Morocco: Act III

It’s been over a year since my last travel post, and eighteen months since I returned from my first trip to Morocco, but I’m only now working up the gumption to conclude that story. I do this mainly so I can recount my recent travels with clear conscience that my previous experience will not be washed away by my failing mind. Already, many important details are gone and forgotten. But I will do my best to explain how we escaped Africa. I’m aided by the photos I took, which retell some of the story. But they end abruptly and leave quite a gap for reasons which will become clear.

The drive out of the desert is a mirror image of the drive in. Whereas we stopped at the Todra Gorge on the way in, it’s the Dades Gorge on the way out. After the uniform landscape of the Sahara, the massive features of Dades repaint the world as a diverse and volatile place.

And instead of fossils, like on the way in, we stop for the roses in M’Gouna. This is the seat of the Moroccan perfume and skincare trade. There are dozens of shops selling rose water and argon oil. It’s a bit of a letdown as we don’t see any fields of roses stretching on into infinity. I don’t remember why. Maybe they were out of season?

The climax of our tale begins as we arrive at the Kasbah Ait Ben Moro. It’s a lovely building filled with character and charm. It’s more modern than the others, with a full service restaurant and manicured grounds. After settling in and exploring a bit, we sit down to a well served meal. We order a bottle of Moroccan wine, and I explain to the waiter that I will not be having the mixed grill, as I only eat seafood and vegetables. I probably make a joke about being unable to find seafood in the desert. When he brings our food out, our waiter beams with pride as he presents me with a plate of something grilled. The owner of the Kasbah, he explains, is a big fan of seafood and personally offers me his fish dinner for the evening. There are two decent sized fillets that look bad and smell worse. But I felt there was no way I could refuse. In fairness, it might not have been the fish that set me down my dark path. I remember feeling a bit ookie even when we sat down for dinner. But Jenny felt fine before, and did have a taste of the fish. It was one of those, “this is horrible, try it” moments we all fall for every so often.

Or maybe it was the wine, or some food we’d shared the previous day. Whatever it was, it hit me first and Jenny a few hours later. Fever, delirium, cold sweats, bathroom emergencies of every variety. This is when the photos stop. My vacation reading was Paul Knowles’ The Sheltering Sky about two neurotic New Yorkers who visit Morocco when the region opens up after World War II. The book is a lovely tragedy that starts bad and ends worse. With that in mind, I lay in my darkened Kasbah room and think to myself how odd it is that I’m dying and that I know that I’m dying.

It’s a silver lining that my attack hit hours earlier. By the time Jenny came down with it, my worst had passed. It’s frightening to think what would have happened if I’d need the bathroom while she was in there. Of course if something horrible like that did happen, we would agree to take it with us to our graves, so you’ll never really know. In retrospect, I’m grateful to my body for dealing with the trauma without need of medicine or treatment. Had it done otherwise, this would be a longer and more harrowing story. By the morning, we were both battle weary, but mobile and ready to finish our drive back to Marrakech.

We booked a day at the end of our trip at the Sofitel in Marrakech as a way to pamper ourselves after our rugged desert expedition. The hotel is lovely with western amenities, a pool, and a world class restaurant. Instead of enjoying these, we spend fourteen hours dozing in our darkened room and ordering room service as we regain our strength. The next day we take a brief lap around the hotel so we can admire the features we did not enjoy. But we agree it was a fortuitous stop. If we’d gone straight from the desert onto an airplane, it could have been a painful return to western civilization. As it was, we escaped our illness before escaping Africa.

Jenny and I don’t talk anymore, but that trip remains in my memory as the most extreme of adventures. Bouncing from the joy and peace of the desert to the despair of death and disease will forever stay in my heart, and there’s no one I’d rather have shared that with.