The Truth of the Desert

Essouira, Morocco

I feel at peace in this moment, other than a slight headache, but the last few days have been incredibly intense. I awoke yesterday in the Moroccan portion of the Sahara desert, called Erg Chebbi. I tightened my shoe laces, donned my zhilaba and turban and proceeded to hike one of, if not the highest dune in that desert. I eventually reached the top, panting, utterly exhausted, mouth stinging and metallic-tasting. And then the glorious sun climbed upon its throne in the sky. For most of my time in the desert, I was plagued with one of my deepest fears, that of lack, of not having enough. Incessant thoughts about how much I was paying for the camel trek, which wasnt even that much, kept buzzing through my mind. I kept mathematically caclulating how much that equalled in all sorts of different terms. It was extremely unsettling. I spent two nights, and about a day and a half in that desert. And when we began our return to the village, I, perched atop my camel -fondly referred to as Jimi Hendrix- that fear was still pursuing me. Fortunately I remembered the solution that had come to me the night before and I decided that no matter what, no matter how intense the discomfort or fear, I was going to live in the solution. For me that solution is to practice abundance. It is simple yet not always easy. Regardless of how many seemingly logical rationalizations try to prevent me from being generous, I will prevail and practice abundance. I feel very good about this decision and in the few times I have done so already, my feelings tell me I am doing the right thing. Morocco can be a very overwhelming place, especially for a single traveler. I think when I return here, down the road, I will come with a friend or family member. And despite all the tourist predators and chintzy tourist crap and tourist prices, there are moments where it is all worth it. Earlier today, I sat on the rooftop terrace of the hotel I am staying in and I watched the sunset as the strong ocean winds whipped my face and shirt. And there was a man named Youssef, a cafe owner in the town called Rissani, near the desert. Someone had given me his name and number. I had called him from Fes to tell him I would be arriving. When I got there, he invited me in like a brother, giving me food and tea and a random trinket hanging on his wall. (He looks like a small, Arabic version of Guy Pierce with bad teeth.) And tomorrow I am going to have lunch with a fisherman whom I met this evening and talked to for a half an hour as he put tons of little hooks through sardines. Albeit few, there are decent people in Morocco.