20 November 2007
14 November 2007
The Road to Tamtatouchte
22 October 2007
Ouzoud, Morocco
We arrived in Todra Gorge via the goat market in Rissani, a shitty lunch in Erfoud, and an unfortunate overnight in Tinerihr. We set out the following day to have a walk through the gorge, perhaps to visit the little villages along the way on the road to Tamtatouchte. After walking four or five kilometers, we flagged down a lorry to catch a lift to the next village for some mint tea. Moroccans stop if they have room in the car. People with few means are often always friendly, and always generous.
So we climbed into the back of the lorry, which was filled with cinder blocks. We sat right behind the cab, perched on the concrete, and banged on the roof to signal that we were ready. We held onto a metal bar to secure ourselves, and the lorry sped off down the gorge and into the valley ahead. The landscape is absolutely spectacular, the middle Atlas mountains spread out alongside the river valley, treeless because it is so arid.
We reached Tamtatouchte after a short while, but we were enjoying ourselves so much up there that we asked to go wherever they were going. About 30km further, they replied, to drop off the cinder blocks. And then back to Tinerihr. So we barreled on further, and there is no better ride through such a beautiful place than perched high on a lorry with nothing but the sky overhead. We stopped in a small village to unload, Adam and I bought peanuts in a little store and some cookies for the ubiquitous children who milled about and held our hands and showed off doing bicycle tricks. No hands, look!
We asked if there was a place for tea, and a man on the street offered to take us to his house in as there was no restaurant. As we walked along the road to his house, our two friends in the lorry drove up behind us to fetch us on their way back to Tinerihr. We climbed back on the truck, but the leftover cinder blew in our faces so we climbed into the cab instead, me on Adam's lap. A lot of the road had been washed away as it ran along the river bed. When the river swells, as it does every few years, it takes part of the road with it, leaving huge holes of exposed reinforced concrete clinging to the gorge walls, forcing the lorries and 4x4s to drive through the river and back onto the broken road. Really only safe for lorries, though. Walking along the road we saw a Dutch caravan get stuck in the water, subsequently soaking its engine and probably rendering it useless. They had three small children with them, all little blonde ones under the age of eight. Later we saw them being towed away by more Dutchies in a caravan.
We had had such good luck hitching that day we decided to fetch our bags from Todra and hitch to Imilchil, halfway to the Cascade d'Ouzoud. We left the next morning later than planned, as usual; waited for an hour with no luck and then got two rides at once. Adam flagged down a 4x4 witha German couple and two Moroccans, and I flagged down a piece of shit minibus full of people bound for Imilchil. We debated for a few minutes, finally deciding to take the bus and meet with the Germans later for a ride to Marrakech.
We asked the bus driver if we could ride on the roof, which everyone does not only in Morocco but all across the developing world. He said yes long enough to fix our packs to the roof, and then promptly changed his mind. Furious, we climbed into the bus, seating twelve, with no empty seats and a few extra heads. Adam squeezed into a four seater, now six with him, and I stood leaning against him with his knee supporting the rest of me. It was hot outside, but in the bus all the windows were closed and the people not smelling so fine. There are moments in life when I don't smell so good either, so I don't mean to be judgmental - but this particular smell was really intolerable. We went about 5km like this before I lost my mind and Adam told the driver to either let us up on the roof or let us off the bus and lose our fare. He let us onto the roof.
The minibus was flat-roofed, with a sort of topless cage affixed on top where all of the luggage is stowed, all held down by a net made of rope which is drawn tightly front to back, side to side. To ride on top, you climb up the ladder and squeeze your tusik between two bags. Then you wrap your legs through the net rope and find something stable to hold on to with your hands. Through the little mountain roads, one never goes very fast, so it is not as easy as it sounds to fall off. All things considered, it really is quite safe, unless the bus goes off the cliff. We did almost get a low-hanging electric wire in the mouth passing through Tamtatouchte, but missed it just in time. So other than that, it is pretty safe on the roof.
For the first two hours, winding through places called Tamzijn and Agoudal, we had an extraordinary time. The bus drove slowly and we waved at all the children we passed. We passed villages made of red mud, forts, minarets, all made of red earth. I smiled at Adam and counted my blessings, thinking how few people in the world would come to Morocco with me and ride on top of buses. He is the best travel partner, and he is always helping me. Not that I need help. He said to me the other day that I am one of the most capable people he knows. But I get tired of being capable. It means one is always working something - bargaining, haggling for a room, a taxi ride, a discount, directions, bus times, train schedules. Always something. But Adam and I share everything, including responsibility for each other. It has evolved that way between us.
And I think that he is always concerned for me here, in a Muslim country, with my head uncovered. He secretly thinks that I am going to be abducted and sold into sex slavery in Abu Dhabi. He lost me in the souk in Rissani the other day when I wandered off to look at leather pencil cases while he was tasting dates. As I walked past the stalls, every merchant came out and said "You're husband is looking for you!". When I caught up with him he grabbed me and hugged me and asked me never to wander off again. But I'm always wandering off. I'm still used to following my own rules. And Adam knows I never do what anyone tells me to do anyway.
After two hours on the roof, I shouted down to a child on the road asking how much further to Imilchil. Cinquante kilometres! he replied. Only half-way! One does get a bit windburned on the roof, especially once you cross the Atlas and descend into the opposite valley, straight away, with the wind whipping in your face at 70kph. Cold, too, even when the sun is shining. And the bag under your back begins to feel painful. I became totally exhausted after only three hours, so I held on more tightly and put my head down and tried to rest.
After four hours we arrived in Imilchil, crawled into a cafe with our long curls standing on end ordering two coffees a piece and scrambled eggs, which they served in the frying pan and which we would have eaten as well had they not cleared the table. To make a very long story short, we underestimated the distance between Todra Gorge and the Cascade d'Ouzoud. By a hell of a lot. And we chose to do the bulk of it off-piste, over the Atlas Mountains. It took us two days of constant travel to get to Ouzoud - from Todra to Imilchil, onto Aghbalal, stopping at El Ksiba, Beni Mellal, Azilal and finally Ouzoud.
We found an isolated little guest house on the opposite side of the cascade, which entails climbing down the mountain with your pack, crossing the river by a little hand-pulled boat, and climbing partway up the other side to a clearing with a beautiful piece of land. The shower is very clean and has a lot of hot water, and there is a Western loo and a Turkish loo from which to choose. We are staying in a bamboo hut with no electricity to bother with, and monkeys dance on our roof at night. Adam is off hiking, and I have stayed behind at a little table with grapevines on a trellis overhead, the cascade in front of me. It is beautiful to hear the waterfall at night, under the light of the full moon.
Ouzoud, Morocco
We arrived in Todra Gorge via the goat market in Rissani, a shitty lunch in Erfoud, and an unfortunate overnight in Tinerihr. We set out the following day to have a walk through the gorge, perhaps to visit the little villages along the way on the road to Tamtatouchte. After walking four or five kilometers, we flagged down a lorry to catch a lift to the next village for some mint tea. Moroccans stop if they have room in the car. People with few means are often always friendly, and always generous.
So we climbed into the back of the lorry, which was filled with cinder blocks. We sat right behind the cab, perched on the concrete, and banged on the roof to signal that we were ready. We held onto a metal bar to secure ourselves, and the lorry sped off down the gorge and into the valley ahead. The landscape is absolutely spectacular, the middle Atlas mountains spread out alongside the river valley, treeless because it is so arid.
We reached Tamtatouchte after a short while, but we were enjoying ourselves so much up there that we asked to go wherever they were going. About 30km further, they replied, to drop off the cinder blocks. And then back to Tinerihr. So we barreled on further, and there is no better ride through such a beautiful place than perched high on a lorry with nothing but the sky overhead. We stopped in a small village to unload, Adam and I bought peanuts in a little store and some cookies for the ubiquitous children who milled about and held our hands and showed off doing bicycle tricks. No hands, look!
We asked if there was a place for tea, and a man on the street offered to take us to his house in as there was no restaurant. As we walked along the road to his house, our two friends in the lorry drove up behind us to fetch us on their way back to Tinerihr. We climbed back on the truck, but the leftover cinder blew in our faces so we climbed into the cab instead, me on Adam's lap. A lot of the road had been washed away as it ran along the river bed. When the river swells, as it does every few years, it takes part of the road with it, leaving huge holes of exposed reinforced concrete clinging to the gorge walls, forcing the lorries and 4x4s to drive through the river and back onto the broken road. Really only safe for lorries, though. Walking along the road we saw a Dutch caravan get stuck in the water, subsequently soaking its engine and probably rendering it useless. They had three small children with them, all little blonde ones under the age of eight. Later we saw them being towed away by more Dutchies in a caravan.
We had had such good luck hitching that day we decided to fetch our bags from Todra and hitch to Imilchil, halfway to the Cascade d'Ouzoud. We left the next morning later than planned, as usual; waited for an hour with no luck and then got two rides at once. Adam flagged down a 4x4 witha German couple and two Moroccans, and I flagged down a piece of shit minibus full of people bound for Imilchil. We debated for a few minutes, finally deciding to take the bus and meet with the Germans later for a ride to Marrakech.
We asked the bus driver if we could ride on the roof, which everyone does not only in Morocco but all across the developing world. He said yes long enough to fix our packs to the roof, and then promptly changed his mind. Furious, we climbed into the bus, seating twelve, with no empty seats and a few extra heads. Adam squeezed into a four seater, now six with him, and I stood leaning against him with his knee supporting the rest of me. It was hot outside, but in the bus all the windows were closed and the people not smelling so fine. There are moments in life when I don't smell so good either, so I don't mean to be judgmental - but this particular smell was really intolerable. We went about 5km like this before I lost my mind and Adam told the driver to either let us up on the roof or let us off the bus and lose our fare. He let us onto the roof.
The minibus was flat-roofed, with a sort of topless cage affixed on top where all of the luggage is stowed, all held down by a net made of rope which is drawn tightly front to back, side to side. To ride on top, you climb up the ladder and squeeze your tusik between two bags. Then you wrap your legs through the net rope and find something stable to hold on to with your hands. Through the little mountain roads, one never goes very fast, so it is not as easy as it sounds to fall off. All things considered, it really is quite safe, unless the bus goes off the cliff. We did almost get a low-hanging electric wire in the mouth passing through Tamtatouchte, but missed it just in time. So other than that, it is pretty safe on the roof.
For the first two hours, winding through places called Tamzijn and Agoudal, we had an extraordinary time. The bus drove slowly and we waved at all the children we passed. We passed villages made of red mud, forts, minarets, all made of red earth. I smiled at Adam and counted my blessings, thinking how few people in the world would come to Morocco with me and ride on top of buses. He is the best travel partner, and he is always helping me. Not that I need help. He said to me the other day that I am one of the most capable people he knows. But I get tired of being capable. It means one is always working something - bargaining, haggling for a room, a taxi ride, a discount, directions, bus times, train schedules. Always something. But Adam and I share everything, including responsibility for each other. It has evolved that way between us.
And I think that he is always concerned for me here, in a Muslim country, with my head uncovered. He secretly thinks that I am going to be abducted and sold into sex slavery in Abu Dhabi. He lost me in the souk in Rissani the other day when I wandered off to look at leather pencil cases while he was tasting dates. As I walked past the stalls, every merchant came out and said "You're husband is looking for you!". When I caught up with him he grabbed me and hugged me and asked me never to wander off again. But I'm always wandering off. I'm still used to following my own rules. And Adam knows I never do what anyone tells me to do anyway.
After two hours on the roof, I shouted down to a child on the road asking how much further to Imilchil. Cinquante kilometres! he replied. Only half-way! One does get a bit windburned on the roof, especially once you cross the Atlas and descend into the opposite valley, straight away, with the wind whipping in your face at 70kph. Cold, too, even when the sun is shining. And the bag under your back begins to feel painful. I became totally exhausted after only three hours, so I held on more tightly and put my head down and tried to rest.
After four hours we arrived in Imilchil, crawled into a cafe with our long curls standing on end ordering two coffees a piece and scrambled eggs, which they served in the frying pan and which we would have eaten as well had they not cleared the table. To make a very long story short, we underestimated the distance between Todra Gorge and the Cascade d'Ouzoud. By a hell of a lot. And we chose to do the bulk of it off-piste, over the Atlas Mountains. It took us two days of constant travel to get to Ouzoud - from Todra to Imilchil, onto Aghbalal, stopping at El Ksiba, Beni Mellal, Azilal and finally Ouzoud.
We found an isolated little guest house on the opposite side of the cascade, which entails climbing down the mountain with your pack, crossing the river by a little hand-pulled boat, and climbing partway up the other side to a clearing with a beautiful piece of land. The shower is very clean and has a lot of hot water, and there is a Western loo and a Turkish loo from which to choose. We are staying in a bamboo hut with no electricity to bother with, and monkeys dance on our roof at night. Adam is off hiking, and I have stayed behind at a little table with grapevines on a trellis overhead, the cascade in front of me. It is beautiful to hear the waterfall at night, under the light of the full moon.
02 November 2007
A Cure for the Common Cold
Adam caught a cold in Fes, which I managed to avoid until the stress of our abduction caused my immune system to fail long enough to get genuinely and truly sick myself.
Just a common cold, although today I have been feeling really miserable. We've decided to stay on in the Sahara until I get better, as our next move is some trekking through the Atlas Mountains. Today I moped around the courtyard of the beautiful Nassar Palace attempting to invite as much sympathy as possible. I look as terrible as I feel, so it hasn't been too difficult. Right now, Adam is out with the Berbers at the little shop by the camel pen, the Berbers instructing him to buy milk, Halls lozenges and cinnamon. Apparently they are going to boil it all together and put me to bed with it in order to sleep it off and sweat it out.
Already I've tried sniffing salt water, to no avail. An American from Montana gave me some decongestants, which did absolutely nothing. The problem is that I have a runny nose that simply will not stop running. If I don't wipe it every minute or so, it will simply run all over the table. Terrible, really.
Then Hassan came out and asked if I wanted to try a Berber remedy. Why not? And then he headed out in the direction of the camel pen and returned with a tuft of camel wool and a towel. He told me to put my head under the towel, set the camel wool on fire and breathe the smoke. I didn't want to offend him - he has been a good friend to us. So I ducked under and began burning the wool, at which point the little tuft began sizzling and pouring out thick camel smoke.
Camels smell bad. Burning camel fur smells worse.
I began coughing so hard that I thought my ribs would break. Adam and Hassan were laughing but Hassan swore to me as I choked that this is what his mother has him do whenever he is sick. After a few more minutes of coughing and spluttering I asked for a kettle of hot water and put in some Burmese Tiger Balm and slid back underneath my towel to inhale the steam. I emerged again 20 minutes later after simultaneously burning the tip of my nose and spilling boiling water on my leg. By this time the entire hotel staff and most of the guests were coming by to see if any treatments had made improvements, and everyone was disappointed. Time for milk boiled with cough drops! they yelled. Hassan went off to the kitchen.
The Berbers are beautiful men. Haven't sen much of the women, but they have tattooed foreheads and chins and wear necklaces made of coins. The Berbers are genuine desert people, a mixture of native Moroccan, Algerian, Mauritanian, Malian, Spanish, Arab. As a result they all look different, even from each other. Some are mulatto looking, like Hassan, tall with grey eyes and white teeth. He has a beautiful shy smile. Some are small and dark, black black lashes and startling blue green eyes. Some are very Semitic looking, Mediterranean, sharp featured. The men working here are mostly my age, and they all speak Berber and French and Spanish fluently, and can make themselves understood in English, German, Italian, Japanese. All from tourists. We spoke Spanish together. When we first arrived as a group of six, we were the only guests and we sat with the mend and they played the drums and we smoked together under the stars late into the night. Yet although they speak European languages and spend most of their time with the many travelers passing through, it seems that their hearts are here in the desert.
Hassan has visited Barcelona, and he speaks of it as if it were Delhi or Shanghai. The desert is so quiet, he says. And we have to agree. We planned to stay here only two days, and now it is already double that. It is quite, life is slow. The men here, in our guesthouse, but blue jeans but djellabas on top band the customary half turban is bright blue or orange against their brown skin. And they no longer want to follow the old Berber customs, but they are also not willing to leave the desert. I am a camel man, Hassan says.
We asked about Berber marriage. The women are kept hidden away and are not allowed to make contact with the young men, not even allowed to see them. The fathers of the girl are the ones to arrange the marriage, ensuring that the daughter is a virgin. They can ensure this because the girl has always been under the watchful eye of someone or other. When the match is made, the couple has still not met, not until their wedding. At some point during the wedding, the marriage is consummated and the bed cloth is then paraded around to prove the virginity of the girl to all present. She is usually fifteen or sixteen years old. Hassan and Ahmed want nothing to do with the tradition, telling their fathers that they will never marry a girl they haven't met. Then do however, go husband scouting for their sisters.
The boiled milk arrives, and it tastes more like chai than lozenge. Within seconds my body temperature rises, and Adam tucks me in to sweat it out. I feel better in the morning.
Just a common cold, although today I have been feeling really miserable. We've decided to stay on in the Sahara until I get better, as our next move is some trekking through the Atlas Mountains. Today I moped around the courtyard of the beautiful Nassar Palace attempting to invite as much sympathy as possible. I look as terrible as I feel, so it hasn't been too difficult. Right now, Adam is out with the Berbers at the little shop by the camel pen, the Berbers instructing him to buy milk, Halls lozenges and cinnamon. Apparently they are going to boil it all together and put me to bed with it in order to sleep it off and sweat it out.
Already I've tried sniffing salt water, to no avail. An American from Montana gave me some decongestants, which did absolutely nothing. The problem is that I have a runny nose that simply will not stop running. If I don't wipe it every minute or so, it will simply run all over the table. Terrible, really.
Then Hassan came out and asked if I wanted to try a Berber remedy. Why not? And then he headed out in the direction of the camel pen and returned with a tuft of camel wool and a towel. He told me to put my head under the towel, set the camel wool on fire and breathe the smoke. I didn't want to offend him - he has been a good friend to us. So I ducked under and began burning the wool, at which point the little tuft began sizzling and pouring out thick camel smoke.
Camels smell bad. Burning camel fur smells worse.
I began coughing so hard that I thought my ribs would break. Adam and Hassan were laughing but Hassan swore to me as I choked that this is what his mother has him do whenever he is sick. After a few more minutes of coughing and spluttering I asked for a kettle of hot water and put in some Burmese Tiger Balm and slid back underneath my towel to inhale the steam. I emerged again 20 minutes later after simultaneously burning the tip of my nose and spilling boiling water on my leg. By this time the entire hotel staff and most of the guests were coming by to see if any treatments had made improvements, and everyone was disappointed. Time for milk boiled with cough drops! they yelled. Hassan went off to the kitchen.
The Berbers are beautiful men. Haven't sen much of the women, but they have tattooed foreheads and chins and wear necklaces made of coins. The Berbers are genuine desert people, a mixture of native Moroccan, Algerian, Mauritanian, Malian, Spanish, Arab. As a result they all look different, even from each other. Some are mulatto looking, like Hassan, tall with grey eyes and white teeth. He has a beautiful shy smile. Some are small and dark, black black lashes and startling blue green eyes. Some are very Semitic looking, Mediterranean, sharp featured. The men working here are mostly my age, and they all speak Berber and French and Spanish fluently, and can make themselves understood in English, German, Italian, Japanese. All from tourists. We spoke Spanish together. When we first arrived as a group of six, we were the only guests and we sat with the mend and they played the drums and we smoked together under the stars late into the night. Yet although they speak European languages and spend most of their time with the many travelers passing through, it seems that their hearts are here in the desert.
Hassan has visited Barcelona, and he speaks of it as if it were Delhi or Shanghai. The desert is so quiet, he says. And we have to agree. We planned to stay here only two days, and now it is already double that. It is quite, life is slow. The men here, in our guesthouse, but blue jeans but djellabas on top band the customary half turban is bright blue or orange against their brown skin. And they no longer want to follow the old Berber customs, but they are also not willing to leave the desert. I am a camel man, Hassan says.
We asked about Berber marriage. The women are kept hidden away and are not allowed to make contact with the young men, not even allowed to see them. The fathers of the girl are the ones to arrange the marriage, ensuring that the daughter is a virgin. They can ensure this because the girl has always been under the watchful eye of someone or other. When the match is made, the couple has still not met, not until their wedding. At some point during the wedding, the marriage is consummated and the bed cloth is then paraded around to prove the virginity of the girl to all present. She is usually fifteen or sixteen years old. Hassan and Ahmed want nothing to do with the tradition, telling their fathers that they will never marry a girl they haven't met. Then do however, go husband scouting for their sisters.
The boiled milk arrives, and it tastes more like chai than lozenge. Within seconds my body temperature rises, and Adam tucks me in to sweat it out. I feel better in the morning.
01 November 2007
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.
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