CBC News - World - 20,000 U.K. war vets in prison system
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Related to the Grossman readings. The end result of the execution of warfare is the destruction of the minds and lives of thousands of veterans, which in turn has probably affected exponentially more victims (i.e. family members, friends, etc).
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Chefchaouen: Blue City of Celebrities
The following story is about celebrities. Forget Hollywood, its too soon for Bollywood, and Cannes is still a sea away. In Morocco, celebrities roam free, aren’t hassled by the paparazzi, and their stage is not the screen, but the town square.
This is not just any town square either, but the centre of life in the serene town of Chefchaouen, nestled comfortably in the cradling foothills of the Rif Mountains. The Rif Mountains, due east of Tangier, are a world away from the maddening crowds of the cities—offering those who venture into their depths a view of Morocco distinctly different than anywhere else. Perhaps it is the predominantly Spanish influence, along with the mountains, that have kept this region more remote. Whatever it may be, the Rif Mountains are one of Morocco’s prized possessions, with Chefchaouen being the aquamarine heart of the region.
Situated on the sun-filled southern face of the hills, Chefchaouen’s blue-washed Medina has a unique Mediterranean feel, reminding one of the whitewashed towns of the Greek Isles with a North African twist.
Gone are the blue seas of the Mediterranean, in their place the rolling green hills of the Rif, speckled with signs of life, as if Allah had designed the view himself. Mosques are scattered throughout, their minarets easily discernable from miles away. Comfortably set amid this landscape is the bustling, yet quiet, town of Chefchaouen, its sky blue buildings forming the theatre which surrounds the stage that is the old town square.
The square itself is appropriately the size of a large stage—the set pieces, a centuries old Kasbah (fortress) and a large mosque, act as constant reminders of the setting.
The VIP section of the theatre is lined with restaurants and cafes. So sit back, order up a tall mint tea, and prepare to witness the ongoing conversation that is constantly abuzz in the town square, the stage upon which daily life is acted out. Bringing us full circle to the actors, and not just any celebrities, but local celebrities. Local celebrities are the charming, scary, hilarious, and otherwise entertaining personalities that one comes across while traveling. As luck would have it, Chefchaouen—set in the Hollywood Hills of Morocco—is chalk full of them.
Glancing to the right, you may start to distinguish a darkly clad, hunched over figure, shuffling at a turtle’s pace into the square. The features—wrinkles, wide eyes, and a rebar cane—become ever more clear as this ancient-looking man makes his way onto the stage, and towards a seat centred in the square, directly underneath the Kasbah, which seems modern compared to the figure now perched in front of it. This man is Slow Walker, aptly named for his record-setting square crossings, which average about 10 metres a minute. Taking his time to get settled, Slow Walker’s unpredictable nature is what draws people in. One minute a crazy old man, bantering nonsense to anyone close enough to listen, though if offered a kind glance he is quick to return one, leaning on his rebar cane, shrouded in a Djellaba as baggy as the folds of skin on his face.
As Slow Walker continues his drawn out entrance, another figure comes into view, contrasting Slow Walker in dress, but matching him in demeanour. Enter Mother Theresa/ET, fondly referred to as MoT/ET by fans. The unique name refers to this old lady’s cunning similarity to Mother Theresa, with a hunch and shuffle similar to Slow Walker’s, while simultaneously resembling Steven Spielberg’s ET on Halloween, bundled up in all white garb. If one were not familiar with Chefchaouen’s local celebrities, they might believe that MoT/ET and Slow Walker were involved in a lengthy race, as both characters make their way to and fro about the square, spending more time shuffling than sitting.
No sooner have these 2 central characters shuffled by, when an array of celebrities pass through, looking for a few dirhams (Moroccan currency), offering a friendly smile as they ply their various trades to the audience.
Leading this parade of players are the music men, 2 traditionally dressed townsfolk, march past each table—drums a banging and rattles shaking—pleasing some while distracting others. Once you become a familiar face on the scene though, the music men are happy to continue past you to kindly welcome newcomers to the show.
They are swiftly followed by necklace man, who has an uncanny knack for carrying armfuls of necklaces, representing the Chefchaouen chapter of an organization that has members spread throughout cities, towns, and beaches worldwide. With a monopoly on the café market, necklace man spends almost more time sitting with audience members in the front row than on the stage itself. A true celebrity, he is an incredible socialite, chatting it up with any and all, especially those who care to take a look at his wares.
Intermission comes in no time, the stage having presented a constant scene of conversation, which slows somewhat as the afternoon wears on. Act II, full of more celebrity encounters will begin as the afternoon fades into evening. Before it begins though, it is time to get up and stretch, heading through the winding blue aisles of the Medina to the concession stand, run by yet another celebrity, Nut Man.
Nutman’s celebrity status—and the reason for the long cue at intermission—is solely due to his fantastically delicious nuts. Unlike anything else in Morocco, or perhaps the world, Nutman’s nuts are handled with meticulous love and care, pan simmered over a piping hot fire, the sweet aromas floating out of his shop and into the surrounding streets for everyone to enjoy. One can’t help but be lured in by the sweet and salty smell, so strong you can almost taste them.
The hunger only grows as you finally reach the “counter”, a bouquet of beautiful nuts—roasted, toasted, and ready to serve. A rainbow of flavors—red, brown, yellow, pink, green, orange—beckons the taste buds, as Nutman stands poised with scoop and scale, truly dedicated to this labor of love. So sweet, so sumptuous his nuts, that a band of bees sits feasting on them, harvesting sugar fit for their queen.
Carefully then, Nutman gathers a medly of his best, weighs them up, and graciously provides for your enjoyment, a perfect snack. Munching on Nutman’s nuts as you sit down to another mint tea, it is easy to see how his celebrity and legend have grown, as nuts this good are hard to come by.
Munching away, the bright hues of the afternoon slowly fade to gold, the Kasbah bathed in the soft spotlight of the sun, its red walls a clowing amber, setting the scene for yet another evening performance on this stage of life. Currently in the midst of the holy month of Ramadan—were Muslims fast from dawn to sundown—the square comes alive in the minutes before sunset, the actors moving to and fro, excitement building in the air as they prepare to break the fast.
Back and forth, forth and back they move, from shop to shop, making time to stop and talk. The climax of the show, a captivatingly chaotic performance full of careening cloaks and constant conversation, perfectly encapsulates the zest for life that Morocco is known for, and which keeps audiences coming back night after night. Young and old, men and women, the social hub of Chefchaouen is alive and full of energy, families headed to houses of friends or relatives to celebrate, feast, and enjoy each others’ company.
The celebratory atmosphere drifts through the air, which has faded to dusk, the laughter and cheerful voices rising as the feast draws near. As if on cue, the air fills with a chorus of seemingly omnipresent voices, those of the Muezzins as they call out to the masses, beckoning the faithful to prayer, and the hungry to feast. These beautiful, guttural utterances flow through the darkening sky, pouring out from minarets large and small, raining down on the streets below. And so Act II comes to an end with a flourish, the Muezzins barely finished their songs of devotion as the actors rush to their mosques and then home, eager to fill their empty stomachs with food and drink, and their homes with more laughter and discussion. And so ends the scene, the sun has set, the song has been sung, and the stage empties, the curtains of /darkness drawn shut on another memorable performance.
It was after one of these performances, relaxing in the square late in the evening, with only men still socializing, that we were able to go behind the scenes, where we were to enjoy a relaxing massage, or so we thought…
THE HAMMAM
The hour was late, the square was bare, and the air quiet but for a few men left conversing in the cafes. Having headed out for a mint tea (what else?) nightcap, we were approached by yet another local celebrity, Mohammed III who was of no relation to his holiness the Prophet, nor as famous as a Mohammed still to come.
Introducing himself and taking a seat, we quickly started discussing Morocco, our views, and our questions. Realizing that locals are quite often the best source of knowledge on social and cultural questions, we soon asked about a Moroccan institution we had heard so much about, yet had remained a mystery to us—The Hammam.
Hammams are public bathhouses, where men and women gather (at separate times of course) to bathe, socialize, and take a load off. Arriving in Morocco, we had read and heard much of these hammams, as they are a central aspect to Moroccan life. The Islamic Hammam supposedly dates from the time of the Prophet Mohammed, adapted from the Romans and Greeks. Hammams have become an important aspect of modern day life in Morocco, little having changed over the centuries, with the hammam acting as a place to socialize and discuss family, politics, and life in general.
Aware of the history of hammams, and their ongoing social importance, we were eager to experience first-hand a bathing experience Moroccan-style. Having lost ourselves in the Fez Medina in search of one such elusive bathhouse, we were happy to hear our friend Mohammed happily proclaim that there was a hammam just around the corner.
Honing our developing sixth sense for “friends”, we proceeded with caution. Proceeding with caution became somewhat of a common occurance as various opportunities presented themselves on our travels—proceeding being the best way to open yourself up to the experience, having faith in your instincts which can often reward you with experiences of a lifetime. Trusting this instinct, we followed Mohammed to the hammam, as he seemed genuine and truly wanted to show us a side of Morocco that few foreigners take time to experience. We would not be disappointed, as what followed was a glimpse behind the scenes, into a private yet extremely social aspect of Moroccan society.
And so, thanking Mohammed as he wished us all the best, we entred the hammam, completely unaware of what we were about to experience, leaving ourselves open to the moment, ready for anything, or so we thought…
It had been organized with the owner that we would not only get to bathe, but would be treated to a massage. At 12:30am, what could be a better night cap than a hot steam and a nice massage. Two massage options were offered, one involving a scrubbing gloves that peeled off dead skin, the other being a more physical treatment, which we believed would be a take on the familiar deep tissue massage. We chose the latter, blissfully unaware of the surprise our bodies were in for.
Having agreed upon our “treatment” we were introduced to our helper, who was to guide us through the whole process, and proved to be a great help throughout.
One may at this point be wondering, as were we, what the “dress code” in a hammam is. Keenly aware of the men around us, we quickly discerned that bathing suits were a must, saving us from a potentially embarrassing situation had we entered the bathing area in our other, more liberal suits. Close one.
And so we headed into the bathing area, which was separated into three distinct rooms, varying in temperature, and strategically arranged to maximize the bathing experience. Passing through a doorway, we entered into a cool vaulted room, lined with tiles, three spouts sprouting from one wall, a constant flow of clod water splashing down into a large basin below. Benches lined the walls, sud shrouded men perched upon them, dousing themselves with the icy cold water, sealing in the heat and envigorating their senses, smiling to us as we passed by into the middle chamber. The heat hit us immediately, a noticeable change from the cool room, but not as hot as the distant chamber. This far room, which we never had a chance to enter, was visible through an open doorway, and it was immediately apparent as to the source of the heat so strong it was pouring into our chamber. Similar to the initial cool chamber, this “hot” room contained another 3 spouts directed into a large basin, a constant flow of piping hot water creating a steam room, in which patrons sat sweating and sizzling, basting their bodies for a thorough cleansing.
Our helper quickly got to work, directing us to remain in the “warm” middle room. As we began to develop a slight sweat, he ran to and fro, gathering buckets which he filled with water—some from the steaming hot pond in the steam room, some from the icy shallows of the room from whence we’d come, blending them together to get the water temperature just right. While he was busy with this, we sat transfixed by the scene of movement and chatter around us, having arrived at a time when the hammam was full of youths. Horsing around, laughing and splashing each other, the rooms were full of activity, leaving us on the sidelines. Surveying the room, it became apparent that we were in the central scrubbing area, as there werew shower stalls at each end, and a wide open space used primarily to rub dead moistened skin off with a roughly textured glove.
This space also proved to be the massage area. In this case, the word “massage” turned out to be entirely open to interpretation, our idea being a far cry from the beating our bodies were about to receive. More of an assault on the joints and limbs than the relaxing experience on would hope for, this was one for the books. Lucky enough to go first, I played the part of the unassuming foreigner quite well, completely shocked as my body was pushed, pulled, battered, beaten, and almost broken. This VERY physical massage stretched all extremities, seemingly to the brink of breaking them, my limbs contorting in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Possible yes, intended no. The agony was startling, my facial expressions articulating the pain that my voice couldn’t adequately profess. This process of joint jarring acrobatics involved moves similar to Greco-Roman wrestling, an interesting way for men to bathe each other to say the least.
Having contorted and cracked by my body into a pretzel and then back again, I was finally freed, doused in hot water, and though still recovering from the schock of my massage, actually felt quite good. After watching Eric’s equally painful experience, happy to be a spectator, we were ushered into the initial room we had entered from—the cold room. The proceeding shock of cold water had nothing on what we’d just been through, refreshing our bodies, closing up not only our pores, but also a bathing experience like no other. Full of insights and injuries, we meandered through the alleys and paths of the medina, inebriated with joy and excitement at the adventure we had just been through. The beauty of life, a normal evening for some people can be the experience of a lifetime to others.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Desert Anyone? A Taste of the Sahara, One Step at a Time
I was sweating, of that there was no doubt. I’d been sweating for the better part of 3 days. But each and every drop that leaked from my body was more than worth it. Sixty kilometers of walking was worth it. Three days roasting under the sun, just cause for turning my body into a walking water feature, was worth it. No, not walking, stumbling, which is exactly what I was doing as I attempted to reach the summit of the mountain of sand which loomed above me. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. Every drop of sweat, each weary step would all be worth it—and now just one last push.
I scrambled upwards, creating miniature landslides of sand with each step, while waterfalls were pouring down my face. The sand sucked my feet in, as if it were conspiring against me (along with the sun, the wind, and my aching muscles) to prevent me from reaching my goal. But I’d come too far, walked for too long, to be held up any longer. At last, with the wind blown sand careening at me from the crest of the massive desert wave, I pulled myself up, took a deep breath, and surveyed my reward. In this moment, I was unsure of what was more beautiful, the destination, or the journey itself.
The Sahara, the world’s greatest desert, millions of years old and making up an area larger than Australia. The mere mention of the word brings images of windswept dunes, camel caravans, and glorious sunsets—an idyllic vision of paradise. It was with such visions in mind that we headed into the Sahara on a 5 day journey, one that would bring us thousands of steps closer to understanding the reality of life in the land they call the Sahara.
Now the Sahara itself is quite large, even at its fringes in Morocco, our journey taking place southwest of the popular dunes, within sight of Algeria. Our feature destination was Erg Chigaga, a dune field overflowing with 200m high dunes, the dunes of Hollywood movies, which had a reputation of stunning beauty. But as we set off from the one horse (but many camel) desert town of M’Hamid, those dunes were still 3 days and many hours of walking away.
Arriving in M’Hamid a day early, we had come prepared to meet the owner of our chosen tour company, to find out exactly what we needed to bring and determine any other logistics. So we patiently awaited the arrival of the tour company owner, sipping cool drinks and watching the jeeps and camels roll by. Afternoon came and went, still no sign of the owner. And so we waited. And waited. Dinner came, dinner went, and still we waited. A phone call confirmed his imminent arrival later that night. Evening came and went also, and so as we settled down to sleep, we wondered if we were in fact going to be leaving at 8 a.m. as the owner had told us via email earlier in the week. Unsure and unsettled, we went to sleep hoping that a new day would bring with it the owner and some sort of organization.
We woke up early, hoping that miraculously the owner would have appeared overnight. Nothing. So we packed our bags and sat down for breakfast at 7:30, half and hour before our expected departure. They say better late than never, and the owner must have been of that school, because he rolled up at about 7:45 and said unflinchingly, “You’re ready to leave at 8?” Surprised, we answered yes, and tried to ask some of the questions we had hoped to ask earlier. Some were answered, but others left forgotten in the confusion, as we would soon realize. As it turned out, the surprise appearance of the owner was just the beginning of a day full of surprises.
Our second surprise came quickly enough, as we ventured out to the camels to find that only the packs, and not ourselves, were being placed onto their backs. One can imagine the astonishment on our faces as we quickly realized we would be walking beside the camels, not riding on top of them. Any romantic visions we’d had of relaxing atop our mounts, as they carried us to our goal, quickly vanished. Reality kicked in. We were going to have to earn the rewards of the desert, one step at a time, and with 60km to our goal, doing the math in our heads, we realized that we were in for a demanding journey.
Just as we were coming to grips with the workout ahead of us, surprise number three quickly revealed itself. Neither of our two guides could speak a word of English. This very crucial point was neglected in the very brief briefing we had received, which in hindsight shouldn’t really have come as a surprise, seeing as the owner gave no real briefing at all. But what to do. C’est la vie. We had come this far, we had the key ingredients of guides, camels, and food—for us there was no turning back now. So we went with it and started walking—Eric, myself, Haziz and Hussein (our 2 guides), and 3 camels carrying full loads. With no idea of what was in store, and no real way of discerning such information from our guides, our caravan headed out into the desert. And so we walked.
Surprise number four gradually became apparent to us, as the sun quickly rose, the desert surrounded us, and our bodies began demanding water in response. Now, from our trivial knowledge of desert life, we were quite sure that water was not in bountiful supply, and as we marched out into the sandy, rock-strewn landscape, that belief was confirmed. Before departing, we had tried to determine our rations, but didn’t quite gather this vitally important information. So there we were, two foreign tourists, on a camel trek through the desert with two guides we can barely communicate with, a hot desert sun getting hotter by the minute, and both with the most parched lips we had ever experienced. And so, seeing that our guides were plodding on, we followed suit, waiting for a chance to quench our dehydrated bodies. When we finally halted for a rest, we were exhausted, sore, and thirsty—immediately seeking out a bottle of water, which had been safely packed away under the gear. Lesson learned. From that point on, we were always sure to have two bottles of water available while walking, which definitely made the hours easier to bear, much to the satisfaction of our bodies and minds.
A few hours later, after a rude awakening to the realities of our journey—walking plodding, and stumbling in the hot sun—we stopped for the day and dozed off, recovering from our first day of life in an incredibly inhospitable environment. While we rested in the shade of a lone tree surrounded by small undulating dunes, the sun still doing its best to make its presence felt, our guides busied themselves preparing a delicious lunch, setting up camp, and taking are of the camels—their hospitable care in stark contrast to our surroundings.
This routine became commonplace at the end of each day of walking, and as we grew accustomed to the heat and physical exertions of our morning pilgrimages, we were able to help set up camp before lying down to become completely useless for the remainder of the afternoon.
Our daily walks tended to begin before 8 a.m., setting out when the air was still somewhat cool, arriving at our destination between noon and 2 p.m. Walking consisted of passing over and around golden dunes, the sand burning hot to the touch, encouraging us on our way, while simultaneously pulling us down and pushing our hip muscles to their limit. Between dune fields we often passed through dried up riverbeds, ageless relics of a time long passed, when water must have flowed down from the far away Atlas Mountains to the West. Following the camels, prehistoric looking in their own right, we often rose above the riverbeds and dunes, onto seemingly endless plateaus of rock and cracked ground, foreign beings crossing a foreign planet. Sometimes we would pass by the dried up remains of a fallen camel, having finally succumbed to a lifetime of marching through this uninhabitable environment, warning the passerby that even those who call the desert home must eventually give in to its harsh effects.
In the desert though, there is no time to dwell, as one must continue to march towards the infinite horizon. The sun penetrating our bodies, minds, and spirits, the marches were a constant mental battle—the urge to give in to the heat always at the edge of our minds. A mind game really, and thankfully ours were strong, plodding on each day, positioning ourselves in the shadows of the camels for shade, barely speaking as we focused on the task at hand. Following Hussein and Haziz as sheep follow their shepherds, we trudged on, hoping that each approaching dune field would be the one we would finally stop at to set up camp. Eventually the perfect tree with the perfect amount of shade and wind protection would be upon us, our elated minds pushing our drained bodies the last few steps to the comfort and rest that we knew lay only minutes ahead. While these laborious walks made up the least enjoyable part of each day, there was another side, a tranquil side to the Sahara which revealed its beauty to us each and every day.
This side of the Sahara became quickly evident as the afternoon wore on each day, owing also to the kindness and effort of Hussein and Haziz. Despite the language barrier between us, we came to build a silent bond with our guides, each displaying his own personality as our journey wore on. Having settled on a good location for camp, the camels were quickly sent off to graze, while we attempted to help set up the tent and lay blankets out in the shade.
For anyone familiar with camping, the need to establish camp at the end of a day is universally understood, and so, despite the language barrier, we quickly learned the process of pitching a Berber tent. Berbers are the nomadic peoples of North Africa, their tents reflecting the nomadic way of life they lead. Big, basic, and easy to set up, a tent consists of a large canvas which is held up by one central pole about ten feet high, with four corners secured to pegs which are pounded firmly into the sand. Sticks are used to prop up the corners, while sand is piled on top of the loose canvas on each side, sealing the tent from the onslaught of wind that carries on until the sun goes down. With no true “floor” inside, carpets are used to create a comfortable living space on one side, while the other side functions as a cooking area. Having set up the tent, we would then retire to our comfortable shaded rest area, where we would relax, nap, and read—attempting to avoid the stifling heat of the Saharan sun. While we were resting, Hussein and Haziz would prepare our lunch, which was like an oasis after 20 km of walking. After stuffing ourselves with oranges, biscuits, dates, salad, and some dreadful canned fish, we continued to rest, read, and marvel at our surroundings.
Each afternoon, as we rested, Hussein and Haziz would go their separate ways until dinner. Hussein, the older and wiser of our guides, proved to be a dedicated and caring shepherd, as each afternoon he would disappear over the dunes with the camels. Whether he took them for food, drink, or more exercise remained a mystery. It was quite clear though that this man had a bond with, and an incredible fondness for, the camels—rooted in a lifelong relationship with his desert dwelling companions. In harmony with the camels, Hussein would disappear over the dunes, singing to himself and his counterparts, only returning as the sun began to sink into the sand—creating a stunning silhouette upon the horizon—followed obediently by his small flock of dromedaries. It was only suitable that each day, as we set off from camp, Hussein led the way with his camels following close behind.
While Hussein was off gallivanting with the camels, Haziz would often disappear under a nearby tree for a well-deserved nap, before returning to camp to prepare dinner and set up the inside of the tent. Haziz always worked hard to make us delicious and energy-packed meals of Harira (a traditional Moroccan soup) and stew or pasta. Always ensuring we received a bountiful supply of food, and even providing different meals when one of us got sick, Haziz was a dedicated class act.
It would be wrong to mention dedication without commending our 3 dromedaries for lugging everything around for us. We realized early on that these magnificent animals are quite peculiar, and over time they developed their own distinct rapport with us. Traveling with them over such a long distance, bonding as we did, it would have been ludicrous not to give them proper names. And names they got. But these were not just any ordinary names. Remarkable animals deserve remarkable names, and we decided early on that the best way to name them properly was to base their names upon the shapes of their pellets of excrement, which came so frequently and in such abundance, that we became quite accustomed to which pellets belonged to whom.
And so we came to know, in walking order—Olive, Don Cherry (Grapes), and Peanut.
Olive was by far the most relaxed of the 3. Very composed and obedient, he always answered the call, essentially the leader of the group. Olive often carried our bags, and never once was anything broken or in disorder. Trustworthy and dependable, Olive led by example and quickly gained our trust and respect.
Following Olive was Don Cherry, or as we initially referred to him, Grapes. The more you got to know him, the more you liked him. He always carried our daily water ration, and was quite calm each time we approached to seek a refreshment from his back. Perhaps this led to a closer relationship with such a gentle giant. He had no problem with head pats and feeding, but like his namesake, didn’t put up with things when he wasn’t in agreement. What a character.
Speaking of characters, Peanut definitely fit the bill. What can one say about Peanut? If there was ever a crazier, angrier, more stressed out camel, I don’t know. But I do know that Peanut would be near the top of the list. True to his name, he was definitely more than a little nuts. From securing the ropes, to adjusting the packs, to getting up, and to any type of approach, Peanut put up a protest. Bellowing for dear life, a deep lengthy groan, Peanut hated carrying his share and often attempted to run away. Peanut went so far as to refuse to eat, and being the weakest camel, he was often out of luck when scraps were doled out. Hussein however, ever the caring master, ensured that later on Peanut received his own food. While Peanut was absolutely crazy, it’s tough to blame him. Exhausted from just walking, I was going a little crazy myself, without carry over 100 pounds of supplies. Peanut had a valid point in his protests, and one couldn’t help but respect him for his stance.
These characters, both human and camel, made up our caravan as we inched closer to our goal of the dunes at Erg Chigaga. As the days wore on, a great contrast played itself out in front of our very eyes, displaying the two-faced nature of the desert. During daylight hours, the atmosphere was anything but welcoming. As the sun rose to its apex each day, the temperature rose along with it, causing the wind to hurl sand about as if we were merely playthings in an endless sandbox. As the sun sank down each afternoon though, the wind would calm, respectfully fading to usher in the dusk, the sunset, and the beautiful evening that was to follow.
At this time of day, with the temperature of the air dropping to a comfortable level, the Sahara took on a beautiful aura. An about face from the daytime atmosphere, this was the Sahara of our dreams, a place to be alone with your thoughts, raptured in the magnificent beauty that nature has to offer. At this time of day, the light of the falling sun played off the dunes, shifting from bright yellow, to shimmering gold, orange, and finally to a glistening amber, before the dunes faded to silhouettes against the twilight of the setting sun. This was the perfect atmosphere in which to find a solitary dune, ponder the wonders of life’s journey, and watch the camels appear as silhouettes for the days final act, the sun making its way off the stage before me. At this point, as if on cue, the stars would begin to gather above our heads, ushering in a peaceful calm that lasted until the sun returned to take centre stage back from its extended family.
As the sun’s light faded away, Hussein would light a fire and begin to prepare tea—a culinary ritual that he took much pride in. This process, taking much time and diligence, was charming and entertaining, as Hussein was a master of his craft. Different than the mint tea we had become accustomed to throughout the rest of Morocco, this tea was much sweeter and more condensed, a form taken by nomads which uses little water but packs a punch of energy, a perfect concoction for a dry desert environment. And so Hussein would patiently and methodically prepare his tea. This involved using coals from the fire, built to form a sandy stovetop—pouring the tea out of the pot and back into it numerous times, while constantly adding heaping spoonfuls of sugar. After this lengthy process, Hussein would serve us up a piping hot cup of tea, cheerfully offering up a jovial “Bee Saha,” or two, which means cheers. This process was often repeated 5-10 times per evening, often warming us up as the coolness of the evening set in.
After a hearty dinner as the fire dimmed, its gentle heat penetrating the crisp evening air, you had but to look up to witness the thousands of shimmering sentinels that keep watch over us each night as we sleep. The serenity of lying by a fire, surrounded by the silent silhouettes of dunes, while looking up at a multitude of stars gazing back down upon you is heaven for the body and the mind. Already feeling small in the great expanse of the desert, the evenings only reinforced such a fact, inviting one to marvel at the immensity of our universe. Overwhelming yet beautiful, I spent many hours fighting off sleep to enjoy this sensory feast.
Allah must have been listening on our first night, as we viewed his creation in all its splendor. As Eric pondered how long we would have to wait to see a shooting star, almost simultaneously one launched across our vision, leaving us in awe of the powers that be. Glued to the sky, preparing to rest my weary head, and hoping for one last shooting star, I was blessed again. This was no ordinary shooting star, but a flaming arrow launched from Orion’s coiled bow. Quite literally, a streaking light pierced the night sky, direct from the point of the constellation Orion at which a galactic bow might let loose an arrow traveling at the speed of light. As this streaking firelight pierced the cosmos, I pondered how it was possible for me to be so fortunate. Drifting off to sleep, I had no thoughts about what dreams may lay ahead, for I was already in one.
These thoughts of awe and inspiration continued without fail, though perhaps more hallucinations than anything when we were enduring our grueling daily walks. Our wills were strengthened in cement on the third day of our trek, as Erg Chigaga came into view upon the horizon. Our goal was finally in sight, a mere 4 hours away, beckoning to us. Could this really be it? This was no mirage, but the real deal. The thought of finally arriving having been on our minds for hours, we finally made it, pilgrims to a sea of sand, eager to pay homage. After 60 km of painful, tiresome, zombie-like walking, we were awakened by Erg Chigaga, a field of 200m high dunes—the primary reason for our visit to the Sahara. Our visions of beauty did not disappoint, as the majestic dunes rose before us above a barren plateau, overlooking nomads, 4x4 groups, and our small outfit, as we made our way into the bosom of the dunes to set up camp.
And so it came to be that I found myself struggling over one final obstacle, the wave of sand rising above me, as I pushed my body to obey my mind. My mind wanted to reach the summit, my body on the other hand, had peaked long ago. Despite this, and with streams of sweat pouring into the open arms of the parched sand, I waveringly pulled myself upwards, despite the best efforts of gravity and the sand to hold me back. Finally, after what had seemed to be a lifetime since we journeyed out, I pulled myself up and took a deep look around at my reward. Behind me lay the plateau from which we had come, a reminder of the journey itself, while spread out before my eyes was a sea of rolling dunes headed west, pilgrims on a journey of their own. So there we were, vagabonders crossing paths, sharing a moment that was worth every step, every drop of sweat, every sun-soaked second. Sitting atop those dunes, the afternoon fading away, nothing mattered but the hour at hand, the moment. This feeling sums up our desert journey, as each experience, each moment, was unique unto itself. In the following moments, as the sun bid farewell for another night, my mind was lost in the beauty of the experience, as it should have been.
One of the best sunsets I have ever witnessed graced us with its presence, the setting itself making a beautiful stage upon which the transition from day to night was acted out—a transition that holds a special meaning in the desert. In our balcony atop the dunes, we silently gazed at the setting laid out before us, the fading light of the dun dancing over the dunes, bidding us adieu. What a show. Having witnessed this prize of nature in all its glory, we headed back to camp, and then on to M’Hamid, with these priceless moments etched into our minds.
The challenges our minds endured before our arrival at Chigaga were only magnified as we headed back towards M’Hamid. In fact, our battered bodies only felt worse as our imaginations conjured up thoughts of comfort, food, and most importantly, drinks. As we turned our backs on the sand castle of Erg Chigaga, commencing on a two-day, 60 km journey, our minds had already begun to fantasize about the drinks we would devour upon our arrival back to M’Hamid. Images of ice cold fruit drinks floated across our minds, self-inflicted mirages of pure joy. It was in this state that we passed the hours, discussing our dream drinks with fanatical vigor. And so the mental torture began.
With every step taken, we were one step, one moment, closer to that coveted cool refreshment that our minds craved perhaps even more than our spent bodies. The first day homeward came and went, our mental fervor growing as we entered the home stretch on that final morning. The torture continued to build as we realized our mental mirage was soon to become a true oasis. After our hardest day of walking, both mentally and physically, the buildings of M’Hamid finally came into view. Our dreams started to seem realistic, our hopes carrying our tired legs as we were awoken from our zombie-like march. In a twisted effort to make that first glorious drink all the more enjoyable, we deprived ourselves of any water for the final half hour. And so it was, parched lips and all, that we arrived at our hotel, heading straight to the glowing red fridge.
Our drink of choice was a beautiful, glacier cold glass bottle of Coca Cola. Without a doubt the best Coke that has ever passed through my lips, it was refreshing beyond words. I swear it was a commercial in the making!
And so ended our desert odyssey—our bodies depleted but not defeated—a journey which ended up being the greatest physical effort either of us had ever undertaken. Our thirst for adventure had been quenched. As we sat enjoying a medley of long dreamed of refreshments, we basked in the realization that we had just completed the journey of a lifetime. Our romantic view of the desert had become a respect for an environment that can be simultaneously beautiful and hellish. In this environment we had experienced so much in such little time. The journey, the goal, our companions, all combined to create an incredibly fulfilling experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world.
I scrambled upwards, creating miniature landslides of sand with each step, while waterfalls were pouring down my face. The sand sucked my feet in, as if it were conspiring against me (along with the sun, the wind, and my aching muscles) to prevent me from reaching my goal. But I’d come too far, walked for too long, to be held up any longer. At last, with the wind blown sand careening at me from the crest of the massive desert wave, I pulled myself up, took a deep breath, and surveyed my reward. In this moment, I was unsure of what was more beautiful, the destination, or the journey itself.
The Sahara, the world’s greatest desert, millions of years old and making up an area larger than Australia. The mere mention of the word brings images of windswept dunes, camel caravans, and glorious sunsets—an idyllic vision of paradise. It was with such visions in mind that we headed into the Sahara on a 5 day journey, one that would bring us thousands of steps closer to understanding the reality of life in the land they call the Sahara.
Now the Sahara itself is quite large, even at its fringes in Morocco, our journey taking place southwest of the popular dunes, within sight of Algeria. Our feature destination was Erg Chigaga, a dune field overflowing with 200m high dunes, the dunes of Hollywood movies, which had a reputation of stunning beauty. But as we set off from the one horse (but many camel) desert town of M’Hamid, those dunes were still 3 days and many hours of walking away.
Arriving in M’Hamid a day early, we had come prepared to meet the owner of our chosen tour company, to find out exactly what we needed to bring and determine any other logistics. So we patiently awaited the arrival of the tour company owner, sipping cool drinks and watching the jeeps and camels roll by. Afternoon came and went, still no sign of the owner. And so we waited. And waited. Dinner came, dinner went, and still we waited. A phone call confirmed his imminent arrival later that night. Evening came and went also, and so as we settled down to sleep, we wondered if we were in fact going to be leaving at 8 a.m. as the owner had told us via email earlier in the week. Unsure and unsettled, we went to sleep hoping that a new day would bring with it the owner and some sort of organization.
We woke up early, hoping that miraculously the owner would have appeared overnight. Nothing. So we packed our bags and sat down for breakfast at 7:30, half and hour before our expected departure. They say better late than never, and the owner must have been of that school, because he rolled up at about 7:45 and said unflinchingly, “You’re ready to leave at 8?” Surprised, we answered yes, and tried to ask some of the questions we had hoped to ask earlier. Some were answered, but others left forgotten in the confusion, as we would soon realize. As it turned out, the surprise appearance of the owner was just the beginning of a day full of surprises.
Our second surprise came quickly enough, as we ventured out to the camels to find that only the packs, and not ourselves, were being placed onto their backs. One can imagine the astonishment on our faces as we quickly realized we would be walking beside the camels, not riding on top of them. Any romantic visions we’d had of relaxing atop our mounts, as they carried us to our goal, quickly vanished. Reality kicked in. We were going to have to earn the rewards of the desert, one step at a time, and with 60km to our goal, doing the math in our heads, we realized that we were in for a demanding journey.
Just as we were coming to grips with the workout ahead of us, surprise number three quickly revealed itself. Neither of our two guides could speak a word of English. This very crucial point was neglected in the very brief briefing we had received, which in hindsight shouldn’t really have come as a surprise, seeing as the owner gave no real briefing at all. But what to do. C’est la vie. We had come this far, we had the key ingredients of guides, camels, and food—for us there was no turning back now. So we went with it and started walking—Eric, myself, Haziz and Hussein (our 2 guides), and 3 camels carrying full loads. With no idea of what was in store, and no real way of discerning such information from our guides, our caravan headed out into the desert. And so we walked.
Surprise number four gradually became apparent to us, as the sun quickly rose, the desert surrounded us, and our bodies began demanding water in response. Now, from our trivial knowledge of desert life, we were quite sure that water was not in bountiful supply, and as we marched out into the sandy, rock-strewn landscape, that belief was confirmed. Before departing, we had tried to determine our rations, but didn’t quite gather this vitally important information. So there we were, two foreign tourists, on a camel trek through the desert with two guides we can barely communicate with, a hot desert sun getting hotter by the minute, and both with the most parched lips we had ever experienced. And so, seeing that our guides were plodding on, we followed suit, waiting for a chance to quench our dehydrated bodies. When we finally halted for a rest, we were exhausted, sore, and thirsty—immediately seeking out a bottle of water, which had been safely packed away under the gear. Lesson learned. From that point on, we were always sure to have two bottles of water available while walking, which definitely made the hours easier to bear, much to the satisfaction of our bodies and minds.
A few hours later, after a rude awakening to the realities of our journey—walking plodding, and stumbling in the hot sun—we stopped for the day and dozed off, recovering from our first day of life in an incredibly inhospitable environment. While we rested in the shade of a lone tree surrounded by small undulating dunes, the sun still doing its best to make its presence felt, our guides busied themselves preparing a delicious lunch, setting up camp, and taking are of the camels—their hospitable care in stark contrast to our surroundings.
This routine became commonplace at the end of each day of walking, and as we grew accustomed to the heat and physical exertions of our morning pilgrimages, we were able to help set up camp before lying down to become completely useless for the remainder of the afternoon.
Our daily walks tended to begin before 8 a.m., setting out when the air was still somewhat cool, arriving at our destination between noon and 2 p.m. Walking consisted of passing over and around golden dunes, the sand burning hot to the touch, encouraging us on our way, while simultaneously pulling us down and pushing our hip muscles to their limit. Between dune fields we often passed through dried up riverbeds, ageless relics of a time long passed, when water must have flowed down from the far away Atlas Mountains to the West. Following the camels, prehistoric looking in their own right, we often rose above the riverbeds and dunes, onto seemingly endless plateaus of rock and cracked ground, foreign beings crossing a foreign planet. Sometimes we would pass by the dried up remains of a fallen camel, having finally succumbed to a lifetime of marching through this uninhabitable environment, warning the passerby that even those who call the desert home must eventually give in to its harsh effects.
In the desert though, there is no time to dwell, as one must continue to march towards the infinite horizon. The sun penetrating our bodies, minds, and spirits, the marches were a constant mental battle—the urge to give in to the heat always at the edge of our minds. A mind game really, and thankfully ours were strong, plodding on each day, positioning ourselves in the shadows of the camels for shade, barely speaking as we focused on the task at hand. Following Hussein and Haziz as sheep follow their shepherds, we trudged on, hoping that each approaching dune field would be the one we would finally stop at to set up camp. Eventually the perfect tree with the perfect amount of shade and wind protection would be upon us, our elated minds pushing our drained bodies the last few steps to the comfort and rest that we knew lay only minutes ahead. While these laborious walks made up the least enjoyable part of each day, there was another side, a tranquil side to the Sahara which revealed its beauty to us each and every day.
This side of the Sahara became quickly evident as the afternoon wore on each day, owing also to the kindness and effort of Hussein and Haziz. Despite the language barrier between us, we came to build a silent bond with our guides, each displaying his own personality as our journey wore on. Having settled on a good location for camp, the camels were quickly sent off to graze, while we attempted to help set up the tent and lay blankets out in the shade.
For anyone familiar with camping, the need to establish camp at the end of a day is universally understood, and so, despite the language barrier, we quickly learned the process of pitching a Berber tent. Berbers are the nomadic peoples of North Africa, their tents reflecting the nomadic way of life they lead. Big, basic, and easy to set up, a tent consists of a large canvas which is held up by one central pole about ten feet high, with four corners secured to pegs which are pounded firmly into the sand. Sticks are used to prop up the corners, while sand is piled on top of the loose canvas on each side, sealing the tent from the onslaught of wind that carries on until the sun goes down. With no true “floor” inside, carpets are used to create a comfortable living space on one side, while the other side functions as a cooking area. Having set up the tent, we would then retire to our comfortable shaded rest area, where we would relax, nap, and read—attempting to avoid the stifling heat of the Saharan sun. While we were resting, Hussein and Haziz would prepare our lunch, which was like an oasis after 20 km of walking. After stuffing ourselves with oranges, biscuits, dates, salad, and some dreadful canned fish, we continued to rest, read, and marvel at our surroundings.
Each afternoon, as we rested, Hussein and Haziz would go their separate ways until dinner. Hussein, the older and wiser of our guides, proved to be a dedicated and caring shepherd, as each afternoon he would disappear over the dunes with the camels. Whether he took them for food, drink, or more exercise remained a mystery. It was quite clear though that this man had a bond with, and an incredible fondness for, the camels—rooted in a lifelong relationship with his desert dwelling companions. In harmony with the camels, Hussein would disappear over the dunes, singing to himself and his counterparts, only returning as the sun began to sink into the sand—creating a stunning silhouette upon the horizon—followed obediently by his small flock of dromedaries. It was only suitable that each day, as we set off from camp, Hussein led the way with his camels following close behind.
While Hussein was off gallivanting with the camels, Haziz would often disappear under a nearby tree for a well-deserved nap, before returning to camp to prepare dinner and set up the inside of the tent. Haziz always worked hard to make us delicious and energy-packed meals of Harira (a traditional Moroccan soup) and stew or pasta. Always ensuring we received a bountiful supply of food, and even providing different meals when one of us got sick, Haziz was a dedicated class act.
It would be wrong to mention dedication without commending our 3 dromedaries for lugging everything around for us. We realized early on that these magnificent animals are quite peculiar, and over time they developed their own distinct rapport with us. Traveling with them over such a long distance, bonding as we did, it would have been ludicrous not to give them proper names. And names they got. But these were not just any ordinary names. Remarkable animals deserve remarkable names, and we decided early on that the best way to name them properly was to base their names upon the shapes of their pellets of excrement, which came so frequently and in such abundance, that we became quite accustomed to which pellets belonged to whom.
And so we came to know, in walking order—Olive, Don Cherry (Grapes), and Peanut.
Olive was by far the most relaxed of the 3. Very composed and obedient, he always answered the call, essentially the leader of the group. Olive often carried our bags, and never once was anything broken or in disorder. Trustworthy and dependable, Olive led by example and quickly gained our trust and respect.
Following Olive was Don Cherry, or as we initially referred to him, Grapes. The more you got to know him, the more you liked him. He always carried our daily water ration, and was quite calm each time we approached to seek a refreshment from his back. Perhaps this led to a closer relationship with such a gentle giant. He had no problem with head pats and feeding, but like his namesake, didn’t put up with things when he wasn’t in agreement. What a character.
Speaking of characters, Peanut definitely fit the bill. What can one say about Peanut? If there was ever a crazier, angrier, more stressed out camel, I don’t know. But I do know that Peanut would be near the top of the list. True to his name, he was definitely more than a little nuts. From securing the ropes, to adjusting the packs, to getting up, and to any type of approach, Peanut put up a protest. Bellowing for dear life, a deep lengthy groan, Peanut hated carrying his share and often attempted to run away. Peanut went so far as to refuse to eat, and being the weakest camel, he was often out of luck when scraps were doled out. Hussein however, ever the caring master, ensured that later on Peanut received his own food. While Peanut was absolutely crazy, it’s tough to blame him. Exhausted from just walking, I was going a little crazy myself, without carry over 100 pounds of supplies. Peanut had a valid point in his protests, and one couldn’t help but respect him for his stance.
These characters, both human and camel, made up our caravan as we inched closer to our goal of the dunes at Erg Chigaga. As the days wore on, a great contrast played itself out in front of our very eyes, displaying the two-faced nature of the desert. During daylight hours, the atmosphere was anything but welcoming. As the sun rose to its apex each day, the temperature rose along with it, causing the wind to hurl sand about as if we were merely playthings in an endless sandbox. As the sun sank down each afternoon though, the wind would calm, respectfully fading to usher in the dusk, the sunset, and the beautiful evening that was to follow.
At this time of day, with the temperature of the air dropping to a comfortable level, the Sahara took on a beautiful aura. An about face from the daytime atmosphere, this was the Sahara of our dreams, a place to be alone with your thoughts, raptured in the magnificent beauty that nature has to offer. At this time of day, the light of the falling sun played off the dunes, shifting from bright yellow, to shimmering gold, orange, and finally to a glistening amber, before the dunes faded to silhouettes against the twilight of the setting sun. This was the perfect atmosphere in which to find a solitary dune, ponder the wonders of life’s journey, and watch the camels appear as silhouettes for the days final act, the sun making its way off the stage before me. At this point, as if on cue, the stars would begin to gather above our heads, ushering in a peaceful calm that lasted until the sun returned to take centre stage back from its extended family.
As the sun’s light faded away, Hussein would light a fire and begin to prepare tea—a culinary ritual that he took much pride in. This process, taking much time and diligence, was charming and entertaining, as Hussein was a master of his craft. Different than the mint tea we had become accustomed to throughout the rest of Morocco, this tea was much sweeter and more condensed, a form taken by nomads which uses little water but packs a punch of energy, a perfect concoction for a dry desert environment. And so Hussein would patiently and methodically prepare his tea. This involved using coals from the fire, built to form a sandy stovetop—pouring the tea out of the pot and back into it numerous times, while constantly adding heaping spoonfuls of sugar. After this lengthy process, Hussein would serve us up a piping hot cup of tea, cheerfully offering up a jovial “Bee Saha,” or two, which means cheers. This process was often repeated 5-10 times per evening, often warming us up as the coolness of the evening set in.
After a hearty dinner as the fire dimmed, its gentle heat penetrating the crisp evening air, you had but to look up to witness the thousands of shimmering sentinels that keep watch over us each night as we sleep. The serenity of lying by a fire, surrounded by the silent silhouettes of dunes, while looking up at a multitude of stars gazing back down upon you is heaven for the body and the mind. Already feeling small in the great expanse of the desert, the evenings only reinforced such a fact, inviting one to marvel at the immensity of our universe. Overwhelming yet beautiful, I spent many hours fighting off sleep to enjoy this sensory feast.
Allah must have been listening on our first night, as we viewed his creation in all its splendor. As Eric pondered how long we would have to wait to see a shooting star, almost simultaneously one launched across our vision, leaving us in awe of the powers that be. Glued to the sky, preparing to rest my weary head, and hoping for one last shooting star, I was blessed again. This was no ordinary shooting star, but a flaming arrow launched from Orion’s coiled bow. Quite literally, a streaking light pierced the night sky, direct from the point of the constellation Orion at which a galactic bow might let loose an arrow traveling at the speed of light. As this streaking firelight pierced the cosmos, I pondered how it was possible for me to be so fortunate. Drifting off to sleep, I had no thoughts about what dreams may lay ahead, for I was already in one.
These thoughts of awe and inspiration continued without fail, though perhaps more hallucinations than anything when we were enduring our grueling daily walks. Our wills were strengthened in cement on the third day of our trek, as Erg Chigaga came into view upon the horizon. Our goal was finally in sight, a mere 4 hours away, beckoning to us. Could this really be it? This was no mirage, but the real deal. The thought of finally arriving having been on our minds for hours, we finally made it, pilgrims to a sea of sand, eager to pay homage. After 60 km of painful, tiresome, zombie-like walking, we were awakened by Erg Chigaga, a field of 200m high dunes—the primary reason for our visit to the Sahara. Our visions of beauty did not disappoint, as the majestic dunes rose before us above a barren plateau, overlooking nomads, 4x4 groups, and our small outfit, as we made our way into the bosom of the dunes to set up camp.
And so it came to be that I found myself struggling over one final obstacle, the wave of sand rising above me, as I pushed my body to obey my mind. My mind wanted to reach the summit, my body on the other hand, had peaked long ago. Despite this, and with streams of sweat pouring into the open arms of the parched sand, I waveringly pulled myself upwards, despite the best efforts of gravity and the sand to hold me back. Finally, after what had seemed to be a lifetime since we journeyed out, I pulled myself up and took a deep look around at my reward. Behind me lay the plateau from which we had come, a reminder of the journey itself, while spread out before my eyes was a sea of rolling dunes headed west, pilgrims on a journey of their own. So there we were, vagabonders crossing paths, sharing a moment that was worth every step, every drop of sweat, every sun-soaked second. Sitting atop those dunes, the afternoon fading away, nothing mattered but the hour at hand, the moment. This feeling sums up our desert journey, as each experience, each moment, was unique unto itself. In the following moments, as the sun bid farewell for another night, my mind was lost in the beauty of the experience, as it should have been.
One of the best sunsets I have ever witnessed graced us with its presence, the setting itself making a beautiful stage upon which the transition from day to night was acted out—a transition that holds a special meaning in the desert. In our balcony atop the dunes, we silently gazed at the setting laid out before us, the fading light of the dun dancing over the dunes, bidding us adieu. What a show. Having witnessed this prize of nature in all its glory, we headed back to camp, and then on to M’Hamid, with these priceless moments etched into our minds.
The challenges our minds endured before our arrival at Chigaga were only magnified as we headed back towards M’Hamid. In fact, our battered bodies only felt worse as our imaginations conjured up thoughts of comfort, food, and most importantly, drinks. As we turned our backs on the sand castle of Erg Chigaga, commencing on a two-day, 60 km journey, our minds had already begun to fantasize about the drinks we would devour upon our arrival back to M’Hamid. Images of ice cold fruit drinks floated across our minds, self-inflicted mirages of pure joy. It was in this state that we passed the hours, discussing our dream drinks with fanatical vigor. And so the mental torture began.
With every step taken, we were one step, one moment, closer to that coveted cool refreshment that our minds craved perhaps even more than our spent bodies. The first day homeward came and went, our mental fervor growing as we entered the home stretch on that final morning. The torture continued to build as we realized our mental mirage was soon to become a true oasis. After our hardest day of walking, both mentally and physically, the buildings of M’Hamid finally came into view. Our dreams started to seem realistic, our hopes carrying our tired legs as we were awoken from our zombie-like march. In a twisted effort to make that first glorious drink all the more enjoyable, we deprived ourselves of any water for the final half hour. And so it was, parched lips and all, that we arrived at our hotel, heading straight to the glowing red fridge.
Our drink of choice was a beautiful, glacier cold glass bottle of Coca Cola. Without a doubt the best Coke that has ever passed through my lips, it was refreshing beyond words. I swear it was a commercial in the making!
And so ended our desert odyssey—our bodies depleted but not defeated—a journey which ended up being the greatest physical effort either of us had ever undertaken. Our thirst for adventure had been quenched. As we sat enjoying a medley of long dreamed of refreshments, we basked in the realization that we had just completed the journey of a lifetime. Our romantic view of the desert had become a respect for an environment that can be simultaneously beautiful and hellish. In this environment we had experienced so much in such little time. The journey, the goal, our companions, all combined to create an incredibly fulfilling experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world.
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