The Desert Calls

By Simona Vittori

A nomad camp, in the middle of nowhere, a few tents, a mud oven, carpets on the ground. There is a wedding, everyone is eating, singing, playing drum, parading unusual gifts. But who is the foreign woman who came with one of the nomads? And how did she end up there, among strange yet friendly people, miles away from home and her safe world?

Simona feels her life is a mess. She comes from a normal family, lives in a normal town, has a normal degree in Modern Languages, a normal job and a normal relationship. But normality, which her mother has always dreamed for her, appalls her. She feels she is doomed to wither away in a safe but unexciting marriage and a dreary office job. She seeks answers in New Age, self-help, religious and psychology books, in Qi Kong, yoga courses and meditation.  She yearns for change. Then one day the desert calls her, in an unexpected way.

Said also longs to change his life. He was born into a nomad family, grew up living in tents and following their flocks across the Sahara until severe drought drove them to settle in the little village of Hassi Labied. He speaks fluently six or seven languages which he picked up selling fossils to tourists ever since he was a child. Said feels doomed too: destined to marry a woman from the village, to work - if at all - in tourism and never see anything beyond the desert horizon. But he decides simply to wait. He believes in destiny.

They have nothing in common and yet...

This is the true story of how a chance meeting in the Sahara transformed the lives of these two very different people.

Set in the magical atmospheres of the desert this book takes the reader on an exciting journey of self-discovery, back in time to hear stories about the fascinating nomads and through the exotic charm of Morocco.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simona Vittori
• Release date: Sep 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386906940

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Knock, knock, knock.... Silence. Knock, knock, knock, knock.... Silence.... I stopped and put my ear to the door but I could not detect any sound on the other side. My plane had landed after midnight and now it was one o’clock. I was in Marrakech, in a dark alley inside the old part of the city, the Medina. In front of me, the locked door of the small hotel where I had booked a room over the phone. No lights, no bell, no sign of life. Only this old knocker that I was furiously beating against the old wooden door.

I had told the man on the phone I was arriving late, so why was the hotel closed? His French was no good at all, had he understood correctly? I should have send him a fax but he said it was ok to book over the phone.

At last, the door slowly opened and a very old man appeared. He wore glasses and was dressed in a white vest, shorts and nightcap. It was clear he had been fast asleep. I was surprised he did not carry an oil lamp in his hand, it would just have completed the picture.

Ehhm, good evening sir. I’m sorry to wake you up. It’s Simona, I have a reservation at the hotel, I phoned two days ago, I think I spoke with you.

Simona? Reservation? I know not about that. He said rubbing his small eyes under the round glasses.

Was he too sleepy to remember?

We spoke two days ago, on the phone... on the phone! I mimicked a telephone call.

I don’t know on the phone. Very very late now, riads in the Medina not open after midnight, you know? Riads were the traditional residences of noble families which had been restored, often by foreigners, and turned into hotels. They all had pretty arcades and balconies overlooking a central courtyard or garden.

No, actually I didn’t know... Anyway now that I’m here... can I come in?

You are veeeeery lucky, mademoiselle!

Really? Why?

Only one room free I have, hotel full! he said and then added You are so lucky, in a tone suggesting that my luck somehow bothered him.

I was about to say that it was not luck, I had booked the room, but I let it pass. Thank you so much sir! You are very kind. I said instead, showing my best smile.

The room he reluctantly led

me to was small, with a tiny window, no en suite bathroom, no air conditioning. It was an oven. I started sweating as soon as I got inside and I wondered how I would ever be able to sleep in that heat. I had booked a riad because I wanted to see what it was like but I had chosen a very cheap one.

Perfect! Can I buy a bottle of water from the hotel? I finally asked.

Bottle of water? We not a shop, mademoiselle! We a hotel, don’t you see?! Don’t have a bottle of water, don’t have a bottle of nothing! my host replied, evidently annoyed.

Oh! Really? Well, please can you wait two minutes? I’ll go out and buy some water, please? I could not face a night in that boiling room without any water, I was thirsty already.

But it’s late! I want go to sleep. For dreaming! he replied, in a childish tone.

Pleeeeease....? I pleaded.

Ok, ok he reluctantly agreed adding comments in a low voice, shaking his head and hands, disconsolate. But you are fast!

I flew out of the hotel, reached the end of the dark alley at the other side and found myself in the main pedestrian street leading to the world-famous Djema el Fnaa square. I could see it from a distance, that fabulous square I had read so much about. It was still full of lights but the stalls selling food were closing down and there were only few people around. I was tempted to go and have a look but I was too scared to go back and find my host asleep again. The exploration would have to wait until the next day.

My dash for water was quick but eventful. I managed to pay twelve euros instead of one euro twenty cents for a bottle of water - I was tired and miscalculated the exchange rate - and of course nobody pointed out my mistake. Then I was approached by a young Moroccan who, when he realized I had no intention of talking to him, started following me shouting: You don’t like Moroccans eh? You are a RACIST! It was only when, exasperated, I turned and threatened to call the police that he vanished in less than a second. I decided I had to be careful if I wanted to survive in this city, but I did not feel scared at all. On the contrary, in a strange way, I felt at home.

Some days later...

CHAPTER ONE: KIDNAPPED?

We were being driven through the Sahara desert, two young women in the company of two men, both complete strangers. The asphalted road ran straight as a die and divided the endless, arid landscape into two identical parts. No sign of human or animal life, no distinctive landmarks, only stones and scrub as far as the eye could see.

I was a bit worried, my friend was terrified. Had we been kidnapped by the two men in the front seats? Where were they taking us? What were they planning to do with us? Why had we been so stupid as to get into their car?

It had all started a few hours before when the dusty old minibus in which we had been travelling stopped and let us off at the centre of a dilapidated, dun-coloured little town called Rissani. We waved goodbye to the driver and the seven passengers who had been our companions on a two-day tour from Marrakech and were now heading back. My friend Federica and I had fallen under the spell of the desert: we had decided to stay a few more days and enjoy the desert on our own.

It was only about ten o’clock in the morning but the heat was already suffocating. As soon as we stepped out of the minibus a group of young men appeared from nowhere shouting hotel!!! hotel!!! at the top of their voices. Exhausted after spending almost the whole night contemplating the dunes and the magic stars of the desert, we did not have the strength to evade them. We just stood there, motionless and speechless.

One, with a fat belly and a moustache, elbowed his way to the front of the group and stuck under our noses a brochure of a beautiful hotel with an inviting swimming pool, close to the towering Erg Chebbi range of dunes. He had immediately spotted the inevitable Lonely Planet guide which I was carrying and hastily explained in broken Italian (how did he know we were Italian?), mixed with some French:

Hotel new, just open now, you not find in the guide but not worry, wonderful, believe me! Name is Hassan Palace. You like it more! And swimming pool, do you see? Hot here, you want swimming pool in the desert! Other hotels with this price: have no swimming pool! And there is air conditioning too! Very nice! Best in the desert, I assure!

We desperately needed a hotel but we remained rooted there, bemused, amid the pandemonium while other brochures were being thrust at us. Mohammed, as the owner of the fat belly was called, had definitely gained a strategic advantage, rabbiting on about his hotel, his sweaty moustachioed face only centimetres from our own. It was true the other hotels did not have swimming pools, which was just what we yearned for in that infernal heat. But we did not like the man. There was something slimy about him.

Seeing we were still in doubt, Mohammed said quickly: Now, you just sit down at my little café, have a little drink. I have an appointment with some other tourists and then I’ll take you all to the hotel in a taxi. Ok?

Weary, and already sweating ourselves under the glaring sun, we thought this was the best plan. Apart from a pool, the hotel also had air conditioning and reasonable prices - and it would save us the trouble of finding somewhere else on our own.

But what time are these other tourists coming? we asked. We spent last night in the desert and didn’t get much sleep. We need a shower and a swimming pool as soon as possible. Can’t we go now, without waiting for the others?

Aaaah, do not worry! They will be here very very soon, just the time to have a cold refreshing drink. Now, what can I bring you? A coke? An orange juice? A lemonade? Or a Berber whisky? Ha! Ha! Ha! he said, shaking with laughter as if he had just told the funniest joke (Berber whisky, we had already learned along the way, was nothing other than tea which everyone drank and offered in huge quantities).

We gave in, asked for two orange juices and settled down at a table outside Mohammed’s little restaurant-bar, called the Panorama. It was market day and the little square was a hive of frenetic activity, a violent contrast to the silence and vast spaces of the desert. Hundreds of people were going to and fro: women in long dresses, brightly coloured or completely black, their heads totally or partially veiled, chatting incessantly; hosts of shabby-looking children stopping the few tourists in the crowd, clamouring for sweets (A bombon, a bombon!) or for money (A dirham, a dirham!). The men were nearly all dressed in long tunics and turbans; when they met another man they would kiss several times and start chatting animatedly. Old women hidden behind black thick veils stopped people for money or simply lay at the side of the road with outstretched begging hands. Young boys carrying huge trays full of bread and cakes shouted incomprehensible words as they peddled their wares.

Donkeys were everywhere, some led by young children and bearing huge loads of green vegetables, others ridden by little old men in long robes shouting Ra! Ra! Ra! (Go, go, Go!). Yet others were tied up in an open space on one side of the little square, a kind of donkey parking lot. Sheep and goats were being carried on shoulders or stuffed into small vans, chickens emanating a fetid odour clucked atop ramshackle carts. Old vans disgorged people laden with bundles of wares.

Here - we sensed immediately - was the Africa we had always pictured in our minds. Rissani was clearly quite poor and had the feel of a frontier town. For we were at the very edge of the desert, thirty kilometres from the great dunes that were our destination, the last place which you could call a town before the wilderness.

Rissani had been rich, a flourishing hub of desert trade routes linking Africa, Europe and the Middle East, a meeting point of caravans coming from or going to the deepest Sahara. Money used to flow through these streets and sumptuous palaces sprang up. Today most traces of its former magnificence had vanished but the town still remains an important market place for the nomads or inhabitants of the nearby tiny villages.

A lot of young men were competing for the attention of the very few tourists who wandered around looking hot and disoriented. Mohammed was one of the best at catching tourists; he would spot them from a distance and swoop on them like a hawk with its prey. He had just captured three young Scandinavians who were now sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant, red faced from the heat, their huge backpacks laying on the floor nearby.

Could they be the ones who were supposed to come with us, we wondered.

But it was difficult to find out. Mohammed was very busy and when we finally managed to pin him down it was past noon.

Don’t worry don’t worry, have another drink. They are coming! Inshallah they will be here very soon! Meanwhile, he added Come, come inside, there is air conditioning, it’s very cool!

Resigned, we followed him inside. His air conditioning consisted of one noisy fan. The interior was shabby and gloomy, the walls and floors lined with cheap old tiles and furnished with plastic-covered tables and worn sofas and cushions. Nevertheless, we decided to stay there and gladly agreed to have some of his mother’s excellent Berber Pizza, a kind of large Moroccan bread filled with spices, vegetables, eggs and meat. Thus our clever Mohammed had gained two customers for his restaurant. Was that why he had been keeping us waiting?

More time passed. It was nearly three pm and still no sign that we were leaving. Federica blurted out Simona, I don’t think these ‘tourists’ exist! And I don’t like this man, the way he looks at me gives me the creeps. Certainly Mohammed seemed to be very interested in my friend and kept casting amorous looks in her direction. I want to go! she said. Let’s take a taxi and be off!

I was usually more patient than my friend but I had to agree. We were wasting a whole day of our precious holidays in the Panorama café of Rissani. It was definitely time to go. We stood up. Miraculously our man reappeared looking bewildered and outraged. That’s it! We’re tired of waiting. Federica said. We will go to the hotel on our own. Don’t worry, we will go to your Hassan Palace, not to another one. But we cannot wait any longer. Where can we find a taxi?

Mohammed almost shouted, shaking his head and gesticulating with both his hands: Nooo, no, no, no! I take you there, I take you immediately!

But what about the other tourists you said you had an appointment with?

Oh never mind, maybe they don’t come... Or I meet them when I come back, Inshallah. Let’s go!

We could have willingly murdered him. First he kept us waiting for hours and now he was perfectly happy to leave without the other tourists! Federica was starting to feel very suspicious of Mohammed’s motives. I, who understood his French better than she did, had a different impression. I told her: I think he did not have any appointment, he was just hoping he would meet other tourists and persuade them to come to the hotel in the desert, so there would be more of us and he would get paid more commission. We knew many people lived off commissions in Morocco, by bringing tourists to restaurants, shops and so on.

But Federica had worst suspicions. Why was he insisting on coming with us? To make sure he was paid the commission, I said. She was not convinced but we were both so tired that we just wanted to be off no matter how.

By now we were outside and Mohammed was motioning us to a car which had miraculously appeared right in front of the café. The driver wore sunglasses, looked very young and was totally bald. He did not move or say a word but simply nodded at us as we got in. The car was a white Mercedes, like most taxis in Morocco, except that it did not have any sign on its roof saying taxi. Unfortunately, this fact only sank in as we were already leaving Rissani in the company of Mohammed and the taciturn driver.

Federica’s suspicions turned into outright fear. At her urging I asked Mohammed Is this a taxi?

Mohammed turned and gave us a stupefied look: Of course it’s a taxi. What it is?

Then why does it not have any sign?

Sign? What sign? he looked even more bewildered than before.

A sign with TAXI written on it!

He started laughing: Heeeeh, my little girls! (What did he mean, MY little girls???)

We are in desert here! We are not in Europe! Ha, ha, ha! What you think? Taxi don’t have signs here. And he went on laughing and repeating A sign! incredulously. No, we definitely did not like this man.

Federica hissed through clenched teeth; I don’t believe this! I can’t believe we have been so stupid and irresponsible! We are thirty-four years old and we have learnt nothing! We are in a car with two men in the middle of nowhere! Automatically we both glanced through the grimy windows and indeed, all around us was nothing but desert.

She became even more desperate: If they go off the road now and stop the car, nobody will see. They can rob us, rape us and even murder us! Who will ever know? If my father knew I’m in this situation now....!

Alarmed by this ghastly scenario, I began to worry that she might be right and I might be wrong. I tended to trust people and as a result I had sometimes ended up in risky situations, although everything had always turned out well. But this time?

While I was mulling this over, Federica looked up the emergency number of the Moroccan Police in our Lonely Planet guide.

Shall I call them? she whispered.

I don’t know! I don’t even know if it is the right number, you know the guide is old! And what are we going to tell them anyway? That we are in a car in the middle of the desert with two strangers? They haven’t done anything wrong so far....

Yes I know! But I will try the number and if they reply: Police I will hang up. That way I’ll have the number ready in case we need it. Ok? she said in a low, agitated voice. I nodded. It seemed a reasonable plan.

She dialled the number but the moment she put the telephone to her ear, the driver, who saw her in the rear mirror, slowly lowered the volume of the radio, said something to Mohammed and kept looking at her. This threw Federica into total panic.

Maybe the driver simply lowered the volume so she could hear better on the phone. But Federica froze with terror and dropped the phone as if it were burning metal. They knew she was going to phone the police and wanted to stop her! Any minute now she would be dead and left to be eaten by wild animals in the desert! We were doomed... This was the end!

I looked at her, bewildered. Was she crazy, or was I?

In a terrified whisper she said: I will open the door and get out, now! I’m sure this hotel does not exist! Where are they taking us? My God she prayed turning her eyes heavenward if you lead me out of this alive I vow I will be much more responsible and thoughtful in future!

So, are we going? she finally added turning to me. Her big green eyes were wide with terror and she was white in the face.

Are you crazy? I protested. You are going to get seriously hurt, we are going at eighty kilometres an hour! And I am not coming with you! That way we will be sure to die, whilst staying in the car we can at least still entertain some doubts about it.

I’d rather get hurt than wait for what is in store for us! And you have got to come with me! What? Do you want to wait for the worst and just do nothing?

It was all I could do to talk her out of her crazy plan and calm her down, especially because