Into the Desert - M'Hamid, Morocco

…Mohamed climbs out and walks around the car. He squints at the sand around the door sills and kicks at the tires. Bill and I look at each other, and feel grateful we brought plenty of water. “Now we push”, says Mohammed…

It’s 06:45. The sun’s coming up. I untangle myself from my sleeping bag and look around.
The outskirts of M’Hamid. Dusty grey soil, scattered shrubs. In the distance, the river valley and date palms. Barely fifty kilometres to the south, the Sahara Desert.

(Top photo: Off-roading with Mohammed in the hatchback. About three minutes later we are good and bogged.)

As I pack up my sleeping bag, a man and a small dog approach. As he gets closer, the man pulls the desert scarf away from his face and smiles.
“Are you a Bedouin?” he asks.
“A gypsy”, I reply. “A European Bedouin.”
The man looks at me. He laughs.
“European Bedouin? It is a joke, yes? I am Abdul. This is my dog, Diana. Like the princess. We live over there.”
Abdul indicates a comfortable looking cafe and camp ground overlooking the date groves.
“Perhaps you would like a cup of tea? Maybe you would like to go and visit the desert? I can make you a good price. You are welcome, my friend.”

I find Bill on the roadside brushing his teeth. Bill insists he is more comfortable sleeping in his hatchback than curled up in the sand dunes like me. Each to their own.
Bill picked me up a few days ago when I was hitchhiking in the mountains. We have become good friends.

We take a cup of tea at Abdul’s cafe. Bill wants to sign us on for
the desert trip. I tell him that even at Abduls special price, it’s a bit too much for my purse.
“I don’t want to go on my own”, Bill insists. “You’re handy with maps and such, and you speak a bit of French. I’ve got the money, don’t worry about it. I need my executive producer on board.”

(Above: Sunrise. The outskirts of M’Hamid, where I camped.)

We load up the hatchback with food and water. Abdul’s cousin Mohammed is on board as driver, guide and gopher. Abdul draws a map, showing us where the camp is.
“My cousin Ali is there. He is a real Bedouin, a blue man. He doesn’t have any teeth but he is a good cook and he will make you a good meal tonight.”
We thank Abdul, and climb in the car.
Abdul leans in the window.
“Please give a message to my cousin Ali, when you see him”, Abdul says. “Tell him he is a dirty bastard. It is our joke.”
Abdul grins and waves, Mohammed guns the hatchback, and we bounce off down the track.

(Above: Abdul’s map.)
(Below: the track to Abdul’s place. I don’t know who this young fella is, but he was super friendly. Maybe a nephew of Abdul’s?)

The drive to the camp is across sand, clay pan, rocks and gravel. The barely discernible track is a winding criss-crossing series of tire tracks.
Mohamed drives with incredible skill and confidence, jockeying the tiny car through terrain that would be a challenge for a Jeep. Several times the way is blocked by high drifts of white sand, and Mohammed back tracks and circles to find a way forward.

Bill spots a group of camels in the distance and calls a halt. We take pictures. Mohamed says we can get a bit closer, and steers the hatchback into a narrow way between two windswept sand dunes. A hundred metres or so off the track, the sand suddenly gets a lot deeper, and the hatchback digs in, then stalls. Mohamed climbs out and walks around the car. He squints at the sand around the door sills and kicks at the tires.
Bill and I look at each other, and feel grateful we brought plenty of water.
“Now we push”, says Mohammed.
He lets air out of the skinny tires and we put our shoulders to the job. The car struggles and whines and spins it’s wheels, and Bill and I swallow quite a bit of sand, but twenty minutes later we are back on track.
“That is why camels are better”, Mohammed comments drily as we get under way again.

(Above: more suitable desert vehicles.)
(Below: Ali’s place.)

We arrive in Ali’s camp mid afternoon. 5 small tents huddle between low dunes. To the south and west, massive hills of sand rise and fall toward the horizon.
The host emerges from his bivouac, and greets us with a yellow, gap toothed smile.
“You are welcome my friends!” he calls. “Come, come inside.”
We seat ourselves on rugs at a low table and Ali and Mohammed prepare sweet mint tea.

Ali is tall and rangy with long greasy hair and a yellow tint to his eyes from the desert sun.
He crosses his bony legs at the table and pours tea for us solemnly. We toast and drink.
“Now my friends, as you know I do not often go to town to see my cousin Abdul. Did he give you any message for me?” Ali asks, smiling his toothless smile.
“Well, Ali”, I say, “your cousin did give us a message to pass on to you.”
I pause. I see Bill out of the corner of my eye, shaking his head at me.
I rest my hand on Ali’s shoulder, and tell him with as much gravity as I can manage: “your cousin Abdul told us to tell you, you are a dirty bastard.”
Ali looks at me for a moment. His yellow eyes widen and his lips curl back from his toothless gums. He grabs my arm and laughs wildly.
“You are welcome, friends!” he hoots.
We drink more tea.

(The dunes.)

Late in the afternoon, we walk to the crest of one of the biggest dunes and watch the sun sink in the west. The sand of the dunes is pinkish gold, and very fine. It moves constantly in the breeze, and the only sound is the hiss of sand on sand.

Ali serves us dinner in the twilight; a savoury tajine with chicken and vegetables, followed by a ripe green melon. Bill and I talk, late into the night, sitting by a low fire. When we fall silent, we watch shooting stars and listen to the absolute silence. Finally Bill starts to snore, and I pull my scarf over my head and sleep heavily until daybreak.

I wake at dawn and climb the dunes again. The air is chilly and there is a breeze, strengthening with the sunrise. As the sun comes up, I realise that my photographs will really not capture the desert’s size and beauty. I feel the enormity of the place, and it’s overwhelming power. I understand why the Bedouin love their dunes. The desert has the same kind of mesmeric intensity as the ocean.

Ali serves us tea and bread for breakfast. After breakfast he attempts to sell Bill a large assortment of “antiques”. It’s a stalemate, the quietly spoken, but stubborn American, versus the loud and tempestuous Bedouin. Finally they agree to disagree, and since I have made it clear I have no money, Ali is content to let me go with just a pat on the back.

(Below: Ali negotiating with Bill.)

Mohammed drives us back to town in the much abused hatchback. We pass another group of camels, but this time we stay on the track.

Back in town, Abdul enquires after his cousin’s health, and I inform him Ali is as mad as a meat axe.

We thank Abdul, and Mohammed for their hospitality, and Mohammed for his supernatural driving.

Bill has a plane to catch, and has to head back to the city. We have become good friends over the previous days and it’s a fond farewell.

Mohammed has an aunt and a grandmother who need a lift to a wedding in Ourzazate. Always happy to help, Bill leaves M’Hamid, one hitchhiker down, but with two new ones.