They ride camels in Morocco. Or at least in Merzouga. After Fes, we started on our way, driving to the distant village of Merzouga. M and I had for the past few months perused a friend’s guide to quintessential Moroccan riads – guest houses – each, as far as we can tell with an inner courtyard oasis of date palm trees and cacti and grasses, and at our riad in Fes, a banana tree, where we could see because it has been ages since we’ve been in the tropical house at the Central Park Zoo that the fruit that cartoonist Roz Chast felt compelled to write a paen to it in The New Yorker grows upside down, so that when you grab a banana and peel it, you doing it from the bottom (stem) to the top (black hard bit).
But there are no bananas in the Sahara. Mohammed is our camel host and salad chef. The blue woven saddle
