A Saharan New Year’s Comedy of Errors – Concluded

Missed the first part of the article? Read it here

BY JACEK GREBSKI

The Fez Medina, donkeys in the streets, bazaars, merchants selling wares, an eternal maze of small winding alleys covered in canopy, endless shops lining both sides. As we entered, I recall being stopped by a North American who asked us what we were doing there – didn’t we know it was dangerous? As quickly as he appeared he disappeared again, into the throng of people running about their business. Lost in this city at once so commercially vibrant and so out of touch with modernity.

Our friends took us down a puzzle of streets and alleys to a restaurant where we dined with them. The food was astoundingly delicious and we treated our hosts to the meal, after which they led us through a further labyrinth to their home where they invited us in for dessert. The medina house boasted a large inner courtyard with plants and trees and rooms on each side of the inner courtyard. We were offered comfitures and tea by mother and sister, and sat huddled in discussion over our plans and ideas.

We described our plan to take a bus from Fez to Erfoud in the south, about 80 kilometres from the Algerian border, and spend New Year’s Eve on Erg Chebbi by Merzouga. However the brothers tried to convince us that the nationalised bus company had sold out of tickets, that the only way to go was by cab for an estimated cost of €1500, and that instead we should just stay with them. We decided to take our chances at the bus station, after all – the desert was the mission.

The Fez bus station was hectic – we had no idea where to go, who to ask for directions, what busses were going where. It seemed as if we were the only clueless ones there. Nonetheless with the help of our French-speaking friend we managed to buy a ticket on a private bus headed for Er Rachidia, and from there Erfoud and Merzouga were just a stone’s throw away.

I must say we felt quite proud after purchasing the tickets, despite the warnings of our Fez friends we had managed to get closer to our final destination.

On the bus transient men selling last-minute trinkets, knockoff Rolex watches and faux tiger balm accompanied us, jumping on and off as we made our way through the curvy streets outside the city. Slowly exhaustion began setting in and one by one we started to doze off, the bus climbing the mountains, the temperature outside falling, the temperature inside falling?

One of the bus windows was apparently permanently ajar, and the cold air and wind coming in from the outside had dropped the temperature to below zero. Even in a U.S. Air Force issue Bomber Jacket I felt the cold penetrating through my bones, my gloves and hat were futile, and my toes felt like icicles at the ends of my feet. Luckily we’d bought some of the faux tiger balm from one of the bus merchants and proceeded to rub it on in order to create a false feeling of warmth.

Reflecting now, I can honestly say I’ve never been so cold in my life. The Atlas Mountains were snow-peaked and this we’d not prepared for. But as I sit here relating this story, it’s not the cold that I remember most vividly, it’s the millions upon millions of stars that inhabited the sky that particular night. It was magical, magnificent – the mere recollection makes me want to leave cities behind forever just to be able to gaze at them once more.

With the stars as my friends on this cold journey throughout the night we eventually made it to Er Rachidia, where we were to catch the final bus that would take us to Erfoud.

The climate on this side of the mountains was different, dryer – the desert was close, we could tell. Not only by the lack of humidity in the air, but by the people and faces. Darker and more weathered, men now boasted not only Jalabas in larger numbers but also turbans, Tuareg blue. We were getting close.

I don’t recall why, or what exactly happened, but in our exhaustion three of us found ourselves separated from the rest of the group. Someone said there was a bus going to Erfoud; someone else said there wasn’t. Someone wanted to take us by taxi; someone else said no more busses until after the New Year. We finally caught our friends’ gazes in another bus, and ran to the door. The bus driver and others blocked us out with the excuse that it was full, and we were pushed from it, trying desperately to communicate to our friends.

Left on the dusty parking of the bus station, we watched the bus pull away. What could we do? No phone, no idea where we were going, what was the hotel called? And as the silhouette of our success moved away, from behind stood two figures with bags in hand; they’d jumped off the bus to join us.

Previous misinformation aside, I believe the locals felt bad for us and when a new bus arrived a few minutes later they indicated that it was in fact heading for our destination. Last stop the hotel Auberge Sahara, a splendidly run, Berber stronghold structure, built out of grass and mud at the absolute foot of the Erg Chebbi dune sea.

We’d done it. Rolling dunes, vast blue skies and quiet. Quiet like you’ve never heard before, the only sound – your breath. It was amazing and well worth the adventure that took us there, not only for the beauty, but for the trial and the lifelong bonds that we made trying to get to the edge of the desert.

Read up a bit more on Morocco.
: In Morocco by Edith Wharton
: Lords of the Atlas by Gavin Maxwell
: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho