No borders in the dunes
Raw asphalt turned to sandy roads, and then to sloping dunes, as we traveled east to the edge of Morocco. The scene was not unlike an American Western film set; drifting sand, tumbleweed-type-debris, buildings but not many life forms.
When we arrived at the camel-port I was introduced to my four-legged-sand-shuttle, “Jimi Hendrix”, which I rode about 2 miles to camp. Riding a camel through sand dunes is kind of like riding the Coney Island Cyclone; there’s some pain involved, some noises that cause concern, and disembarking comes with a mild limp and crooked smile.
The desert camp was luxurious to say the least, equipped with electricity, showers, and hot tea. After a light dinner, all campers gathered around the fire and gently bobbed to the traditional Berber drum circle; smiles and cheers all around. I ventured away from camp into the dunes to get a few shots of the stars when from behind me I heard, “America… do not get lost, and end up in Algeria..”
