The desert's melofy

by Kayleigh Dowdeswell (Australia)

Making a local connection Morocco

We’d been bouncing along in the van for close to thirteen hours. Leaving Marrakech at dawn, we’d seen argan groves inhabited by tree-climbing goats and considered fossils at lonely roadside stalls. We had laughed at Egyptian film props that dotted the landscape around Ouarzazate, Morocco's own Hollywood, and admired the palm trees of the Draa Valley that stretched to the horizon. We were also several hours behind schedule and air conditioning was a distant memory. The once-picturesque road was now flanked only by sand and rolling dunes, ready to swallow the sinking sun at a moment’s notice. Without warning the van stopped. Over a small rise, camels sat tethered in small trains of fours and fives under the watchful eye of Berber tribesmen in blue jillaba robes and turbans. Their weathered hands were quick to load both us and our belongings onto the camels. One by one, each camel was pulled to its feet. The last time I rode a camel was on a beach holiday in Sydney when I was seven. I don’t remember being quite so far from the ground then. We made slow progress into the desert. I quickly realised that unlike a horse, the camel’s gait was impossible to predict, sand shifting beneath its every step, pitching me in every direction. I clung to the saddle with both legs and white-knuckled hands. The dunes protected us from the last of the sunlight but not the heat. Wind rustled the plastic bags that held my ration of water, carrying snatches of the berbers’ hushed conversation. Dark shapes materialized beneath a distant hill. Two neat lines of black tents, shadowed by a larger, striped tent on either side. Drawing closer, chairs and low-lying pillows emerged, surrounding a small gazebo in the centre. Closer still; a table laid with silver teapots and tiny glass cups. I braced myself for another cup of traditional mint tea, which I had learnt could be bitter as death or syrup sweet depending on how it had been prepared. “As-salamu alaykum”. A tiny berber held out a steaming glass with a wrinkled smile. The saccharine tea curdled my tongue. We were given time to freshen up before the evening meal, held in one of the larger striped tents. Colourful pillows and rugs covered most of the ground, and lanterns swung from the ceiling. We collapsed in tired, sweaty clumps, smiling gratefully as rough hewn bread on terracotta platters appeared, along with tagines of vegetables and what I hoped was chicken or goat. There was also a lot of tea. In the corner sat a cluster of Berbers. As we ate, one started to sing, the others quickly harmonising with their own voices, or small drums held beneath their knees. Another chimed in with small cymbals held in each hand. The men smiled, swaying and laughing together as each song ran into the next. This was not just a show for the tourists. This concert was their selfish indulgence. We were just fortunate to be present. Their joy fed my own. As a former bellydancer I’d long had a love affair with Arabic drum rhythms, conducted solely through crackling speakers and dodgy headphones. Too tired to move and not wanting to cause offence, a phantom stepped lightly across the rugs instead, an echo of my heart held aloft by the desert’s melody. Sometime after midnight I made my quiet exit, forced out by a fierce headache I could no longer ignore. The night air was still thick with heat. Unable to face the canvas tent I’d been assigned, I collapsed instead into a pile of cushions outside, forgetting all advice received on the matter of scorpions and snakes. The men in the tent played on. Some time later I awoke to silence, and a camp dog licking my toes. At dawn when I woke again my new friend had taken a souvenir of one of my shoes. Luckily a smiling tribesman knew where such prizes were hidden and the shoe was quickly recovered. The camel train stood ready to take us back to the highway, back to Marrakech. My soul and my bruised thighs were not. I still hear those drums to this day.