Midnight at the Oasis

The crescent moon had grown a little fatter during the two days since its appearance had signaled the end of Ramadan. I watched it dance a slow arc towards the desert horizon with its lovely partner, Venus, who was wearing what my granddaughter Lucy calls her “sparkly dress”. As the celestial couple dipped behind a palm tree classically silhouetted in the foreground, a forty-year old melody showed up in my head to furnish the dance music. Maria Muldaur’s lusty voice crooned: “Midnight at the oasis. Send the camels to bed. Shadows paintin’ our faces. Traces of romance in our heads.” Actual camels had already gone to bed, kneeling on the sand outside the enclosed square created by the brown canvas tents of our nomad camp near Zagora, Morocco. With low snorts and huffs, they settled in for the night. In the morning they would carry all ninety of us in our Semester at Sea group out into the desert for a ride.

Muldaur’s tune looped over and over in my head as the experience of a dream come true sent frissons of excitement in waves through my body. Even after the moon set, the magic continued into the night. A bonfire was lit in a pit in the center of the carpeted square of the enclosure, and its sparks shot up, competing with the countless stars in the black dome of night overhead. I marveled at the colorful rugs I had only seen in tastefully decorated American homes. Here they served their original purpose: an overlapping barrier to the sand, a lovely blue and red carpet for an outdoor living space. A stranger in a strange land, I felt comforted and welcomed by the gracious ambiance created by those rugs. Around the fire, white robed and turbaned dancers, singers and drummers performed their songs, dissonant and foreign to my ears. One woman’s powerful ululation filled the air and we all watched mesmerized as her tongue rapidly vibrated in her open mouth to produce the sound. The drumbeats called insistently for us to join in, and as we clapped and danced, what had been a performance turned into a communal event. In my Global Music class on the ship, Professor Daniel Ferguson had talked about the cultural differences that divide artistic from participatory music. On the edge of the Sahara Desert, I was witnessing then happily joining in the transformation from one to the other.

Initially a little shy, the SAS students and adults were urged to join the celebration by a buoyant, thirty-something Moroccan woman dressed in capri jeans and a white blouse with a turquoise scarf around her neck, an outfit identical to those I regularly wear. By her movements throughout the camp and her interactions with the guests and staff, I could tell she was in charge. At one point I saw her sitting off to the side on a low wooden stool. I squatted down beside her, introduced myself and tried to learn a little about her. Her name was Bouchra, which she told me meant “beautiful gift”. Her English was fairly good, and I was thankful because my French was much worse. I learned that she was the manager of not only this nomad camp but also a hotel and several 4x4 and camel excursion outfits, all owned by her father. The idea of a young Muslim woman in a position of authority scraped against the smooth surfaces of my stereotypes of this culture. Even though nepotism undoubtedly played a part in her rise to this position, I appreciated her skills and the opportunity she had to use them. In my work with gender equity issues over the years, I’ve become aware that men who have only daughters are some of the strongest feminists. I didn’t feel comfortable asking but would love to know if she had any brothers.

After our conversation, I went back to the group and sat watching the fire burn down. An uncomfortable feeling began to intrude into my bliss. Suddenly I began to think of Bouchra as the little man behind the great Wizard of Oz. The magical, romantic fantasy I was reveling in morphed a little when I looked at it through her eyes. For her, this was a business, a well crafted show to provide tourists with the experience of being in the Moroccan desert, in what was billed as a nomad camp. There are still nomadic peoples in this country, some Berber and some Arabic. Our guide told us they wear blue robes like the one I noticed was worn by the man who lit our fire. Was he culturally a nomad or just playing a role? The camp itself seemed built for its tourist purpose--no nomads had probably ever slept in these tents with their camels resting nearby. Our Muslim hosts had provided us with a full bar and access to toilets that flushed, most of the time anyway. Were we in a Saharan Disneyland? Should I expect Aladdin to pop out any minute? Looking back, I wonder that these questions about authenticity didn’t completely kill my buzz. As it turned out, my delight had staying power. I went to sleep on my little mattress in the tent with Muldaur’s song still in my head.

In the morning I got up early and climbed to the top of a dune to watch the eastern horizon turn from gray to pink to blazing gold.

I wasn’t that interested in the camel ride portion of our itinerary, having done one in Cairo that resembled a pony ride at a county fair. But for many of the students, the camel ride was the most anticipated part of the trip. They bargained for gauzy scarves at roadside stalls during our rest stops on the long bus ride down to the desert, experimented with various methods of wrapping them into turbans and mugged for each other’s cameras. Our ride the next day was actually quite fun, almost two hours long with six or seven camels tied together and led by their owner, walking past fields and farm families going through their morning routines. The process was very similar to trail rides at a dude ranch in the American west. Riding along, I wondered if Bouchra visited me in Colorado and I took her to one of those ranches, would she enjoy buying a cowboy hat, singing along with a guitar around a campfire, and watching the moon set over the Rockies? Would she care if she slept in a bunkhouse that might never have sheltered a real cowboy? One motivation for travel is dream fulfillment. That’s what a Bucket List is for, isn’t it? If the dream feels fulfilled, as mine so fortunately did, why should we question how?

After we all returned to the ship and set sail for Ghana, I had dinner with my new friends Deena and Jim Behnke. They were brimming over with excitement about their SAS trip and enchanted me with stories of hiking through the Atlas Mountains, sleeping in Berber villages and immersing themselves in the rural Moroccan lifestyle. The places they slept were not tourist accommodations but the flat roofs of Berber houses. The toilets certainly didn’t flush. Jim exclaimed that one village had just gotten electricity the year before. They ate basic Berber food, and the students played soccer with the village children. They seemed to have lived what is widely considered to be the ultimate traveler experience and couldn’t have been more excited about it. Dinner ended before I could take my turn at storytelling which worked out well for me. Again, I was dealing with uncomfortable questions. Had I visited Frontierland while they hiked the Continental Divide?

I’ve written here before about the sort of buyers’ remorse that often comes when shipmates share stories of their travels in port. It’s almost impossible to listen and not compare. No matter how wonderful your own adventure was, someone else’s can sometimes sound even better, and you are left feeling a little envious. I have finally learned to listen to these stories, accepting any envy I may feel, but settling at last into gratitude. Semester at Sea affords me the opportunity to hear fresh, first-hand accounts of amazing experiences from many different perspectives. My voyage is enriched by vicariously enjoying the adventures of literally hundreds of travelers.

(photo by Maria Sakaria)

My felt experience in Morocco was extraordinary, shimmering still inside me. Despite the intrusions of my analytical mind, I am convinced the imprint of those sensations will stay with me always: the sweetness of the scalding mint tea; the welcoming feel of Berber carpets beneath my feet; the ululations, drumbeats and camel noises; the hearty smell of lamb tagine at dinner; the gracious warmth and hospitality of our hostess; and, most of all, the sight of the crescent moon and Venus setting slowly behind the silhouette of a desert palm. I have experienced “Midnight at the Oasis” – the magic of its beauty, the celebration of its music, the excitement of the fulfillment of a dream – and I am left with special memories and deep gratitude.