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
bags under my legs contain the fixings for the salad that Mohammed will make when we finally arrive at our destination, a derriere, Mohammed says, pointing to a gigantic sand dune the size of Stratton Mountain, only four kilometers from the border with Algeria, which is in a cold war standoff with Morocco (who knew?), so much so that scads of precious tax money is going to support arms and Blackwater-like merchants of death, not roads and schools, and most important, according to the only other guest in our inn, Chez Francoise, the innkeeper’s Frenchman friend who is driving a four-wheel drive SUV into the Sahara for fun who says the two dirty secrets in Morocco are: 1) That drinking is common, but not with meals, sacre bleu!, and 2) that the government doesn’t have the cojones to tackle the society’s biggest problem: population control.
Which doesn’t say much about the camels (or the title, Marathon des Sables, for that matter.) A local tells us that Mohammed is likely about eighteen (he’s not very talkative, and if I were him, I wouldn’t be either) and very good with the camels. Not very often do they bolt off under his control with a tourist aboard, with a sure descent to the desert floor below – and if you think that’s a soft landing from the height of the hump of a full-grown camel racing free from his handler across the desert, you’re dead wrong – coming in no time. It’s sayonara, camel (Mohammed’s did not have names), next stop: Algiers. So Mohammed, whose father owns the beasts, is not shy to use his switch on the animals, evidence of which I won’t go into here.
Mohammed walks in Mario Batali-style footwear, and long, flowing robes, a loosely wrapped turban, and I can’t get out of my head about a hundred stories from the Bible, the most recurrent the one about Joseph’s many scheming brothers, and if you ask me to tell you why, I can’t. But there you go.
Each step my camel takes is like a perfect lunar landing. Another memory I confess: the touchdown of the Eagle lunar module in 1969 (Did that appear on television? Really? If not, how can I see it so clearly?) The words from the day in July: “The Eagle has landed.”
Not far from here, from the derriere of Sand Mountain, where when we arrive I see “Sandboards” like Cadillac Ranch (here, I guess, the thrill-seekers come to go schussing down the sand), the runners come. The crazy ones who do the Marathon des Sables, the most grueling land race on earth. Six days (next one starts March 31, 2011) in the searing Sahara heat. Yes, the Marathon des Sables gives evidence to the fact that runners are nuts. They “run” a total of 151 miles between 3 kms per hour and 14 kms per hour and competitors must hump (no, no camels) their gear – meaning food, clothes, medical supplies, sleeping bag, etc. – although water stations are provided by race organizers. If you are interested, the Web site says there are still spaces left. (They have the capacity to handle only about 700 runners.) Who have been the winners? None more frequently than Lahcen Ahansal, a 39-year-old long distance runner from Morocco. Oh, and Marathon des Sables means Marathon of the Sands and was founded by a Frenchman (French Foreign Legion, anyone) in 1986.
We learned about the Marathon des Sables from a elderly gentleman we met in Merzouga outside the telephone booth boutique. He said one particular racer goes into the desert for 151 miles wearing a tea service on his head. Hey, M said, maybe this is for you?!
Hmmm, on the fourth day, the Web site says: “you will set off across the barren wilderness to complete a 45 - 50 mile stage. Few people complete this before dark that evening and some will not come in till after dark the next night. This is followed by the 42km Marathon stage!! Its tough, so don't say that nobody warned you in the strongest terms.”
To hell, I don’t know if I’ll be back to do this marathon. (Apparently someone 78 years old did finish it; but, on the other hand, two people have died out there.) Be my guest, though. Me, I think if I’m going to return Morocco, I’ll restrict my training to butt-strengthening for the two kilometer trek to the derriere of Sand Mountain. Let’s just say when it comes to desert travel, derriere is the operative word.
Next: Running for Your Life: The Road North
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