Adventures of 2 Girls

by Ning Cai

  “How long is our drive to Rissani, Ibrahim?” I asked our local Moroccan guide from the Bedouin tribe. His family had always been in the traditional caravan business and even as a young boy, Ibrahim had followed his grandfather, father and older brothers on camel to the other edge of the Sahara, trading wares, jewellery, animals and stories with merchants from the different desert tribes.

  But times have obviously changed. The romantic era of the travelling caravan is long over. Ibrahim and his brothers pooled money to build a Kasbah at the gateway of the Sahara, a sprawling compound near the Erg Chebbi sand dunes, which also boasts a large swimming pool – truly enticing in this crazy heat.

  “The longest we’ve ever driven is about eight hours,” the BFF quipped as she sipped her bottle of Coca-Cola through a straw, the cup of ice wisely untouched. “That was during our U.S. road trip. It’s not something we are typically accustomed to. Singapore is such a small island city. It takes about 45 minutes to get from one end of the country to the other.”

  Ibrahim assured us we’d stop for breaks along the way and that he’d make sure we had plenty of water with us since it was very important to keep hydrated in the desert heat.

  I felt good about our competent Moroccan guide, who spoke Italian, French, English and Arabic. Before we left, Ibrahim paid for our meal and even bought us bananas and bottled water for the ride. Pam and I settled comfortably at the back of his car and we started off on our long drive towards Kasbah Ennasra in Rissani, gateway of the Sahara.

  * * *

  Our car traversed up steep, rocky mountains, unveiling amazing views of deep valleys and ancient crumbling ruins. There were occasions when we spotted nomads with their flocks and we once stopped the car for young nomad children who offered to let us touch their pet desert foxes for a few coins.

  The ride was mostly smooth, but I thought the heat was starting to get to me because I started to feel strangely weak. For some reason, my shoulders were aching. This was usually a warning sign to me that something wasn’t right. I had to lie down.

  “Hey, can I?” I whispered to the BFF as I meekly lay my heavy head on her lap. I was breaking into a cold sweat despite the Moroccan desert heat, and my stomach felt strangely knotted. I tried to will it away as I fell into a fitful sleep, hands balled tightly into fists.

  I must have dozed off for few moments but a violent stab of pain suddenly sliced through my gut, jolting me awake. My hands felt unnaturally cold and my voice was an unrecognisable croak. “Pam? I really don’t feel good.”

  The BFF touched my damp forehead, stroking away hair that was plastered to it. She gave a startled cry. “Ning! You’re burning up!”

  “Oh fuck. I think I’m gonna throw up!” I used all my strength to pull myself up. We had no plastic bags with us, so I glanced at the window on my side. Our car whizzed past an old man on a bicycle along the dusty road. I knew what I had to do.

  Sliding the window open with my last ounce of energy, I stuck my head out as Pam gave a confused exclamation. My pathetic barfing that followed immediately confirmed what she had suspected.

  There we were, travelling down a dirt road in Morocco and there I was, with my head unceremoniously stuck out of our car window, puking my guts out. My ribs were hurting from the violent puking but despite my condition, a part of me wanted to chuckle at Pam’s frantic screams at our driver to stop the car. Ibrahim sounded really shocked at the sudden drama happening in the backseat. I continued to throw up what had previously been my lunch, spying bits of what had been kafta.

  I was staring at the gross puddle below me, as contractions in my stomach squeezed mercilessly, forcing up and out what my body was sternly rejecting. It was then that I heard a bicycle go past me. The old man had caught up with us and was ringing his bell! I briefly wondered if he had seen this happen to other tourists before.

  “Oh my God, are you OK?” I felt Pam’s hand on my back. Ibrahim, previously oblivious to the commotion, was asking her what had happened.

  I gasped as waves of pain shot through my mid-section. My stomach clamped up again as I recognised the mess of red meat on the dirt road, feeling really pathetic about the entire situation.

  “It must be food poisoning,” I heard Pam say from behind me. “She ate the meat but I only touched the vegetables at lunch.”

  Quite right. Pam is a picky eater while I’m the adventurous girl who has no qualms about eating fried scorpions, puffer fish sashimi, hashima (the fatty tissues of snow frog fallopian tubes) and other kinds of unusual food. I take pride in my Chinese heritage. After all, there’s a saying that Chinese people eat everything with four legs, except tables.

  “But the meat was cooked,” I heard Ibrahim rustle for his box of tissues, a touch of defensiveness in his gruff voice. “I ate it too and I’m not unwell.”

  “Maybe we aren’t used to local food yet,” Pam stroked my heaving back as I gulped for air. “Our stomachs can’t handle it.”

  Ibrahim acknowledged this with a sympathetic grunt. “Is she OK? Let her have some water. Maybe it’s also the heat.”

  I felt like a complete wuss and my silly ego was badly bruised, since I’ve always prided myself on being the stronger person of us two. But I allowed Pam to baby me. Wiping my mouth and chin, I chucked the used balls of tissue outside and gargled some water to rinse the awful taste out of my mouth, spitting it outside the car window before slumping back on the BFF for support.

  “Feeling better?” Pam dabbed my damp forehead. I managed a nod and a weak apology for the inconvenience I had caused. The side of Ibrahim’s car where I’d leaned over had spots of unfortunate DNA splatter and I felt really bad about it.

  “Oh please,” our guide waved it off. Even with my eyes closed, I could sense his concern. “I’m going to drive slowly. Anytime you don’t feel well, let me know, OK?”

  “OK,” I groaned before turning to my side to get some rest, my head back on Pam’s lap. I really hate being sick.

  * * *

  Night had fallen when we finally reached Rissani. It had been a challenging 10-hour drive and I’d thrown up three more times despite Ibrahim’s best efforts. Our concerned guide had even stopped us at a friend’s restaurant for some hot Moroccan mint tea to help ease my churning stomach.

  Bougi, Ibrahim’s eldest brother, arranged the best room in their Kasbah for us, while sending someone out to the town’s pharmacist for medication. The BFF pulled on her bossy pants and insisted I drink more water to prevent severe dehydration, even though all I wanted to do was sleep.

  Despite a feverish and fitful sleep, I managed to survive the night. Paracetamol was delivered to our room later in the night, and when Pam woke me up to drink it down with some water, I felt really thankful. The Ahnana family hospitality was amazing and I knew I was in good hands.

  * * *

  Taking things slow, I regulated what I did and ate, allowing my body to gradually recover. The BFF had laid down a strict “chicken only” rule, which the kitchen staff abided by. There went my idea of trying out camel hump, a supposed local delicacy in this part of the world.

  The Ahnana brothers were very sweet, constantly checking on us, and asking if we needed anything. I spent my time reading on their cosy cushioned swing while stroking the Kasbah’s resident cat. Pam, as usual, Skyped her twins every chance she had.

  Bouji assured us that we could continue with the rest of the trip after I recovered and felt completely up to it. No hurry, no worries. Always smartly dressed and wearing a cheerful smile, Bouji also taught us how to do a Moroccan handshake, which includes a quick snap of the fingers while still engaged in the handshake.

  The BFF and I later met Hassan, the middle brother. Pam fondly nicknamed him “the desert wildman” because he loved the Sahara and would sleep under the stars, never content with the common creature comforts most people can’t live without.

  “My brother Hassan will be your personal desert guide when you go to Erg Chebbi tomorrow. He knows the Sahara like the back o
f his hand,” Ibrahim smiled warmly after enquiring if I was better. “I’m sorry I cannot accompany you because I have to drive to Marrekech now to take care of another client, but I’m sure we will see each other again.”

  “It’s been a pleasure Ibrahim, thank you for everything,” I returned the Bedouin man’s firm handshake, my heart doing excited flip-flops at the thought of being able to finally set foot on the Sahara desert, a magical place I’d always dreamed of as a little girl.

  Would there be magical desert genies seeking refuge in mysterious hidden caves? Or perhaps we would meet a century-old alchemist who guards the world’s secrets...?

  16

  hot for harems

  Morocco · September 2011

  PAM

  It was described to us as “air-conditioned pants” and that was magic to my ears. I hate the heat. There were nights in Madagascar and Morocco when we had to sleep in tents or mosquito-infested rooms with no fan or air-conditioning, and I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was drenched in sweat and feeling sticky all over, and just ended up tossing and turning all night. Ning would probably have heard me sighing and grunting loudly.

  Ning knows this about me, I am most irritable and grumpy and unreasonable and snappy when it’s hot. It’s worse than if I were PMSing. So you do NOT wanna be near Pamela Ho when she’s having PMS on a hot day. Sometimes I wonder why God allowed me be born in a country just one degree north of the equator. It must be a test for all who live and work around me!

  Suffice to say, one of the countries on our world tour that saw me walking out the door each morning with my ‘bitch face’ on was Morocco. In Risanni, the gateway to the Sahara Desert, daily temperatures soared into the high 30s. It was impossible to be outdoors from 11am to 4pm because the medina was crowded, the annoying male shop owners would hassle and flirt brazenly with us, and the heat was simply unbearable.

  Morocco was our first stop on the African continent, right after Europe. Our summer in Paris was, to me, blessed with perfect weather. I could head out in a light jacket for French class in the day, and perhaps wear a scarf in the evenings. So the transition from Paris to the Sahara was insane. It was like taking me out of a cool fridge and shoving me into a frickin’ sauna. Great planning there, Pam and Ning!

  After a nightmare 10-hour drive from Fes to Risanni, where Ning fell horribly ill and threw up all over the place, leaving a trail of her (smelly) DNA all over Morocco, we reached the edge of the Sahara Desert in early September. Our backpacks were still stuffed with clothing meant for Europe – jackets, scarfs, jeans, etc.

  As we left the airport, I kept thinking, “God, I have nothing to wear!” And ladies, this is not one of those girlie whines our husbands or boyfriends roll their eyes at when we stand in front of a fully-stocked closet and lament. I literally had nothing to wear in this heat!

  There was no way I was going to survive exploring the Sahara desert in jeans. Shorts were also out of the question as the population of Morocco is 90 percent Muslim, and the towns further away from the big cities are extremely conservative. The women were covered up from head to toe in black (yes, in the desert!), so it was basic respect for us to be covered up too.

  So when we arrived in Risanni, we requested for our guide Brahim to stop by a local clothing shop where we got ourselves some “air-conditioned pants”.

  Harem pants are basically loose, airy, cotton three-quarter pants with drawstrings that you can tie just below the knees, so the pants flop loosely like oversized bloomers. Harem pants do not cling to your legs and groin like jeans do, and being made of cotton, they are extremely light and roomy. Voila, natural air-conditioning!

  Wearing them made me feel like a coin pouch though. You know, the sort that you seal by pulling two drawstrings in opposite directions with both hands? Well, the thing is harem pants aren’t elastic at the waist, so it gets a tad uncomfortable after a full meal, or when you’re on a long car ride, or simply when you sit down for longer than a minute. So I usually loosen the drawstrings when I sit.

  And that was exactly what I did when catching a traditional Mali performance at the Pigeons du Sable cultural centre near Risanni. We were ushered to cushioned seats in the front row, served Moroccan mint tea, and invited to get comfortable as the musicians took their places in front of us in the cozy (and very warm) hut.

  The forefathers of these Mali tribesmen had migrated from West Africa up north to Morocco and settled at the edge of the Sahara desert. This whole town was inhabited by Mali families, and as an ethnic group, they were darker skinned than the Moroccans. Their music and culture was also vastly different.

  While the Moroccans seem to be more Arabic in their musical traditions, Mali music pulsates with hypnotic rhythms, lots of percussion instruments and melodic African chants. Their dance movements are laidback yet deliberate, and such a pleasure to watch! I was mesmerised by the four men swaying rhythmically before us and singing in their deep voices.

  Instinctively, I slipped off my flip-flops, loosened my harem pants, and swayed along to the music. Maybe it’s because I’m a drummer – rhythms have always hypnotised me into a trance. My body and limbs respond automatically to these beats and I’m lost man, I’m gone.

  I was in one of those blissful trances when, all of a sudden, these guys who were supposed to be entertaining us lunged forward and started to pull us one by one off our seats to dance with them! I politely declined, but there was no such luck of escape. Every single one of us, including our two new friends Cindy and Gary (from Singapore and Malaysia! What are the odds, right?), were dragged amidst protests up to the dance floor.

  At that point, all I could think of was my harem pants. I tried to tighten the drawstrings but the Mali tribesmen had rounded us up into a tight circle and both my hands were held as we bounced round and round, in and out as a group.

  “Please, please, don’t raise my hands...” I quietly pleaded as I felt my harem pants slipping down to my hips.

  But as if Murphy was on 24-hour duty and sniggering with glee at my feeble desperate prayer, the Malians let out a throaty celebratory shout and raised both my hands as we bobbed inward towards the circle.

  I swear my heart fell with a thud onto the floor. I inhaled sharply and held my breath so that my body would barrel up and keep my harem pants up. I spread my legs as far apart as possible as I danced. I seriously felt like a penguin that had just been raped! But it was either that or exhale and watch my harem pants drop to my ankles.

  Out again we bounced... then in again... it was like the bloody folk dance I learnt in Primary 2, but with more jiggling of body parts. Normally I would have really enjoyed this! I’m a sucker for spontaneous stuff and oh what fun to hold hands with these tall, dark and handsome dudes, prance around in a circle, and just be frickin’ silly!

  But at that moment, my face was turning purple.

  Then as if God stepped in and waved Murphy off duty in the nick of time, the Malian on my right dropped my hand and bopped into the centre of the circle to start a solo dance tag game. The other Malian on my left dropped my hand too, and everyone started clapping to cheer him on.

  Normally, I hate being pushed into the spotlight and have everyone cheer and clap as I make a fool of myself. But while I knew I’d be next in the centre of the circle, and I had no idea what sort of dance moves I was going to do, I was just so relieved that I could tighten my harem pants that it felt like a shot in the arm. I was a squirrel on caffeine and adrenaline combined, and boy did I dance my heart out! It was a victory dance as I stuck out my tongue and wagged it triumphantly at Murphy. To hell with your Law, buddy!

  * * *

  Then there was the time Ning and I rode camels into Erg Chebbi. We had just visited a nomad family in the desert and shared Moroccan mint tea with them, and were rushing to get our camels to catch the sunset in the magical sand dunes.

  Erg Chebbi was amazing, even from a distance. Bathed in a natural orange hue, the dunes were shaped by the winds and gilded gold in the settin
g sun. It was the first time I’d been in a desert and it felt like I was in the presence of royalty. There is something very regal and pristine about the desert. The energy in the air is electrifying and powerful, yet strangely quiet and still.

  What struck me immediately about the Sahara was the sheer vastness of it. There was sand everywhere, all around me, in every direction, as far as the eye could see. But near Risanni, the majestic sand dunes of Erg Chebbi rose in the middle of nowhere, shifting sands continually shaped by the gentle breath of Gods.

  To be out in the sand dunes before 4pm is madness, even for the desert people... unless you want your brains fried. So we arrived at 6pm, just in time to ride out to catch the sunset, which was forecast to be around 6.30pm that day.

  That was the first time Ning and I had ridden a camel, so you can imagine how excited us two city girls were. We’d never even come close to a live camel before. We had seen the head of a dead one hanging in the marketplace – our first glimpse of a camel – but I suppose that doesn’t count.

  Up close, I could see what pretty long eyelashes they had, and they were always smiling in a sleepy sort of way. But we learnt that they could be cheeky too. One of them actually bit Ning – or so she claims. I prefer to think of it as a wet sloppy kiss! Camels are slow and gentle, and so unlike the frisky horses we rode a few weeks later at Storms River, South Africa! But that’s another story.

  We rode into the sand dunes with a desert man as our guide. He was small and weather-beaten, clad in a traditional Moroccan djellaba, with his head wrapped in a long strip of cloth draped across his brown wrinkled face. But small as he was, he was sturdy as an ox. He travelled the entire distance on foot, padding through the soft sand in his old sandals. I was curious as to how he managed to stay on the sand and not sink in.