Up early in the morning I took yet another bus to Zagora where I had promised my mudir (director of my Dar Chebab) I would look up his sister and her sons who worked with tourists before I went on to M’Hamid, where the road ends in the desert near the Algerian border. After a couple phone calls and talking to some of the guys who approached me on the street, a man came up to me and said he would take me to one of the nephews. He led me to a new, black SUV which had a couple French tourists in the back. I introduced myself to the driver, who turned out to be one of the nephews, Hamid. Not having any idea where we were going, but not wanting to be left out in the hot sun, I hopped in with the tourists. 

Hamid took us to the hotel Sirocco he works at with his brothers on the edge of town. It was by far the most luxurious hotel I’ve ever seen in Morocco and was in many ways even more beautiful than the luxury hotels Anisa and I snuck in to go swimming at in Cambodia. It is owned by a French couple who live in Marrakech and I highly recommend it to those not trying to live on a Peace Corps budget. Check it out at www.kasbah-sirocco.com. 

I spent the morning talking with the nephews and reporting on how their family was doing in Kelaa. I then had to find a way to M’Hamid, which I had heard was difficult to find transportation to. True fact. There was no way I was going to get to M’Hamid that day. The nephews proposed I take a little trip out into the dunes near Zagora, since I wasn’t going to get to go out to M’Hamid. The dunes there are smaller, not the giant mountains of sand farther out in the desert, but just as beautiful and camels are the same no matter where you go in Morocco. 

I called Peace Corps to warn them that I wasn’t going to make it to M’Hamid and had to stay in Zagora. Volunteers are required to notify the office in Rabat whenever our travel plans change. They have to know where we are at all times, even on vacation. Peace Corps has obviously changed a lot in response to recent political events and Morocco is high on the list of countries to be watchful in. 

I had an interesting ride out from town accompanied by Daoud, who I would guess was at the most 15 years old. He said he didn’t go to school, but wasn’t very talkative, so I sat back to enjoy the scenery. I was surprised that no other caravans were headed out of town, since knew that there was really only one track out towards the bivouac that they took tourists to. Daoud said they would come later. When we reached the tents on the edge of the dunes I sat around drinking tea and chatting with the guys who worked there, making sure to be nice to the cook. They taught me some Shullha words (Shullha is the term that covers all the different native languages here. I cannot tell the difference between Tamazight and Tashilhit, so when in doubt I tend to call it Shullha, which is more acceptable than Berber.) 

After dark had set some giant Land Rover sort of jeeps drove into camp, spraying sand with their monstrous tires. A group of 46 Belgians who were on an organized ten day tour of Morocco all trouped into the larger of the squares of tents that was off to one side of the bivouac. Though I was supposed to be staying in a smaller tent, they invited me to have dinner with them so I could cheer up one of the girls in the group. She was a Canadian, I think 16, who had been on a 3 month exchange in Belgium when her host family decided to go to Morocco for spring break. I couldn’t imagine what kind of extreme culture shock she must have been experiencing, but despite being sick (culture shock is nothing compared to what Moroccan food can do to a Western stomach) she seemed to be taking it all quite well. I talked to her in English, wished her the best of luck and offered her anything she might need from my medical kit. 

That night I also met a group of Brits my age who had hitchhiked from London to Tangiers as some sort of charity fund raiser. They were staying in the same tents I was in, so at dawn when I got up to go sit on a dune and watch the sunrise, the three women came with. Sitting in the sand, watching the sun rise over the distant mountains reminded me so much of Burning Man that I felt at home in the Sahara.