Dating : Staring down the Sahara

A Berber’s Wind of Change

“What happens if we’re trapped in the desert?” Helen stared down the lengthy, strident route pleading into the hazelnut abyss. She tramped the coast of Portugal with me, drudging through ankle-high sand blossoms. We spent two months hitchhiking from Barcelona to the southern Maghreb.

“This is only the beginning too, babe. Real Africa is thousands of kilometers, yet.” The air stanched after exiting Marrakesh. Luckily, we carved the Atlantic after a day’s drive. And swam in the rocky brown sea at Tan Tan Plage. From there, the highway pierced inland and air stagnated again.

The insurgent, rebellious autonomy of Western Sahara. But only a fraction of the way before the green pastures of Senegal. It was mid-August. When the wind stopped, our bodies exerted liters of moisture. It was impossible to carry fluid enough to replace it.

“There’s only one direction,” I said reassuringly. “With very little between us and Dakhla. We’re bound to catch a direct ride.”

I had hitchhiked the arid badlands of Australia years ago. On the fringes of the Nullarbor, punished by unconstrained sunlight, with a seldom car flashing past a spot of air. Drivers knew we had to enjoy each other’s company for eternity. Impetuous characters were rare. Nevertheless, I caught a lift halfway to Perth with a guy from Turkmenistan.

It came at a price though.

This comrade adored one band. Older than I, a young adult before communism collapsed in ’91. Soviet comradery lived in his bloodstream. While he could not help his birthplace of Turkmen, inside he remained Russian. The beloved Scorpions played on repeat. We talked of his world, bouncing from one continent to the next, working as an engineer. Unmarried, unattached, and happy to move locations periodically. If his firm suggested, he agreed. He embraced the wind of change like his pal Klaus Meine.

Poor Helen’s nose peeled often. Hard to believe there was skin left. Blond hair and pale, we had to keep her covered. We bought her a sarong up north wandering Rabat. It was the only tolerable center in Morocco. Most tourists skipped it. That was the ultimate blessing. University students went for an exchange, but most elective visitors ignored the city. The rest were traps, filled with filthy touts and stereotypical hogwash. Rabat wore great history starting with the Romans. The Moor exodus from Spain brought stowaways and bandits. Later, the base of operations for French colonialism and became the capital of a newly independent nation. Textile, handicrafts and an art museum characterized the quiet metropolis with artisan spirit and diversification. I did not expect Moroccans to behave as Europeans. But most of my time out of Berber territory and Rabat, prejudice was encumbering.

Helen slumped on her pack covered by the flowery shawl. Silent, she conserved energy as the sun blazoned. A big rig squealed onto the shoulder. The heavy door creaked open. Helen climbed in first while I passed up our backpacks.

“Are we glad to meet you,” I greeted him in French. Caramel skinned he wore a long, white robe of sheets with a turban. The cloth was light, covering everything aside from his face and sandaled feet. He smiled and replied in French. Then offered us water after we got into our positions. Helen could rest on the bunk while I took the passenger seat.

“I am not going too far,” he whispered. “But you will have no problem getting a ride from there.” His face glistened with happiness and his tone was so calm compared to northern Moroccans.

“Are you going to Laayoune,” he asked. I mentioned Dakhla. “Oh, oh that is very far. Better we get driving.” He laughed and passed me a cigarette.

The truck rumbled slowly, cylinders getting steam, air pushing out. It shook and wobbled. Helen vibrated in the back, bouncing off the mattress.

“It’s the desert air and dust,” he called out over the noise, “but it’s ok!”

We finally got going at a walking pace. Once the truck was at the highway’s speed limit both of us sunk back into our spots with relief. Our new friend turned his radio on.