A night on the desert
A night on the desert
Updated 11:33pm (Mla time) Dec 06, 2004
By Rina Jimenez-David
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A13 of the December 7, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
FEZ, Morocco -- One thing I did not expect of Morocco was the cold weather. As our bus drove into this ancient city last night, I looked out the window to check what people were wearing. To my dismay, everyone was wearing a jacket or coat or the Moroccan “jellabah,” a long woolen robe with a pointed hood that makes the men look like creatures out of "Star Wars." At this time of year, Morocco can be chilly, especially once the sun sets, and out in the Sahara Desert, it can be downright freezing.
Every school child knows that out on the desert, the days are searing hot and the nights freezing cold. But even when our itinerary indicated that we would be spending a night on the Sahara, sleeping in Berber-style tents, I couldn't quite believe it would be necessary to pack winter clothing, and so made do with pajamas, thick socks and a sweater. Boy, was I wrong.
We left Marrakesh Wednesday, drove southwards following the "Kasbah Trail," spent a night at the magnificent Hotel Berber Palace in Ouarzazate, then drove further south to Erfoud. From this town, we got off the bus and boarded 4x4 vehicles for a bumpy, winding drive through the desert to the sand dunes of Merzouga where our encampment lay, just 15 km from the border of Algeria.
Our guide Aziz worried that we would not make it to our camp in time to travel by camel up to the highest dunes to catch what he promised would be a breathtaking sunset. Instead, our dusty convoy made a brief stop on a sandy hillside, just in time to allow us to alight and catch the setting sun wash the nearby dunes a golden amber.
* * *
BY THE TIME we arrived at Merzouga, the wind had turned the air near-freezing. There was hardly time to appreciate the Berber musicians who welcomed us by the entrance to the encampment, all dressed in white and each playing an instrument consisting of rows of brass plates which they shook in syncopated rhythm.
Our tents were low and dark inside. They consisted of heavy woolen rugs held up by wooden posts, and to my relief I found our beds were fairly thick and firm, and came with heavy woolen blankets stretched snugly across the mattress. The tents were arranged in a semicircle, the open area likewise covered by rugs. At one end lay our roofed dining area where a bonfire mercifully blazed. At the other end were the outhouse, two chemical toilets and an improvised washstand. Welcome to the tourist version of Berber life!
We shuffled our huddled forms to the dining area for dinner, which consisted of round Moroccan bread, lentil soup, couscous and chicken, a “tajine” (the Moroccan cooking implement with a pointed cover that makes for excellent stews) of lamb, potatoes and carrots, and dessert of apples, oranges and the tiny, sweet oranges called clementines. All the while the Berber troupe continued to serenade us, after first putting on a show of music and energetic dancing, which could be called the Berber version of hip hop.
* * *
CHILLED to the bone, most of us headed straight for the tents and our warm beds. Over dinner, I found out that "all the Asians" -- meaning Zubeida Mustafa from Pakistan, Mohammad Shahjahan from Bangladesh, Ramesh Jaura who is from India but has lived for decades in Germany, and even my roommate Martha Swai from Tanzania -- had decided that camping was not for them and elected to sleep in a small hotel about a kilometer away. Not knowing I had an alternative, I had ended up as the only person from a warm climate braving a night on the desert.
Hastily putting on my pajamas, layered over with whatever pieces of clothing I had brought with me, I crawled under the heavy blankets. I wondered if I should take time for my nightly rituals, but once cocooned beneath the blankets, I couldn't summon the will to jump out of them into the cold air.
I would come to regret this later in the night, as I tossed and turned and tried to cover every centimeter of raised blanket that somehow allowed fingers of cold to come creeping in. I also had to pee -- desperately. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I said to hell with it and threw the warm covers off me. It was three in the morning, and, armed with a flashlight and a full bladder, I sped across the rug-covered ground. Were those sinister cats lining the path to the outhouse? No, they were Moroccan lamps, which had been lit to guide our way but were now dark, cat-like shapes.
* * *
AT DAWN, I found the other occupants of our tent had all signed up for the camel ride to the highest dunes to catch the sunrise. Ever since a traumatic horse ride in my childhood, I have shunned getting aboard any animal taller than me, but I did want to have a picture taken with a camel.
The camels were simply marvelous, placid and regal, and bore their burdens with a quiet dignity. "Madam from the Philippines, are you afraid of camels?" inquired a Berber guide. "Yes! I am afraid!" I replied, setting him off on a torrent of amused guffaws.
Those of us who stayed behind contented ourselves with viewing the sunrise on a dune beside the encampment, catching our breath as the sunlight sent shadows chasing across the undulating sand. As we shivered in the bitter cold morning air, the same Berber murmured: "You feel cold? But it is only for one night. I have lived here all my life!" That must have been his bid for sympathy, because he later tried to sell us overpriced fossils.
When the camel riders returned, they were just in time for our Berber breakfast of bread and fried Moroccan pancakes (closely resembling chapattis) taken with fragrant honey. We all agreed it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I have spent a night on the desert, and while I'll never forget it, it's something I have no wish of doing again.
Updated 11:33pm (Mla time) Dec 06, 2004
By Rina Jimenez-David
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A13 of the December 7, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
FEZ, Morocco -- One thing I did not expect of Morocco was the cold weather. As our bus drove into this ancient city last night, I looked out the window to check what people were wearing. To my dismay, everyone was wearing a jacket or coat or the Moroccan “jellabah,” a long woolen robe with a pointed hood that makes the men look like creatures out of "Star Wars." At this time of year, Morocco can be chilly, especially once the sun sets, and out in the Sahara Desert, it can be downright freezing.
Every school child knows that out on the desert, the days are searing hot and the nights freezing cold. But even when our itinerary indicated that we would be spending a night on the Sahara, sleeping in Berber-style tents, I couldn't quite believe it would be necessary to pack winter clothing, and so made do with pajamas, thick socks and a sweater. Boy, was I wrong.
We left Marrakesh Wednesday, drove southwards following the "Kasbah Trail," spent a night at the magnificent Hotel Berber Palace in Ouarzazate, then drove further south to Erfoud. From this town, we got off the bus and boarded 4x4 vehicles for a bumpy, winding drive through the desert to the sand dunes of Merzouga where our encampment lay, just 15 km from the border of Algeria.
Our guide Aziz worried that we would not make it to our camp in time to travel by camel up to the highest dunes to catch what he promised would be a breathtaking sunset. Instead, our dusty convoy made a brief stop on a sandy hillside, just in time to allow us to alight and catch the setting sun wash the nearby dunes a golden amber.
* * *
BY THE TIME we arrived at Merzouga, the wind had turned the air near-freezing. There was hardly time to appreciate the Berber musicians who welcomed us by the entrance to the encampment, all dressed in white and each playing an instrument consisting of rows of brass plates which they shook in syncopated rhythm.
Our tents were low and dark inside. They consisted of heavy woolen rugs held up by wooden posts, and to my relief I found our beds were fairly thick and firm, and came with heavy woolen blankets stretched snugly across the mattress. The tents were arranged in a semicircle, the open area likewise covered by rugs. At one end lay our roofed dining area where a bonfire mercifully blazed. At the other end were the outhouse, two chemical toilets and an improvised washstand. Welcome to the tourist version of Berber life!
We shuffled our huddled forms to the dining area for dinner, which consisted of round Moroccan bread, lentil soup, couscous and chicken, a “tajine” (the Moroccan cooking implement with a pointed cover that makes for excellent stews) of lamb, potatoes and carrots, and dessert of apples, oranges and the tiny, sweet oranges called clementines. All the while the Berber troupe continued to serenade us, after first putting on a show of music and energetic dancing, which could be called the Berber version of hip hop.
* * *
CHILLED to the bone, most of us headed straight for the tents and our warm beds. Over dinner, I found out that "all the Asians" -- meaning Zubeida Mustafa from Pakistan, Mohammad Shahjahan from Bangladesh, Ramesh Jaura who is from India but has lived for decades in Germany, and even my roommate Martha Swai from Tanzania -- had decided that camping was not for them and elected to sleep in a small hotel about a kilometer away. Not knowing I had an alternative, I had ended up as the only person from a warm climate braving a night on the desert.
Hastily putting on my pajamas, layered over with whatever pieces of clothing I had brought with me, I crawled under the heavy blankets. I wondered if I should take time for my nightly rituals, but once cocooned beneath the blankets, I couldn't summon the will to jump out of them into the cold air.
I would come to regret this later in the night, as I tossed and turned and tried to cover every centimeter of raised blanket that somehow allowed fingers of cold to come creeping in. I also had to pee -- desperately. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I said to hell with it and threw the warm covers off me. It was three in the morning, and, armed with a flashlight and a full bladder, I sped across the rug-covered ground. Were those sinister cats lining the path to the outhouse? No, they were Moroccan lamps, which had been lit to guide our way but were now dark, cat-like shapes.
* * *
AT DAWN, I found the other occupants of our tent had all signed up for the camel ride to the highest dunes to catch the sunrise. Ever since a traumatic horse ride in my childhood, I have shunned getting aboard any animal taller than me, but I did want to have a picture taken with a camel.
The camels were simply marvelous, placid and regal, and bore their burdens with a quiet dignity. "Madam from the Philippines, are you afraid of camels?" inquired a Berber guide. "Yes! I am afraid!" I replied, setting him off on a torrent of amused guffaws.
Those of us who stayed behind contented ourselves with viewing the sunrise on a dune beside the encampment, catching our breath as the sunlight sent shadows chasing across the undulating sand. As we shivered in the bitter cold morning air, the same Berber murmured: "You feel cold? But it is only for one night. I have lived here all my life!" That must have been his bid for sympathy, because he later tried to sell us overpriced fossils.
When the camel riders returned, they were just in time for our Berber breakfast of bread and fried Moroccan pancakes (closely resembling chapattis) taken with fragrant honey. We all agreed it was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I have spent a night on the desert, and while I'll never forget it, it's something I have no wish of doing again.
posted by Dante at 11:41 PM
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