Day 9

Day 9: Tuesday 1st July 2002

I sat bolt upright looking all around me in the pitch-black darkness, feeling sore and groggy, not really sure where I was! I looked up and saw the stars shining down on me, where’s the bloody roof gone! Was my first reaction! Slowly it came to me exactly where I was, and as if to remind me even further I could hear the noise of belching camels just a few feet away! I must have been dreaming I thought, as I settled back down into the hollow my weight had created in the sand. A quick look at my watch told me it was just after 3.30 a.m.

Now finding it hard to sleep I lay there for the best part of an hour until I heard the shrill call of a woman’s voice in the distance; it was that of the Berber woman who had visited the camp the previous night.

My Arabic is about as good as my Swahili, totally non-existent! But I think she was calling to her husband to wake up. I watched him as he responded with about the same enthusiasm most husbands do when woken by their wife. Then it dawned on him in more ways than one that the sun was starting to rise and we needed to be up and getting ready to make our way back out of the desert. The group were all awake now and the conversation was not about the cat calls of the woman, more about the cat call that had woken not only me, but some of the others at 3.30. Oh, yeah right! Was my instant response to no one in particular when Tom said the noise had been made by a cat. We were four miles into the Sahara desert for God’s sake, and he was hearing cats, and not the gentle little ones that meow, this one had bloody roared like a lion!

Just as I was about to question his sanity a little white tabby appeared at the edge of the campsite meowing, just like any domesticated feline would when looking for a bowl of cream. Now there were two questions to be answered here. What was a little cat doing this far out into the desert, and what had made that noise earlier on, there was just no way that little cat could have made the noise I had heard!

Whatever, I soon dismissed it, because it didn’t matter anymore as we were about to saddle up and get out of here! The camels didn’t appreciate having to get up early either, but reluctantly they rose with their cargo of weary tourists weighing them down as we moved off in a slow lumbering procession. The fear factor was not as great this morning as it had been last night, with everybody now feeling a little more comfortable about the whole thing. I was actually quite casual about my grip this morning, I think this was because my fingers were still a little sore from the previous night, and I was not trying to balance a camera either. I had taken what pictures I wanted.

I suppose it had to happen, with everybody now a little more confidant on the camels, Ulla fell off! Thankfully she didn’t hurt herself and was able to laugh about it, which was a good thing, as I then didn’t feel to bad about laughing at the incident.

We came to a stop after about ten minutes or so, on the top of a dune, where we dismounted and stood around to watch the sunrise over a distant dune for a few minutes. As good as it was, I don’t think anybody was truly blown away by the sunrise, which to be honest was a little bit of an anticlimax. Yet at least we could all now put this little story in to our repertoire of boring stories, you know the one that goes like this! “Yeah well, there I was stood in the middle of the Sahara desert watching this great sunrise” Zzzzzzz.

The colours appeared to be of slightly different shades this morning and were changing constantly as the sun got higher, casting even bigger shadows among the dunes. We must have taken a short cut on the way back as it seemed to be a very quick trot through the sand. I just wanted to wash my face to get some life back into my body that was slightly aching from a night on the sand and feeling ever so grubby. The water back at the shabby looking camel station came out in such a slow trickle it was hardly worth the effort!

The minibus driver was waiting for us, and was trying to encourage us to get our bags onto the roofrack in double quick time. He wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. In effect the trip was over and we would be making our way back to Casablanca, just as soon as we had finished the sumptuous breakfast of bread and jam that was waiting for us in the dining room of this place. I was feeling hungry, but didn’t think this breakfast was going to do the trick somehow!

6.45 a.m. The Minibus was fully loaded with our rucksacks and we were soon on our way again, following the tyre tracks made by other vehicles as we drove across the sand, with the driver picking out a route to get us back onto the main road. All we had to do now was go back virtually the same route we had taken to get here over the last two days, some 600 Km across the unforgiving desert and mountain terrain. It was not too long before we stopped for the first time, everybody was in need of water replenishment, but what I really needed was some sleep replenishment! I was feeling very jaded and the movement of the bus was only serving to make me feel even more drowsy as we drove for mile after mile. The Driver was still constantly talking to himself and everybody else on his mobile phone, and had found the Mama Cass tape again! This was just the song I needed to hear at the moment “California dreamin!”

It was around 12.45 when we pulled into Ouarzazate for a lunch stop. I was starving and thirsty for a drink of something other than water! I decided to have a largish meal, which consisted of a kebab, French fries and a couple of cokes! This turned out to be a bad move, because for the whole afternoon I felt sick in the minibus. I don’t know if it was the food, or the tiredness, or possibly even the fact that we were driving through the mountains at altitude? Whatever it was, I did feel as though I needed to throw up!  I got a chance to do this at one place we stopped, but try as hard as I could. It did not happen; instead I was just bringing up wind and belching loudly, sounding like the camels we had left behind!

Ulla was no longer with us to translate what the driver was saying, she had bailed out earlier and had caught alternative transport, she was going to see some friends in another part of the country, so going back to Marrakech would be out of her way.

The minibus was stopped at a police roadblock somewhere along one of the dusty roads for speeding! The Driver got out and started talking to the two policemen, then they all went around the back where he had a little laugh and joke with the two officers, then paid a bribe and was let go on his way. This is all very well and probably the way things work in this country, but what I couldn’t make out was how the police knew he was speeding, if he was at all? They had no radar gun and were simply stood in the road stopping cars willy nilly!

Still I suppose if they hadn’t got the money as a speeding fine, they would have found something wrong with the minibus, which would not have been that difficult I’m sure.

Just before 6 p.m. we pulled up outside the Hotel Ali after a long tiring day doing absolutely nothing sat in a minibus that had air conditioning, but of course it did not work. This was the third time I had arrived in Marrakech on this trip; it was becoming my spiritual home, or, something like that!

The trip was over and here was where the group was to split up! Such a shame as we had by now started to bond well as a group, and probably could have had a good time together here in Marrakech.

Pria and Danika were going to catch the night train to Tangier, a journey I did not envy them at the time. From tangier they were then planning to make their way across the border to continue their travels in Spain. Tom and Emma were staying on in Marrakech for another couple of days before heading to the Rif Mountain region, but did not commit to meeting up later as they planned to catch up on some sleep. This left just Guillaume, Kim and me, we arranged to meet up later in the Tarboukal restaurant for a meal.

Kim had already made a reservation at a hotel, so she went off to book in and would see us later. I decided not to stay at the Hotel Ali again, instead I went with Guillaume to a hotel he had recommended, saying he was very friendly with the owner having stayed here on previous occasions. I did not doubt this, as Guillaume was the kind of guy who could get on with just about anybody, and certainly had no problems starting up a conversation with anybody he met.

Hotel El-Amal situated in the back alleys among a cluster of cheaper backpacker hotels, was not the biggest place in the medina, it had about a dozen small, but clean rooms, situated on two floors and set around a small tiled courtyard. The toilets and showers were separate from the rooms and were impeccably clean. This very tidy, yet basic hotel was good enough for me, especially at a cost of only 50 DH per night.

I was allocated the room next to Guillaume, it was only really big enough for the bed and small sink it housed, but would be fine as it at least had a window that opened up out onto the courtyard, so allowing some air to flow through.

I went for a shower before returning to the room to write my diary, which proved a difficult thing to do! The heat was really quite oppressive and I was sweating so much that it was hard to sit there and write. I gave up in the end and just lay on the bed trying to cool myself down with a wet towel over my head.

Around 7 p.m. Guillaume and I went for a walk around the Djeema el-Fna, with our first stop being at one of the many orange juice sellers where we took on board a couple of glasses of vitamin E.

The square was very busy tonight with more than normal amounts of music buskers, snake charmers, henna artists and hawkers, all drawn here this evening because there is a music festival planned for this week, with a large stage having been erected in the square.

An annual event now in it’s fourth decade, the Marrakech Festival of Folklore attracts not only the top folk music and dance troupes from all over Morocco, but also music and dance lovers from around the world, which probably accounted for the increased number of foreign tourists there were around.

Kim met up with us at the restaurant around 8.30. She looked totally different this evening having discarded her backpacker look in favour of a more feminine one, with a red v-neck T-shirt, matching black skirt and some very lady like sandals. It was hard to believe looking at her that she was the same girl we had just spent three days in the desert with. Guillaume and I, while both looking respectable enough having shaved and showered, did not look half as good. Why is women can look so well after a wash and brush up, yet a lot of men, no matter what you do with them still look like a sack of shit?

We sat for around an hour at our table towards the front of the restaurant taking in the sights of the square, before taking a walk around the local streets to do some window-shopping and soak up the atmosphere. There was a certain buzz about the place tonight that had changed noticeably in the last few days; it must have been festival fever. We walked around the Koutoubia Mosque which was looking great, lit up by all the floodlights and surrounded by throngs of people, all taking in the night air as they did the same as us. Most of the people were just walking around the flowered gardens and grounds of the Mosque site.

We returned to the main square where the music was loud and accompanied by a troupe of women dancing on the large stage. They were all dressed in white flowing robes and dancing to a constant Berber drumbeat that was quite infectious. The women then started to shake their heads wildly, causing their long dark hair to create a pattern as they shook in unison. I could not understand the meaning of what was going on, but I’m sure this head shaking signified something? What that was I had no idea, but they reminded me of a group of rock chicks letting their hair down as you would see at the front of the stage at a rock concert.

The affect these women were having on the large crowd was very noticeable, especially amongst the large group of young men who had gathered near the front of the stage. These boys were dancing and singing wildly, all with their eyes seemingly transfixed and never leaving the sight of the women on the stage.

This display of women dancing wildly on stage was to me, a cultural experience, but to these young men I’m sure it was some kind of sexual one. With the attitude to women’s role in society here in Morocco, this was one of the rare occasions when men could get to look at them in any great detail. Six women dressed in white cotton frocks, swinging their hips and heads wildly did not do much for me, but it was hitting all the right buttons for the testosterone levels in the young men of Marrakech.

I’m sure that quite a few must have sneaked a look at Kim while she walked around, as foreign women are considered to be a bit more liberated than those from Morocco.

Unable to fight off the feeling of tiredness any longer I headed back towards the hotel for 11.30. I was ready for a good night’s sleep, regardless of how hot it was in the little room.

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