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Shares
They offered me a seat in the cab, but I'd always been a bed-of-the-truck kind of gal. Earlier that night, my bus arrived at the dimly lit station of M'Hamid El Ghizlane, a small collection of mud-brick buildings in eastern Morocco that gave a final nod to civilization before yielding to the vast openness of the Sahara. My destination: Taragalte Music Festival in the nearby dunes. I'd come without a ticket, but I'd bet my bus fare that, in typical Moroccan fashion, I'd be met with a casual, "Meshi Mushkil! Not a problem!" and eventually led where I wished. The bet paid off: a makeshift festival HQ was set up at the ticket counter. I was wrist-banded and told to follow the man in blue, a reference to the colorful robes of the local Tuareg people. Two Tuaregs had founded Taragalte to celebrate their nomadic culture and traditions, which continue to dwindle as deserts become hotter and more hostile and nomads reluctantly swap camel and tent for four walls and a door. Knots of anxiety in my gut loosened into waves of excitement as the Blue Man led me to celebrate with him. At the truck, I saw four young Moroccans had hopped in the back. My robed driver motioned for me to join two French women up front, but I indicated I preferred to travel en pleine air and clambered over the tailgate to join my chosen tribe. I'd heard the girl in hijab speak English, so I asked her name. Laila. The others: Kaoutar, Hajar, Otmane, all university students from Fez. We were barely nestled among our packs when the truck jolted into gear. As we gathered speed, I looked up to see the Milky Way clearly visible in the sky above the palm fronds whizzing by. In that moment, I felt bigger than me; like the warm desert wind had filled my lungs and inflated me into a great balloon, encompassing all the stars, the dunes, the truck and the five of us in it. It was magic. I looked back at the others. We smiled at each other and I could tell they felt it, too. I didn't know yet how close we would become; how that shared ride would lead to a shared festival tent and a shared cake on my 25th birthday. I didn't know how the sounds of jangling guitars of nomad rock stars would hypnotize me as they drifted across the dunes; how I'd come to think Arabic spoken between friends sounded like whispers between the sand and stars; how I'd move a little differently afterwards, slower and more steady. I didn't know what Taragalte would hold - but I knew I'd never regret getting in the back of the truck.