I grew up in the far south suburbs of Chicago, a place that isn’t really considered a suburb except by the people that live there. When I moved to New York and people would ask me what my hometown was like, I’d say, “It’s beautiful, cornfields and strip malls as far as the eye can see.”
I spent my summers in northern Wisconsin, a place that’s got one of the highest concentration of lakes in the world and, despite being firmly lodged in America’s Dairyland, nary a cow in sight.
The desert has always been a mystery to me. Joshua Tree, that’s been my experience with arid landscapes, and I’ve been rightly awestruck every time I’ve gone, but also keenly aware that it’s not in my immediate DNA. My ancestry is a grab bag of Scandinavia and German Sweds, basically people that don’t know how to sweat outside of a sauna.
Before we came to Morocco I was pretty much sure that we wouldn’t be going to the desert. “We’re not going to be farther, then, like, a 2 hour drive from a major hospital,” I assured my mom and myself. That’s why we started with Essouira. Baby steps. But then you get to the place you’re going, you take a good look at the boogey man under the bed and the monster in the closet, and you realize the boogey man doesn’t exist and the monster is actually quite friendly. And, fuck yeah we’re going to the desert. And, why didn’t we work Algeria into the itinerary?
So we pointed the rental car due east, booked a hotel (with a bar) on the way, and listened to Unknown Legend over and over again, because that’s the only song I have on my iPhone. That, and that fucking U2 album that Bono gifted all of us that none of us wanted and Wilder now loves. Fuck you, Bono. But also thank you for all of your humanitarian work. #respect.
M’hamid is where the road ends, literally. The Sahara cuts it off with all the authority of an ocean. If you want to get farther than that you have to take a camel. Or a 4x4, but even then, there’s not a road, just sand, and it’s not like there’s a gas station cozying up to a dune, so it’s not a Sunday drive type situation. Billy and I debated between the overnight 4X4 glamping trip or the five hour camel/lunch trek. While researching these two I found myself wondering how much a camel cost. Fourteen grand, it turns out. And then I found a thread of a backpacker wondering if it was possible to buy a camel, take it through the desert, and sell it on the other side. I floated this third option by Billy. We decided to do the lunch trek.
What can I say about camels? You get on them when they’re lying down, like a dog with its paws curled. They kneel, and you pitch forward like you’re going to slide down their snout. They stand up on their back legs and you’re like, “Holy cow, this is high.” And then they stand up on their front legs and you feel like you’re riding on top of a skyscraper. Kind of funny to do with a kid wedged between your legs that you’re trying to keep calm while simultaneously checking that your phone is still in your pocket while simultaneously reaching for said phone to capture this surreal moment while simultaneously hating yourself for wanting to document everything at the risk of having said child fall off a camel and then deciding to do it anyway because—
Holy shit we’re in the Sahara.
I feel like my 4th grade geography teacher spent a lot of time talking about this place and I retained absolutely nothing. What I know now:
1. This shit’s cold in February! Nakota was crying for mittens for the first 20 minutes. Wilder just shut down and fell asleep. On a camel. The boy has got a skill.
2. Desert dudes are tough. And those turbans are not just for show. Yes, they shield the sun, but it also gives them something to do with their hands, tucking and re-tucking the fabric as it blows in the wind, kind of like how I check my phone or adjust my bra when I’m feeling antsy.
3. It’s not just sand. There are trees. They look like trees that are vomiting up their insides, but they’re still trees. Granted, we didn’t get too far in, and I’m sure when you get into the poo of it you feel like you’re going to get swallowed up by tahini colored baby powder, but I wonder if the Sahara that we’re all used to seeing only looks that way because the camera was pointed in the right direction?
It’s hard to trust people, no matter how authentic they look. It seemed to me like our guide, Moustafa, was just wandering. I scanned the horizon for something that could possibly be used as a landmark - trees, sand? Everything looked just like the other thing. Except for a growing formation of menacing looking clouds that we were horizontally spelunking straight into.
I wracked my brain for Mrs. Elder’s wisdom. The one takeaway I got from my 4th grade Sahara lessons was that it doesn’t rain, right? Isn’t that basically the definition of a desert? We were told it would take an hour and a half to get to the camp. At one hour and thirty-four minutes I couldn’t help myself. “Just ahead,” Moustafa smiled, and sure enough the dunes parted to reveal this loveliness:
The kids sled down dunes and played with toy trucks in the world’s biggest sandbox while our guide and chef whipped up a cucumber tomato salad and a vegetable tagine. We ate inside the tent while gusts of sand swirled outside.
By the time we had finished the date syrup drizzled apple desert the clouds had parted and the sun was, more or less, shining. We set out for the long ride back to the hotel, cringing with each step of the camel as my swimsuit parts chafed into oblivion. It was then that I realized two things. One: I would remember this day for the rest of my life. And two: I’m glad we took the ride without buying the camel.
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