It was a nice place. A troop of boys on
bikes tried to sell some rocks and fossils to us, but after seeing our
disinterest they left us pretty much alone. A familiar pattern was
emerging. People in Morocco were very interested in where we were from.
I had begun to play them along a bit, answering their inquiries with a
shake of the head. “France?” “Ingles?” “Aleman?
” By the fourth guess
almost everyone asked “Berber of Morocco?” At which point I would smile
and admit my nationality.
We spent some time chasing the flamingos around this lake; they were
beguiling in that they could move without looking like they were
moving. All the while we studiously avoided miring our trusty
silver camel in the mud,
The sand dunes beckoned, so we headed
down towards Merzouga.
We had, much to our chagrin, run out of beer. So once in town we
countered an offer to “Go make a nice Camel ride” with an inquiry as to
the local availability of hopped refreshment. Without a moment’s
hesitation, the fellow hopped on his moped and took off down a rutted
track. We pulled into the parking area of a hotel; walked through
the lobby, past the skis and snowboards piled therein and purchased 6
We then proceeded into the dunes.
A word of warning: I am entranced by sand dunes. I could look at them
for a long, long time. And as you will see, I can take lots and lots of
pictures of them. It was late afternoon, and the light was getting very
good. The dunes play with your mind, jumbling its sense of scale. My
eye was drawn to grand vista, immense mountains of sand, then to the
abstractions and minutae. Curves, shadows, tracks and ripples.
The sharp eye will find the people in this picture.