Our Moroccan Desert Excursion
In Marrakech, it seems like everybody wants to sell you something. Some of the most common offerings, sold at just about every riad and by dozens or hundreds of people on the street, are excursions. No matter where in Morocco you want to go or for how long, there’s some pre-packaged excursion to fit.
A day in Casablanca? A week in the desert? They’ll pull out a well-worn binder and show you that they have exactly that (and much more) leaving every day.
We opted for a three-day, two-night desert excursion. The man we bought it from wasn’t actually working at any of the three riads we stayed at. Instead, he sat outside his own riad and, for the first week we were in Marrakech, hopefully asked, “Excursions?” every time we happened to walk by. For the second week, he just said hello and made polite small talk. In gratitude for the fact that he was polite even after he had given up on us buying anything from him, we went back to him when we were ready for our excursion.
Three Day Moroccan Desert Excursion
Length: 3 days/2 nights
Cost: 1200 dirhams (~$130 USD) total; 600 dirhams (~$65 USD) each
Day One:
Most of the excursions leave early in the morning after picking everyone up either from their hotel or from Marrakech’s main square, Jemaa el-Fna. Ours was no different. We met the van in front of our favorite restaurant in the square at 7:15 (though it didn’t end up leaving ‘til after 8). We picked up about a dozen other people from all over the world, and we were off!
A brief stop for pictures high in the Atlas Mountains was cut short by rain -- but on the bright side, that meant we were able to spend a moment savoring the sight of a rainbow arching over a steep mountain ravine.
Our first real stop was Aït-Benhaddou. Our charismatic and colorful guide led us across a red river, which he explained was too salty to use for many agricultural purposes. (I tasted it out of curiosity. It wasn’t nearly as salty as the ocean.)
There were several young boys at the crossing, holding the hands of those who feared they might slip off the muddy rocks into the river. Of course, they expected a tip for the assistance, but you get used to that in Morocco.
The old-town area of Aït-Benhaddou, our guide explained, has none of the modern conveniences most of us are used to. As a result, only very few families (including his) still live here. Its main claim to fame is that has been used in dozens of movies and TV shows, including Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven, and even Game of Thrones.
While it’s clearly geared toward tourists at this point, it was still breathtaking to see this place and learn its history.
Day Two:
Our first main stop on the second day was Tinghir, a much more populated city than we had seen in Aït-Benhaddou.
A new guide led us through an oasis, explaining the roles of each gender as we walked. “You only see women working in the fields,” he explained with a hint of defensiveness, “but that’s not because men are lazy. It’s because they climb the trees to harvest the dates, and they dig the soil around the trees earlier in the year.”
Once we emerged from the oasis into the city, we wound our way through maze-like streets until we reached the home (or shop, or both -- it wasn’t entirely clear) of a carpet-making family. We all sat in a circle around the main room to drink tea (or “Berber whiskey”) and learn about making rugs.
At the end of the presentation, the man in charge pointed to the heap of rugs that had materialized in the center of the floor during his talk. “Which is your favorite?” he asked each of us in turn.
“They’re all beautiful,” I replied, not wanting to show interest in a specific one.
“You are welcome,” he responded -- in what seemed a common usage of the phrase in Morocco, but not one I’ve entirely managed to figure out.
Anyone who actually specified a favorite rug was, of course, told its price and offered “a bargain.” It’s odd, though -- it’s hard to imagine people on their way into the desert are an ideal audience for bulky rug sales.
Late that afternoon, we made it to Merzouga, from which our camels (or rather, dromedaries) would depart for our trek into the desert. After some final preparations, we mounted the dromedaries and were off! My dromedary was so calm, relaxed, and pleasantly plump that it was easy to ride him without even holding on.
After about an hour, we made it to the tent encampment just as the sun was setting. Our hosts suggested we climb the nearby high dune. It looked like it was about a three-minute climb, so all 20 or so of us set off. An hour later, wheezing, on hands and knees, I finally clawed my way to the top -- one of only three people who made it all the way up.
It was worth it for the sight of the giant full moon rising over the dunes, illuminating the glittering Berber camp. To my disappointment, dinner was not my long-yearned-for Berber pizza. Instead, it was rice (“Eat it with your forks!” our host ordered us, seemingly confused by our reluctance to all eat directly from a central dish of rice) followed by chicken tajines. Knowing about my dietary choices, our tablemates were gracious enough to push many of the vegetables in the tajine my way.
After some Berber drum music and a walk in the moonlight, we retired to our tent (shared with a Brazilian couple) for a few hours of sleep.
Day Three:
At 5:30 AM, we were lined up to leave. Not being a morning person, I was cranky and tired, as were the dromedaries.
Unlike the night before, when they had been receptive to affection and even hugs, they were grouchy and standoffish, even threatening to bite. (To be fair, if I were awakened at 5:30 AM and a stranger wanted to pet me, I might threaten violence too.)
The ride out of the desert was absolutely beautiful. Just a little ways into it, I persuaded one of the guides to help me off my dromedary so I could walk the rest of the way. This offered a far better view of the sunrise as well as the chance to talk with the guides.
“It’s not a bad way to make a living, walking back and forth in the desert with dromedaries,” one of them told me. “It’s just a shame about the overnighters.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired, suspecting I understood but wanting to be sure.
“Tourists come for one night. Almost always for one night. And then they leave, and think they know the desert.” He looked at me incredulously. “After one night, you haven’t even started to hear the desert. You don’t start to hear it for at least a week. No one knows the desert in one night.”
I’ve spent enough time in Death Valley to know that he was right. Twelve hours in the desert isn’t nearly enough to know it (or hear it, as he said), and I wish we could have spent much longer there. Next time.
The rest of the day was spent driving back to Marrakech. As rushed and chaotic as the excursion had felt at times, it still must have been a break of sorts; we turned to each other after stumbling off the bus and observed, as if for the first time, how busy it was in Marrakech. Maybe we had heard just enough of the desert in those precious twelve hours to have a new perspective.