So… our tour eventually landed us in Merzouga, Morocco’s gateway to the Erg Chebbi dunes, located on the far western edge of the Sahara Desert.
I was back.
Back in the Sahara… but this time, I was not going to be riding a camel.
Our tour was a part of a great convoy. Dozens of tour buses, all slightly different, but pretty much following fairly the same itinerary. Once our bus pulled up at the camel quarters, everyone jumped out and proceeded to gather up the belongings they needed and wanted for the evening. All the luggage was thrown into a large pile and then heaved onto the back of a small pickup truck.
We were spending the evening at one of the 300 desert camps scattered around the nearby dunes. Seemed very different to when I was there. I’m all about tourism, don’t get me wrong… Tourism is how I make a living… and all the rest of the bits, outside of work. But this… this was extreme.
Tourism can drastically transform a destination in profound ways. Economic benefits have the detrimental ability to erase local character and experiences that made it unique.
Does that makes any sense?
In the past 25 years, Morocco had created a monster.
I watched as dozens of enthusiastic sightseers climbed onto their respective camels… and headed off toward the sunset.
Except me.
I waited in the bus.
Apparently I was being driven to the desert camp. Actually… to tell the truth, I had no idea what was going on… or where I was even going. There was hardly any communication as to what was happening or when… or how. It was all a bit mishmash.
Once she heard about my plan NOT to ride the camels, Miriam, the German traveler, decided she was no longer interested either. I was happy because I had an ally. The cheese stood alone no more.
Ali was not impressed.
I think he figured I’d convinced Miriam not to ride a camel. He got quite indignant… accusing us of disrupting things and sabotaging plans.
Excuse me?
Sabotaging plans?
My plan had been ‘no camel’ from the very beginning… and he knew it. As much as one would like to take credit for successfully being persuasive, I possessed zero power in convincing anyone to do anything. Anytime. Ever.
Let alone not ride a camel.
I wasn’t PETA.
And what difference did NOT getting on the back of a camel do?
Nothing.
We were all going to the same place. Miriam offered to walk to ease the apparent agony she had caused by deciding not to ride a camel. I offered to walk along with her. Ali hardly paid us any mind, brushed off our idea and just walked away, without providing any insight as to whether we would be driving, ATV’ing… or walking.
It was awkward.
I escaped his foul mood by retreating back to the bus and unbenowmst to me, Miriam just started following the camels, determined to get to the camp on her own two feet.
Had I known, I would’ve joined her, but at the time, everything was too chaotic and Ali was much too irritable and prickly for my liking.
It didn’t take us long to figure out why he was so aggravated by our decision. He probably had to pay for each camel… so he’d wasted money paying for Miriam’s camel in advance. With her walking, he lost money that he could’ve pocketed.
Mystery solved.
Greed.
It all made sense. Everywhere we stopped, he received commission off our pocket. Shops, restaurants, factories… why not camels???
So… that was that. Miriam had followed the camels. I was in the bus… waiting…
When I had originally written to the tour organizer, they’d told me that each ATV ride would cost me an additional €10. That was fine. I could manage that. I’d budgeted for it and had the equivalent dirham in my purse.
There were no ATVs though. None that I saw, anyway. There were only men. Lots of men. All these men were standing around smoking and blethering and laughing about this & that & whatever.
I just waited.
In the bus.
I must have waited for over an hour, wondering if anyone would ever bother to tell the foreigner what the hell was going on.
No one did.
At one point, it looked like I was about to go… and then all hell broke loose. All the men started fighting. Well… one in particular… and the rest were just responding to his tantrum. He was punching his fists into a vehicle, shouting at everyone, then storming off… only to turn back around and do it all over again.
It was frightening.
And very unsettling.
I had no idea what was going on and I was the only tourist left. Eventually everybody calmed down… and I was instructed to grab my belongings and head over to the truck that was carrying everyone’s luggage.
I did as I was told.
Then I saw Ali.
“What happened?”
“When?” was his response.
“The big fight!” I replied, astounded at his reply.
“It was nothing.” His face was stoic and he brushed it off like I had imagined the whole scenario.
I was having none of it.
“It wasn’t nothing. What happened?” I asked again.
I needed answers.
Ali decided to tell me that the reason everyone was angry was because some of the guests were ‘sabotaging’ plans… in so many words.
His response pissed me off.
Why?
He said it in a manner that was intended to make me (or whoever else) feel guilty for not riding a camel. Not cool.
The tantrum was an unprofessional way to act, especially with clients around. And then to pin the blame on the clients? Not cool.
If it was, in fact, US that caused the enormous fight because we weren’t comfortable riding camels, well that was downright absurd and these men shouldn’t be in the tourism industry. Not cool.
Not cool at all.
None of it.
I had no response.
All I said was, “I hope that guy isn’t driving”… and I pointed to the irate, tantrum one.
Ali assured me he was not.
He lied.
He was.
I don’t know if he was naturally a bad, reckless driver or if his incompetence and foolhardiness was just a result of his anger, but his driving was downright scary.
Carrying not only everyone’s luggage, but also ME, as well as a couple of other Spanish tourists… he certainly hitched his wagon to a dangerous star.
I was confident we were going to tip.
Have I tipped in the sand dunes before?
Yes.
Did I feel confident we were going to tip again?
Yes.
I was scared for my life. There were no seatbelts and I was squished in the back, holding on to the Spanish couple for dear life.
Did these people have insurance?
I felt like any amount of insurance purchased would not cover this style of daredevil driving, in such unstable & unpredictable conditions. I had been thrust into an extreme sport I hadn’t signed up for.
The camels were starting to look like a preferable option.
Short story short.
We survived.
Barely.
There was nobody at the camp when I arrived, save for a few stragglers, such as myself. The majority of the squad were still on the camels. So I sat for a while, had some mint tea… and then scurried up one of the dunes … and sat, taking in my semi-peaceful surroundings.
The towering dunes of Erg Chebbi are a stunning natural landscape. They can reach heights of up to 150m, creating dramatic, golden-orange landscapes that shift with the wind and sunlight.
The whole area is known for its stark beauty, with vast, smooth sandscapes that appear to stretch endlessly.
Men yelling, the generators and the truck engines revving made it not as peaceful as time in the Sahara desert should be.
I remembered being here all those years ago, though much had changed. When we’d ventured into the desert 25 years ago, we stayed in a small, round tent decorated with colourful rugs and cushions. We sat cross-legged on the floor and ate tajine.
A lot had changed.
There were so many camps and tents… and so many tourists… and so many camels …
Throughout all of my travels, concerns about the treatment of animals has much occupied my mind.
Especially camels.
Camels are often overworked, carrying tourists for long hours in the scorching heat, without proper care or rest. They are tied at the ankles & knees… are often deprived of food and water… and are forced to wear heavy saddles (and people) that can cause pain and injury to their backs.
Twenty-five years ago, I was young & oblivious to it… and I’m ashamed to admit that I rode a camel. Now… I know better, so I try to do better. There is still so much I need to learn and improve upon as well.
My decision was to enjoy the Sahara while being mindful of animal welfare by supporting ethical tourism practices, regardless of what Ali… or anyone else thought.
That evening at dinner, the all-male crew (not a female in sight) made the rounds of each table, informing us that we had to either pick between ATVs or camels for the following morning.
Only two choices?
Interesting…
I would have assumed there would be four.
Camels
ATV
Driving
Walking
Perhaps I was wrong?
Had I missed something?
Camels - Hard pass.
Driving - After the last ride? Hard pass.
So…
ATV - Honestly… I had already succumbed to the ATV option… thinking there was no other option and I had prepared for the additional cost of €10.
Well… imagine my surprise when I was told it was actually €60. That’s $85CND. And they wanted it from me immediately.
You’re kidding me?
Five kilometres for $85?? Thanks, but no thanks.
I’ll walk.
Apparently, walking wasn’t an option.
Why?
There was no answer… and others were walking… and had already walked.
Too bad.
It was decided. Miriam and I would walk… and as a result, Ali was angry all over again. We were really quashing his commission.
This time his foul mood was not only fueled by our “sabotage,” but also by straight bourbon. That’s what he was drinking and he was proud of it. He kept filling up his glass and trying to force us all to take a sip.
I was tent bunk mates with Miriam and after dinner, we decided to take a much needed time out before the evening festivities began.
The trouble was… while we were in our tent, someone came along and locked us in. We had no idea who did it, or why… but we were suddenly prisioners of our own accommodation. We yelled & screamed… and banged on the door for about 20 minutes, hoping anyone would hear us and let us out.
The wifi was pretty much non-existent in the dunes, but somehow Miriam had managed to get a message through to Ali, and he came over immediately to rescue us.
Once out, I made a good-humoured comment that we thought it might have been him that locked our door from the outside because we weren’t riding the camels the following morning. This comment did not go over well.
Blame the bourbon.
He was indisputably sloshed.
He was getting more and more belligerent and rude as the evening progressed, so both Miriam and I decided to distance ourselves from him, and fled in opposite directions.
My luck, I happened to run into him soon after, as I was looking for the rest of our crew. Casually I asked him if he’d seen any of them and he responded by loudly & vulgarly directing me over to the Cubans, right in front of them.
In Spanish, he kept shouting, “Why don’t you want to hang out with the Cubans? You no like Cubans? You NO LIKE Cubans?”
Eekkkkk….
It was loud.
It was awkward.
It was insulting.
It was unprofessional.
I was standing against speciesism while being accused of racism. Fabulous.
I decided my best course of acation was to do nothing. I put my head down and walked up a sand dune as fast as I could, ignoring him as he loudly called my name behind me. I tried to concentrate on searching for the stars for a bit, but it was quite cloudy, making it almost impossible. So… I made my way back to the tent to have an early night.
I wasn’t in bed five minutes when I heard the door fumbling. It was him!
I sprung to my feet immediately and raced forward to block the door before he could enter the tent.
“What do you want?”
I was undeniably harsh, but his behaviour was not ok. He told me that he came to ask if I was ‘angry’ with him.
I was angry now… to be 100% certain… but I assured him I was not.
“No… I’m tired. Goodnight.”
With that, I shut the door and went back to bed, hoping the creep would disappear.
He did.
Never a dull moment.
In the middle of the night, Miriam and I were both awoken to the sound of two of the young American girls, trying desperately to both help Ali… and escape him. Their voices sounded uncomfortable… yet they remained kind and firm. They managed to send him on his intoxicated way before making a getaway Into their tent and locking the door.
Ahhh… the exasperating intoxication of our fearless leader.
In the morning, Miriam told me her own disturbing Ali story. After I’d disappeared, he had honed in on her, making disturbing advances and trying to coerce her away from the others. She said it was very awkward and creepy. No matter how many times she said no, he wouldn’t take the hint.
It was definitely not a professional way for a guide to behave. At all.
The following morning, Ali was nowhere to be found. We figured he was sleeping off a horrendous hangover… and a whole lot of shame.
Shame! Shame! Shame!
At least he wasn’t there to glare at us as we followed the camels out of camp and across the desert… on foot.
The walk was a little treacherous. There were a lot of variables. It was early, it was dark and it was cold. It’s tough to walk in sand, as I was cursing myself for not being in better shape. Camels are faster than one might imagine.
It was a lot easier to walk in sand without shoes… but because it was so early, the sand was freezing, making it near impossible to trek 5km with frozen toes. And they were frozen solid.
Despite the frigid temperature of the Sahara floor, the dunes were breathtaking. A surreal atmosphere.
I shouldn’t complain.
Think of the poor camels.
During one of the stops to take pictures of the sunrise, one of the camels came loose from the rope used to tie them all together in a row.
He hobbled along the sand of the desert floor, sluggishly crawling. His knees were tied, preventing him from standing right up. The ropes are meant to reduce their range of movement and eliminate risk of them wandering off too far.
It was horrible.
Everyone, including the guide, were laughing at his feeble attempt at an escape… but I was in tears. There was nothing comical about it.
It was devastating.
Soul crushing.
Was he trying to escape?
Was he thirsty? Perhaps he’d been denied food or water… or both… and now was fighting for his own survival.
Was he trying to escape pain or harsh treatment?
The laughter of the group continued until the guide finally caught up to the camel, untied his knee restraints and forced him to bow down for a passenger to jump back on.
The camel’s pain was evident and this acceptable torture was agonizing to watch.
An ignorant German girl made a comment that it was “the funniest thing she’d seen on the tour so far.”
Hilarious.
Ya…
Both Miriam and I shot her a look of death.
So… to end on an even more depressing note…
“Camels are individuals with unique personalities: they greet their friends by blowing into their faces, love their families, feel pain and fear just like we do, and are not ours to exploit in any way. The fact that camels are a different species doesn’t mean humans can use them as they please. Camels used for tourist rides are denied everything that is natural and important to them. All aspects of their life are controlled by humans – none can run free with their herd or choose where to graze or with whom to mate.”
PETA
Please don’t ride camels.
Please.
If you want to do more research into it… please do.
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