled together in a circle with a fence on the perimeter for
security when not occupied. There is a cook tent and a dining tent, a
socializing shelter and of course the sleeping tents. The bedroom
tents, about ten of them, encircle a common space. Depending on the
number of people booked, you may have your own tent or share with
others. The ground is sand but they have placed carpets for easier
walking. A primitive enclosure for the chemical toilet attempts
privacy, somewhat defeated by the zipper that only closes halfway
down. We have lunch and a rest. Note to self: juicy orange slices
sprinkled with cinnamon; try this at home! Although I doubt one can
reproduce the sweet freshness of the ubiquitous Moroccan oranges.
Around
4:45 pm we get the order to saddle up again. We ride for a long time
to a special vantage point for sundown. We pass one or two equally
small, nestled camps impossible to see until you're almost on top of
them. But we see no other riders. Mark's great long shot photo shows
the occasional camp hidden within the dunes.
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| Photo: Mark Charteris |
This
time my camel is in lead position. We change positions to accustom
the younger camels to learn staying in line. It's a wonder how our
barefoot boys know where they are going; all are dunes to the horizon
in every direction. Any route is a continual action of up a dune and
down or along the other side; at times the incline is alarming. This
is not always easy riding. Catherine and Mark had brought stirrups to
use and I could see why. Propping my legs forward rather than hanging
down was much more comfortable on a prolonged ride ―
there's a reason why police and soldiers curl their legs up when they
can.
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| Photo: Moha |
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| Photo: Moha |
The
wind has picked up by the time we reach our dismount spot. The idea
is to climb that huge dune and see the sunset. The climb is decidedly
more than I want to attempt and I justify it by knowing the sun won't
photograph well on my camera (heh, you can see how much I rely on my
companions for good pics). Instead I commune with the placid camels,
take a photo of each, and sing to them. Doug was broadcasting to
Facebook Live from the top of the dune amid thunderous wind noise ...
the wind that imperceptibly sculpts these gigantic monuments of
nature. Facebook video:
They see me:
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
And I see them:
The
sun went down, you notice. We have a long way to return to camp,
judging by our timing to get here. Yes, dusk settles around us until
it turns very black and nothing can be seen ahead; ascents and
descents can't be anticipated! Yet we trust Moha and Hassan are
operating on internal GPS. Above us, the pitch is punctuated by a
zillion stars to thrill the most seasoned traveller. As always, the
silence and comparative solitude are striking, tangible, harmonious.
Eventually a flashlight beam from the camp signals our destination.
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| Photo: Heather Daveno |
Heather
said it: "You are closer to the stars on the back of a
camel."
Dinner
is served at a low table in the dining tent surrounded by swathes of
colourful draped fabrics meeting at the centre pole. Cushions are
provided at random for lounging. A small group from China has joined
us for overnight. Ni hao! Tagine cooking is the staple dish,
as everywhere in Morocco. I think Moha is pouring the mint tea at
this point, to drowsy, satisfied guests.
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| Photo: Moha |
However,
the evening is not over. A good Berber meal is followed by music and
camaraderie. Outside the camp, a fire quickly sprouts. Drums begin.
Did a flute appear? Dancing sparks rise to the stars. The Berber men
exult in singing. The delighted Chinese guests take their turn with a
song and the drums are shared around. Music and laughter have no
language barriers; it's a little U.N. of happiness.
Weary
but replete in all ways, we drag slowly to bed. Mine is very narrow
and a bit tilted to starboard along its length but right now it looks
like the best place on earth to be. Close the curtain entrance and
turn off my electric light (although we are never aware of a
generator). Lamps around the camp are extinguished leaving not a
glimmer of light for numerous individual night trips to the toilet,
including mine, stumbling over carpets and groping unfamiliar
structures. Mixed levels of contented snoring arise, but we are dead
to the world. Until a confused man blunders into my tent, turning on
the light, waking and scaring the bejeezuz out of me. The others were
so out of it my startled scream didn't disturb a soul. Except one
terrified Chinese gentleman.
Morning
comes with sunrise, just as it should. All is right with the world.
Fresh orange juice, freshly prepared bread; the cooking tent has been
busy. With reluctance we have to depart this uncomplicated, elemental
world, but knowing it exists, that such harmony with nature and
humankind is possible.
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| Photo: Moha |
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| Photo: Doug Baum |
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| Photo: Doug Baum |
©
2017 Brenda Dougall
Merriman
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