The Desert, Part 1: Water, Water Everywhere

     Preface:  ALIF arranged a trip for students to visit the Sahara desert this past weekend, which included a night in a nice hotel and another night in the desert, a two-hour camel ride from a second hotel.  Our group of 10 Americans, 2 Italians, a Brit, and our Moroccan driver and American program organizer set out Friday afternoon for the city of Merzouga, 7.5 hours due south of Fez.  This is the story of our weekend.

     Part 1:  Water, water everywhere.

    

 Friday morning I woke up quite relieved--no sore throat like I expected, nor congested sinuses.  The day before I'd begun to feel under the weather, and was reconsidering my decision to go on the Sahara trip.  With the consolation I'd soon be on a mini vacation, I cared less that I'd done only half my assigned homework, which was a ludicrous amount to begin with. 

     But outside it was pouring down rain.  I hastily stuffed spare clothes, my computer, and Al-Kitaab into my hiking bag.  About the same time my classmates were getting to school, I was just leaving the house.  It was 8 a.m.  Half an hour later, I slopped into class dripping wet and dreading the next four hours.  During class I gradually dried off, only to get soaked again when we set out to find a portable lunch for the bus. 

     They say it hasn't rained so hard in 60 years here in Fez.  Even today, Monday, part of the medina is still flooded.  And the roads were in no better shape on Friday.  At a dozen places on the way, the road was covered in water and sometimes rushed across the road in 6 inch-deep inundations.  Some places our bus waited only a few minutes to cross--other places we waited more than half an hour.  

     Since recovering from 12 days of diarrhea in early September, my bathroom routine has been virtually to realize that I have to use the bathroom, and to absolutely need to be there within a few minutes.  So when I found myself sitting in the back of this bus, only half

way to our destination and waiting an eternity for our collective courage to cross the torrent of water in the road, I started to get worried when I felt a little gurgle in my stomach.  Moments later, I had to go.     I thought about hopping out of the bus and searching for a bathroom. It wasn't like our bus was going anywhere.  But just then we budged and edged forward, and started through the water.  By now, my stomach was hurting.  I made my way up to our organizer and asked if we could find a place, any place, where I could go.  We crossed the flood and soon found an old cafe.  Despite being in Morocco for more than a month, I'd managed--until this cafe--to avoid traditional squat toilets. 

     But life was good then and we made our way south, stopping for food and coffee during the day.   My coffee had a fly in it, a fact I didn't realize until I pulled it out of my mouth with my fingers. We crossed mountains and passed into drier territory, and eleven hours after we left ALIF, we arrived at a ludicrously over-the-top resort, packed with Spanish tourists.  The decor gleefully mimicked primitive Berber life, and I had difficulty discerning whether it was reaching to recreate Berber or Native American life.  Martina, one of the Italian girls, carefully searched for the proper word.  

     "Kitsch," she said.

     But it was almost midnight, we were tired, and they had beds.  They also had beer and hot showers, and it took little convincing for me to have my first beer in Morocco.  It's called Flag and comes in a bottle, but it tastes exactly, I mean exactly, like Bud Light.