[One of the many towns we encountered on our way west…toward Marrakesh. Photo is mine.]

Traveling-it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.

~~ Ibn Battuta

The Great Dunes are behind us. My dream of riding into the largest desert in the world has been fulfilled. I have no regrets, except for the lingering feeling that I was not the only one to be sorry to leave. I do believe that the dunes themselves will be missing me. Missing my affection, my need to be close among them. And my hope that they will stay as pure and undeveloped for others to enjoy…and for me to return to someday.

We turned west and began our long drive to Marrakesh. Oddly, we have found ourselves in the eastern Sahara only a few weeks after rare rainfalls. The dunes were almost a light chocolate color. Now we drove through small lakes covering the road and walking in silt, an inch thick. Everywhere, women in black or men in long white djellabas sweeping the dust from doorways and sidewalks. We pass groups of boys kicking a soccer ball. Four or five young girls stand together, chatting and laughing.

We entered a narrow valley and I noticed that there were a number of blackened Palm trees.

A forest fire, he said. But in some locations they purposely burn Date Palms. He then told me a strange and interesting story:

When a Palm tree faces death, a bio-chemical reaction takes place and the tree produces extra growth hormones. The dates harvested from partially burned trees are very good. A sort of good-bye to the world. The ones burned in the forest fire are growing back but there were no extra hormones. I found this story of a dying tree producing chemicals that would be the tree’s last hurrah a bit poignant.

[Date Palms caught in a forest fire. They had no chance to produce the sumptuous fruit, but they are growing back with new leaves at the crown. Photo is mine.]

Kamal points out some moderate sized mounds off to the right. They made a row that stretches for miles.

I see them, I said. What are they for?

It’s a very old irrigation system. Dating from the 11th or 12th century, He said.

Interesting, I said.

[Notice the linear mounds. They’re the Khettaras and they are very old. Photo is mine.]

Want to look closer at one? he said.

A few minutes later we pulled into a small parking lot. A man in traditional clothing stood by a small structure. Kamal said something to him and we walked past and up a small mound. It resembled an old-style well, the kind you see in The Wizard of Oz or Little House on the Prairie. We looked down into the blackness. He rolled a wooden wheel with his feet bringing up a basket.

They would bring up the sand with these buckets, he said. He then stood back and pointed to similar mounds that stretched into the distance. In those days, this is the way water was brought down from the High Atlas Mountains. They’re called Khettaras. Want to go down? he said.

Down where? I asked.

Let’s go, he said. We went back to the place where the man was standing. I looked down into the semi-darkness. Down we went, about thirty steps. At the bottom, I found myself standing in a tunnel that could have been part of set for a Stars Wars sequel.

[This tunnel connects with the mounds on the surface. They were once filled with water but have been replaced with modern aqueducts. Photo is mine.]

I found the whole thing quite interesting, but we had places to go and a person to see. So we continued eastward. Now, at this point, the effects of the camel ride from the day before was beginning to manifest itself in my inner thighs and lower. Nothing new, really. I unsnapped the seat belt and made a cushion of my shirt on Mariam’s lap. She’s the strong one. I am made of weaker stuff and needed to stretch out. It wasn’t much of a stretch since the empty seat belt things were jamming me in the back. Kamal had some quiet but very lovely Moroccan music playing from his Spotify playlist. I closed my eyes and began to dream of sand dunes. Three minutes later, I was dreaming of camels and an especially difficult rock forward and back, side to side. Soon I was talking to my camel. Mariam later claims I snored for a few minutes. I told her no, I was talking camel.

The car gently jolted to a stop and I was awake.

Patrick, said Kamal. Seat belt.

I sat up and a policeman was standing near the door staring at me. He said something to me. I was speechless. I had a flashing image of me in a Moroccan prison for not wearing a seat belt. That doesn’t even happen in New Jersey, so I thought I was safe. But no. In the end, I was faced with a fine of 300 dirham. Kamal later succeeded in getting it reduced to 100.

And so we were on our way once again. We met his sister in a small town and arrived, at the end of a rocky, narrow road, at one of the most interesting hotels I’ve ever stayed in.

It’s spacious and old, or it looks old. And I’d like to think it’s haunted.

If not, it looks haunted.