A private jet, bespoke bedouin camp, and one of the very first examples of the brand new 911 Dakar to play with in the greatest sandpit on Earth. This seemed to be an adventure I shouldn’t pass up. I threw my raw white-linen twopiece, two-tone herringbone tweed and the obligatory mohair tuxedo into my DQ luggage and headed for Europe to catch the PJ to Morocco. North Africa. The land of derring-do and adventure, and the Sahara Desert. Mourad “Momo” Mazouz’s Arabesque album from the epic Kemia Bar in London playing in my ears as I considered some time swanning around a Riad or two, inhaling strong martinis while pondering bedazzled belly buttons. A trip of Lawrence of Arabia and the War Magician proportions was afoot.
In the
