From the Sahara beck to Marrakesh.
I slept well. Out tent was the last one in the lines, so perhaps even quieter than the others. It was actually a lovely sleep. I was up around 5:30, and an hour later our group got together to took a walk into the dunes, hoping to see the sun come up.
It was quite lovely out there, and completely silent. Some of the group stayed together, while others, like me, wandered off for a little solitude. As the sky brightened, we weren’t able to see the sun come up because of the haze, whether that was airborne desert dust, which was most likely, or urban pollution (less likely out here, but then again, they are building those hotels). But just walking barefoot in the soft sand and seeing the sky brighten over the Erg Chebbi dunes was enough. Eventually, a little higher in the sky, the sun pierced through the haze, lending us an especially beautiful view over the dunes.ย
There is water here, anywhere from 3 to 30 feet under the dunes, and in the winter, when Intrepid also runs tours, parts of these dunes turn into are lakes, and in 2015 it snowed here in the Sahara.ย ย
But we had a long day of driving ahead, about ten hours, with breaks every 90 minutes. So off we set, a little after 8 am, expecting to be back in Marrakesh around 7 this evening. ย
The ride back was a movie in reverse, landscape and scenery wise. The part I was most looking forward to, though, was getting back into the mountainous country of the High Atlas Mountains, which was a highlight of the drive out.ย
Along the way, on this long drive back to Marrakesh, I thought about my travel preferences. The very experience of figuring things out as I go, in a foreign environment where I can’t even read or understand the language or understand the culture, which is anxiety provoking for sure, is also the closest experience I have to being an explorer in an unknown place and an anthropologist walking among the people in a strange land.ย Saying I love it is probably too strong of a word to use, but there is a feeling of accomplishment and a different feel to the experience when things work out, which isn’t always the case. But I’m not just trying to get to places and see things when I get there; I’m also and especially experiencing the journey itself. Much as I like being at the destination once I’m there, seeing and experiencing it, it’s the romanticized notion of getting there that also grabs me. For instance, it was just the idea of being on the train from Meknes to Marrakesh, passing through Casablanca and Rabat on the way, both romantic places to visit, that grabbed me. Just like being on the South China Sea in Vietnam was a thrill, even though it looked like any other ocean. It was the doing of it, its essence, that’s thrilling. Just like being at Penny Lane in Liverpool, and at the roundabout, was thrilling to me. I was there.ย
From an early philosophy class as an undergraduate, among all the things I don’t remember, I remember the definition of essence. Essence is that thing which makes that thing that thing.
I also thought about how much I’ve traveled since the loss of Bev. Rather than being the result of the travel I’d been waiting to do, my travels have resulted from becoming unmoored and without a specific destination or life to which I’m connected. Life with Bev was complete in and of itself. It was the journey and the destination. It was the sandwich and the filling, the whole thing.
It’s not that it met all of my needs, as it didn’t, anymore that it or I met all of Bev’s needs and aspirations, but that life together was not just more than sufficient, but intrinsically complete and satisfying. We were lucky. Without that, and no replacement possible or wanted, I’m without a guiding relationship and context, and seem to have returned to my pre-Bev form of figuring things out as I go, with no plan or expectation of finding one.ย
Right, back to today. The drive was more utilitarian getting back. We took breaks, but for leg stretching and for people to grab snacks or coffee, and then back on the road. We took a 45 minute break for lunch in a very nice restaurant in Ourrzazate, and then back on the road, about 50 minutes from the 7,400 foot pass through the High Atlas Mountains. Within thirty miles, the road was already winding and full of switchbacks, and the landscape around us becoming more rugged and mountainous, climbing steadily higher.ย
By then, “ready to be home fatigue syndrome” was in full force in our van, as always seems to be the case at the end of a trip when all that’s left is getting back to where we started, with lots of naps and few conversations. Everyone was ready to be home, Marrakesh in this case.ย ย Even Charif and Abdul had largely stopped talking with one another, and they’d been chatty most of the trip back until now.
The trip was excellent. Some things I would have liked more of, like more rugged hikes and more stops for photographs, and some more time in the Sahara itself, and on camel back. But still, overall it was a great tour, and Charif a good guide, and I enjoyed the people in my group.
After our final road break, we became re-vitalized as we headed into the last stretch. And then we were in Marrakesh, people getting out and saying their goodbyes in different spots in the city, some in the medina and others, like me, in the new city. I got out by the train station, where I’ll spend the night and the next two nights at the Ibis Hotel, which is adjacent to the train and bus station, and thus perfectly located for my day trip to Essaouira on Tuesday and my return to the airport on Wednesday.
The hotel has a nice lobby and the room is okay, but cramped, and I’m always amazed at what they don’t include in a room, like a chair in this case to go with the small desk by my bed. What’s the point of the desk?
I headed to the nice looking restaurant in the hotel, with an lovely outdoor area, but gave up after ten minutes of sitting there with no action at all, not even a greeting or menu. Instead, I wandered across Avenue Hassan II, the boulevard in front of the hotel, and grabbed a street sandwich. The vendor was friendly and interested to talk, but with my lousy French and his non-English, the most we could do was exchange a few words.
Although street prices are fairly inexpensive – $3 for this sandwich and a drink, and less than a dollar for some desert at a local store – prices are are considerably higher than in Vietnam, and many prices are close to U.S. prices, although just a tad less. For instance, a meal here, even in a small restaurant or street eatery, could easily be around $25.
Anyway, back to the hotel, to catch up on blog writing and photo editing, having had a poor signal for the past two days, and then to bed.
