Kidnapped in the Sahara

From the city of Fes it is an eleven hour bus ride south into the Sahara Desert. We ventured out with vague ideas of of camel treks to oases, of sandboarding the dunes of Erg Chebbi.

We arrived in Rissani, the end of the highway, after a sleepless night bus, at about 6.00 in the morning. On the bus, a man started going up and down the aisles shaking the few tourists on board from their tentative sleepy deliriums and asking if we wanted a shared taxi into Merzouga, 10 dirhams, which we did. We had been advised that the touts were very intense, but most of us en route to the desert on the Algerian border fancied ourselves savvy enough travelers to escape the pressure, or at least ignore it.

Six of us were plucked from the bus and followed this man down the street, expecting a taxi. Instead he directed us to a cafe to have a cup of tea, which none of us wanted. On to Merzouga! Instead we sat around, dumbly smoking cigarettes and waiting for the water to boil. Then we were ushered back down the stairs and into a 4x4, our packs stowed on the roof. I have guesthouse, said the man in the front. You come see it first. Hm, we all thought. Before even leaving Rissani we stopped about four times - for the driver to buy bread, tobacco - all desert provisions - on our time. We were getting restless. Every so often, every traveler gets screwed somehow, and the terrible realization dawns when one recognizes what is happening and has no choice but to go through with it.

Looking at the map, we surveyed Merzouga. Perhaps a 25km stretch of guesthouses running along the grand dunes, separated into three small areas. Our man in front was going on about his beautiful guesthouse, and if we wanted to see others we could simply walk over to them to check them out. Heading down the one lane road from Rissani we abruptly turned off the road and onto the desert piste, heading in the general direction of the dunes but also in the general direction of absolutely nothing else. We were officially in the middle of no where, off piste, and now our man was forcing us all to go to his guesthouse, to 'see for ourselves'.

Is it nearby other guesthouses? we asked. Yes, many, he said. As we got within sight of his place, we all groaned to see some other guesthouses in the distance, at least a kilometer away - which in the desert mid-morning is not a pleasant idea to slog through with 15 kilos on your back. It was officially an abduction. We all started complaining - you told us this was a taxi to Merzouga! We all want to be dropped off in centre ville! He yelled back: this is a taxi! And we are in Merzouga! The weaselly bastard.

Arriving at the guesthouse in the middle of nowhere, we discovered that we were approximately 17km away from our destination. As we piled out of the jeep, we found a Spanish couple eating breakfast, so we clambered over to ask them about the place. They had been coerced to come there as well - apparently this guesthouse was the last in a chain of 25km of guesthouses and they needed the business. Enough to kidnap people off buses at 5am by offering 'taxi service'. We went to see the rooms, which were nice enough, but we were all exhausted and hungry and hot and feeling like we had been fucked over. When we told our man that we wanted to go elsewhere, his previous rage exploded over and he started shouting at us: You don't like my guesthouse? Then you can walk to the others!

Shouting in our faces. We were all shocked and angry because the character of the typical Moroccan is warm and gentle - Morocco is famous for its hospitality. I will not bring you to the other places that you want to go, it is too far for me! he yelled. I was furious and walking in circles mumbling curses and hexes and New York niceties under my breath as Adam was pacing behind me attempting to give me a lecture about how I have no idea how to deal with Arabs blah blah and not to go about giving lip to the locals. As if all of his dealings with Palestinians in the IDF had made him a diplomat.

There was no way to get away save for the 4x4 we arrived in, unless we commandeered a camel, so we set about convincing the driver to take us somewhere else. He was it seems a friend of the guesthouse owner, who was yelling at him not to let us leave. His starting price was $5 a person, which is the same price as a room for two for one night in the desert. Hours had passed since we had gotten off the bus, the heat was increasing, and we still had guesthouses to visit before choosing the one we wanted. We got him down to 30 dirhams a person and sped off, our man still fuming in the sand.

By this point we had bonded with our traveling companions, two Belgian girls and a Catalunyian couple. We were all independently looking for a guesthouse with a little character and a few other travelers around. But suddenly as six, we could show up anywhere, bargain for three rooms at a good price, and together we were an instant party. So we decided to stick together. We didn't fully trust our driver, who we believed was scheming to take us to expensive places to screw us over after the previous debacle. The first place we stopped was called Nassar Palace. Traveling on the budget that we do, Adam and I never stay at places called palaces. But again, with six people in low season, we had bargaining power. We sent the two boys in as emissaries. Muslims like to deal with men. Adam and Gerard returned with reports of a beautiful sandcastle courtyard with a swimming pool in the middle. But too expensive, they said.

So we agreed to move on to the next place, the driver licking his chops in anticipation of charging us more and bringing us to another expensive place in retribution for his asshole friend. No! shouted the Nassar Palace man, a Berber in bright blue. We make you good price!

So we started bargaining for the hell of it. In the end, it was at $10 a night more than we usually pay but the place was so beautiful and the company so good and the owner wasn't a fucker and the swimming pool looked delicious in the desert sun and six people can bargain a camel trek down much better than two. So we jumped out of the car, told the driver to go fuck himself in English while saying thank you in Arabic, and moved into the Nassar Palace.