Zagora, near the Sahara Desert

After around eight hours of sitting in a bus in old, stuffy conditions that reminded me of South-East Asia, I arrived in Zagora at 3 am in the morning. At this point I had no idea whether my couchsurfing host Esafouan would still accommodate me and thus no idea what I was going to do at 3am in an unknown town in the middle of the desert. On the bus I met a Moroccan soldier on leave who was in a similar situation, on the way home to his family, and so we decided to look for a hotel together.

A short walk down the street was Hotel la Rose des Sables. The hotel (recommended in my Lonely Planet) was a maze, dark, still under construction and had ample opportunities for frights in the night. It was attended to by an over-attentive young boy who awkwardly followed me everywhere outside my room. This proved to be very disturbing, not only because of his sudden unexpected and repeated appearances but also because of his youth and the fact that he was working at such an ungodly hour. While I took a shower, this young boy also pretended to have a shower under some pretence. While I brushed my teeth, he stood at the mirror next to me combing his hair!

As I was about to sleep at 4am after this greatly needed shower, I received a phone call from my couchsurfing host, who said he would be downstairs at the lobby in a minute. It must have been my sleepless mind and the new environment that made me mentally construct and exaggerate the strangeness of this town - first an overattentive stalking servant boy, then this...

Esafouan, whose online profile name was actually Enafouas (an anagram - how bloody clever!), and whose name I justifiably mistook for the latter (how alien I must have appeared at the bus stop, asking around for this anagrammatically-concocted name) was thin, dressed like a student, with a mysterious demeanour. I had no idea why he was dressed in such a business-like manner at 3am in the morning and this only added to my suspicion that something was not quite right. Moreover, Esafouan's motorcyle driver, with whom he arrived at the hotel, was to ferry me back to the accommodation first while he walked back afterwards.

When I arrived, the oasis-like camp, set in a neighbourhood under construction, seemed just too good to be true. Why would Esafouan be offering me free overnight stay in a place that obviously was set up for business? My room, albeit a basic, rustic and dusty mud dwelling room, was private, with a double bed. With my vivid imagination fuelled by too many horror stories, I was cautious about the slot for the padlock that was on the outside of the door. I decided to lock this up with the padlock for my own peace of mind and fell asleep with great caution.
The next morning, I was relieved (1) to see the place in full sunlight (it was actually called "Prends ton temps/Nehmen Sie Zeit/Take your time") and (2) be offered a business transaction - the existence of which explained their unexplained generousness and hospitality. I decided to take their offer for a half-day camel-ride-and-meal deal. Overly proud of their ingenious name, the campstaff kept inviting me to ...take my time.

Over lunch of couscous and vegetables, and watermelons, I met Fabrice Laviolette, a French-British student on exchange in Spain who was also travelling. He had just come back from climbing a mountain in the desert in the morning sun. He was absolutely fatigued, his gigantic body splayed across the carpet, sweating profusely from his dark African skin and still quite excited about the suffering trek he had just endured, reminding me of delirious wanderers who have been in the desert too long. We were in a dusty tent, sitting on low cushions at a low table, in front of a desert and camels mural backdrop that just added to this Saharan atmosphere. As we gobbled down our substantial lunch, Fabrice calmed down gradually and progressively talked more coherently.

After lunch, I was driven across town to a group of men huddled around a single camel, which was to be my bearer into the desert. I was surprised to realise that I was the only one doing the tour, and that a Berber guide, walking in sandals, would lead the camel the whole way.

The dromedarian novelty soon wore off and I found myself, not far from the beginning of the trip, craving a cold bottle of generic Cola beverage.

We passed by the mountain that Fabrice was supposed to have climbed.

Photo that Fabrice had also taken, and that many camel riders inevitably take, out of sheer boredom/monotony.

After walking alongside a surprisingly healthy stream (given its proximity to The Sahara Desert), and surprisingly fertile and green agricultural plots and gardens, and a (dare I say) luscious palm oasis, we plodded along into more dry, arid desert. I started to regret bargaining for a longer camel ride (thinking it would be better value-for-money) but was glad that it was in the afternoon. Nonetheless, the sun was hot in full strength and beat down on all, evaporating all moisture.

Camel-toe!

Finally, after some slow dreary monotonous hours, we approached sand dunes with sand ripples. And beyond that, like a secret but stupid congregration in the middle of the desert, were large tents huddled around in a large circle. The camp was deserted.

I was invited into the main tent, presumably normally used for parties and entertaining, to rest. I lay down for a while in that dusty, hot, tent before my camel guide came in with some nice, refreshingly WARM, overly-sweet Moroccan tea. I still do not understand how something like that can quench thirst. Only a few hours later, when I got back to civilisation, did a cold bottle of generic Cola beverage fulfill this.

That night, back at the "Prends ton temps/Nemen Sie Zeit/Take your time" camp, I lounged around in the central courtyard, under the stars, with three real hippies from Germany and Portugal, and the aforementioned Fabrice. We were like Captain Planet's Planeteers: there was a token Asian, a token Black man and any one of the diminutive hippy girls could have been Heart.
Before even arriving in Spain, I was aware of an architect by the name of Gaudi who did crazy, organic and perhaps haphazard work like this. Also reminiscent of the crazy Gaudi-like concrete-based sculptures made by my grandfather in his garden.

I came to Morocco to surf (check) and to Zagora to see the Desert of a Thousand Stars. That night, I slept under these stars.