THE TRAVELco.
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The night previous was spent in a hotel called Meteorites about four hours out from our desert camp in the Sahara. To no surprise this hotel was plonked in the middle of nowhere. One compound on the side of a highway and then just dust, sand and snowy peaks for as far as the eye could see. It was stunning. The interior decorated traditionally Moroccan with thatched ceilings, large vases and delicate unique touches in things that are ignored back home; like the skirting boards or the shutters on a window. The courtyard boasted lanterns either side of the pathing leading to our spacious and luxurious rooms.
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Shortly we embarked on a trek to see some of the landscape. We walked for a few miles toward the snowy peaks and learned about one another. It’s the journeys amongst the journey which is where you truly get to know someone. The destination is just another talking point. After forty minutes we reached a recent Berber burial site signified by mounds of rocks. Not two hundred other identical headstones surrounding it but this spot and this alone for loved ones from a local family. If you ask me that sounds like a more salient eternal resting place than the church near your mum’s house. Shortly past the burial was a small house and what appeared to be a rural farm. The first thing I noticed was the socks drying on a small dead tree out the front and the sheep skin paired with a decomposing hedgehog decorating the chicken coop. The cocks clucked as they thrusted at one another in frustration before a gentle face came out to greet us. A man in an, albeit poorly fitted, full suit came out to make an introduction and shook each of our hands. Omar exchanged a warm greeting and some words in Berber to which the man followed this by collecting some stools and chairs for us to sit on. About a half hour later he returned with some freshly brewed and expectedly sugary mint tea with fifteen glasses. This man appeared to live a pretty rural life and I remember thinking how Omar and probably other guides would randomly turn up with large groups of tourists and expect tea and hospitality. This man likely had no mobile phone or form of communication other than in the physical and our arrival was likely unexpected at this time. Nevertheless he seemed happy we were there. He politely refused when I offered him my stool to join us but stood not too far away watching as we replenished ourselves with his tea. Hospitality like this is foreign to me and one that due to where I am from one that I would think as an inconvenience. The peaceful expression formed in the tanned wrinkles of this man’s face was enough to realise it wasn’t. We sat in a circle around the tea and talked as a group. Whenever anyone spoke everyone listened. Whether this was a collective respect or a shy politeness did not matter to me.
Once we returned to the hotel and I showered and changed for dinner before I made my way to the lounge to grab a beer. Surprisingly I noticed the TV had the last half an hour of Arsenal vs Sporting Lisbon. It’s a strange feeling when small slithers of home make their way into the surreal dream world you’ve been living in. Reminding me reality, it further served as a reminder of how fortunate I am to be where I am, with the people I’m with, doing the things I’m doing. If any parts of appreciation or gratitude were lost this firmly reinstated it. That being said Arsenal drew so I could’ve been more thankful.
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We had dinner together and played cards over some drinks. I introduced the game thirty-one that I had been playing since a kid. It was first taught to me by my Great Aunt Wendy when visiting her in California. The concept is to achieve the highest collective number, ideally thirty-one, from three cards of the same suit. You would pick up cards either from the pile facing up that had been put down from the player before you or from the down facing pile. Face cards equal ten with ace being eleven. In achieving thirty-one, you simply declare it and lay your cards down. Alternatively in having a high number close to thirty-one that you believe to be more than the other players, you knock the table on your turn, wait for everyone else to have one more and then reveal. Everyone seemed to enjoy it and we played numerous rounds until the group had whittled down and then we just talked. We would often stay up into the early hours of the morning talking. Sometimes jokingly, others about deeper things. Often the best person to confide in can be someone new with no knowledge of your life before they met you, as then they can be unbiased and further provide opinion from an entirely different background to yours.
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After breakfast and some football in the gravel we jumped back into our mini bus to head into the Sahara.
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We took three stops on the way. The first to refuel both the bus and ourselves. We called these TTC stops: toilet, tea and coffee. The sun was high in the morning sky and I relished its beams as we stood with our newly purchased tea and snacks. I remember washing my face in the outdoor sink, conscious not to get any tap water in my mouth, but feeling cleansed as the cold water ran over my eye and lips. For our second stop we briefly parked up on a road located in the middle of a gorge. Instinctively we climbed up the rocks to the highest point in order to get the best view. Once all found our spot and had taken pictures we enjoyed the opportunity to stretch our legs and soak up the sun. The third stop was at a viewpoint overlooking a small village in a valley below. Unlike those previous, this one was devoid of olive trees and instead overpopulated with palms. They must’ve outnumbered people ten to one. It looked as if they were growing out of the buildings. I remember thinking whether the villagers wake up and see the sunrise over the hills and palms in front of them and take it for granted the same way I do when I see the skyscrapers in London. Natural beauty is always beautiful when you’re not succumbed to it every day but maybe modern beauty is the same.
After losing resistance to the primal masculine urge of throwing rocks at targets down the cliff side we returned to our minibus back on our journey.
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The closer we got to the desert the landscape began to lack in manmade structure and plant life. Buildings reduced to huts and then to tents. Sometimes when you’re talking and joking you forget to appreciate the places you’re in and sights you’re seeing. I drifted from conversation as I gazed out the window and took a mental picture.
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Upon arrival I opened the windows in my tent in the hope some of the hot air would filter itself out and pushed two of the four single bed frames together to have a larger bed for the evening. The floor was matted with rugs in traditional Moroccan print and lightly dusted with sand as every surface here was. The tent was spacious enough for four people and some. It didn’t have a working lock or in fact did the door even shut fully but I was in the middle of the desert with my new trusted friends and some polite-faced locals so I had no concerns. On the floor beside each bed were large blankets of fur and additional pillows. I’d read in the desert it could get freezing at night however on that night we were fortunate and it can’t of dropped below fifteen. I forgot what I was doing as I left my things following the sound of a football being kicked. Atop two dunes Moroccan Medhi and T were pinging passes over the expanse of valley in between. Sand spinning off the ball as it zipped from the desert floor and into the air. As I joined in I remember feeling the intensity of the sun on the skin of my back. It was about four or five o’clock in the afternoon and I could notice the sweat precipitate on my forehead as I stepped to control a lofted pass. The rest watched and rolled about the dunes themselves as we took in this new world together.
As we made our way back toward the camp there was a row of seated camels waiting. I climbed on the back of my camel as it’s backwards front legs extended first. We trotted across the dunes on an unmarked path. Every step ahead of us smooth and seemingly unwalked. Every step behind trodden leaving hoof prints in the sand. Unlike horses, camels are quiet creatures and in between laughing at our awkwardness in it
being our first time riding a camel, I enjoyed the tranquility of the experience and took in the rolling dunes that seemed to never end.
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After half an hour and no less inspired we’d reached our destination; no different to any of the rest. Apart from maybe this was the tallest dune. We boys tried to sprint up the challenging terrain in an attempt that seemed to exhaust and yield no reward. I slapped Omar on the chest and raced him to the top by which he took a more thankful gradient and smoked me. I pushed up to plonk myself on the top of the highest peak next to Mehdi to get one of the first glances at the sun as it began to set. It had just started to transition to it’s warm orange and turn the corners of its mouth upward ever so slightly. The way you see a Buddha when pictured, or someone who has achieved an all-knowing, calming sense of serenity. We laid on the dune and watched the sunset. Occasionally my attention would shift on a passing beetle or depending on our conversation the direction I was looking in, but I was always conscious of the sun and how this moment was something you might experience once in a lifetime. During clear skies and bright sunsets you’ll notice a hazy contract in the terrain just below the sun and horizon. This is one of my favourite things to look at, not for any poetic, artistic reason or metaphor that I could feel like conjuring up but simply because it captures me each time and spurs a feeling of gratitude. It's strange how seemingly empty plains only possessing the curvature of nature can inspire feelings. Desolate dunes, devoid of life yet being fruitful in their ability to invoke emotion.
We plodded back until it was dark. I was hoping camels could see in the dark because I was clueless as to where our camp was. With a swift return, uncomfortable and frankly scary dismount - that is apparently standard procedure when dismounting a camel - we made our way for an al fresco Moroccan dinner of turkey and vegetable skewers with couscous. Our chilled drinks condensated and wet were passed down as we sat around the fire. Wood smoke filling our nostrils and perfuming our clothes. The locals at the camp played guitar and drums then sung for periods of time as we all took in this experience that we would all share and remember for the rest of our lives. Josh for different reasons. He ate a dung beetle later that night in a dare.
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As the night went on the stars illuminated and began to reveal constellations. Surreptitiously we strolled away into the dunes away from the camp light and took them in. Australians are used to sights like this. To me this was completely new and awe inspiring, as much as I tried not to show it. I think it’s humbling seeing stars as it reminds you of how small you are... in a nice way.
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In the morning we naturally woke as the sun was still rising. Missing us from the evening before it returned to warm up the sand and justify my choice of shorts for the day. I walked up the same dune I played football on when I arrived yesterday. My footprints had been swept away by the wind in the night, as if it were all a dream. The sun poked its head from the east and it looked like today would be another perfect one.
