Our peripatetic ways weren’t driven merely by a love of nature or a desire to outdo the neighbors. It was just part of the job. Over the previous five years, we’d organized and produced mind-boggling races that represented a new kind of endurance Olympics. Eco-Challenge races were ten-day adventure marathons where 50 gutsy teams sea-kayaked, rappelled down cliffs, hiked up mountains, raced horses, whitewater-rafted, and bicycled along cliffs—all against stunning backdrops—in countries from Argentina to Fiji.
The first Eco-Challenge, which unfolded in Utah in 1995, was picked up by MTV; Good Morning America featured the opening race live. Recently, Discovery Channel had signed on as the sponsor. And with every race, the buzz grew louder, thanks to breathtaking documentaries that captured the “unscripted drama” of the event—the very real perils, the team blow-outs and the nonstop adrenaline rush, as well as the exhilaration of those who actually crossed the finish line. Hundreds of miles and ten days after they’d started, less than half of the participants made it to the last stretch at all. During every race, a number of competitors were helicoptered off to hospitals, and a few nearly died.
I didn’t realize initially that we’d stumbled upon a new entertainment genre. I didn’t have the foggiest notion that Eco-Challenge would pave the way for what would become Mark Burnett Productions’ biggest hit—Survivor—and kick “reality TV” into new orbit. At that moment in May 1998, I was thinking about Pilates, and wondering if Morocco had a studio. It didn’t.
Mark left for Morocco in July. Three weeks later, two long international flights carried the kids and me 6,000 miles to northern Africa, where Mark was waiting for us at the airport, greeting us as though we’d been separated from him for years. Dusk was falling like a soft curtain over Marrakesh as the chauffeured SUV bumped down a donkey-piss dirt road and lurched to a stop in front of small carved wooden doors.
“This is it?” I asked him, looking at the dusty street of dilapidated houses. In the dimming light, it appeared that the only occupants were bony dogs and mangy cats. “Mark, I thought you said it was nice.”
“Di, wait until you see!” As he led us up to a plain stucco building that appeared to have no windows, his phone rang. “Mark Burnett …”
Mark was right: our Marrakesh home for three months was, in fact, fantastic. Behind the small double doors stood larger double doors, and behind them rose a multistoried Moroccan palace from the 1800s, its splendor hidden within. The scent of frankincense drifted out as we stepped into the riad, as this style of palace is known.
We were greeted by Abdul, a butler wearing a flowing white caftan and a fez. Holding a gleaming silver tray, Abdul began deftly pouring fragrant mint tea from a pot held three feet above the small painted glasses. James was already impressed by that show, but then he caught sight of the backdrop.
“Mommy, look!” My son ran over to the inner courtyard. “It’s a swimming pool! Inside the house!”
I surveyed the palace’s interior, noticing the fabulous garden setting thick with trees and flowers and bougainvillea climbing the walls. They certainly had green thumbs around here. Then I looked again. A pool in the middle of the house? With a toddler and a five-year-old running around? Beautiful, yes. Childproof, no. I was going to have to keep Cameron glued to my hip.
“There’s our hammam,” said Mark, pointing not far from the tiled pool to a domed adobe structure, which held a steam room. “And that’s just the beginning!”
With Abdul leading the way, we wound through the three-story palace, once divided into areas for public and family, women and men. It was a spectacular labyrinth of high-ceilinged rooms, arched loggias, screened patios, and inner gardens, all convening on the mosaic-wrapped atrium courtyard, where palm trees and orange trees surrounded a quiet fountain.
The lower floors contained the public areas—the library, the entertainment den, the flower-filled patios, and the kitchen. Eight huge bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms, spread out along the second floor, which was separated into different “wings” by the open spaces created by the atrium. Up the twisting marble stairs, a huge rooftop balcony thick with banana trees formed its own open-air floor, and a spectacular view of a radiant Marrakesh spilled below—with pencil-like minarets and gleaming gold-domed mosques illuminated in the evening light.
My mouth kept falling open at the intoxicating detail: arched windows peering onto inner sanctuaries, hallways wrapped in gorgeous patterned tiles, magnificently crafted wood furniture with mother-of-pearl inlays, lacy lattices, marble columns, cut-out metal lanterns that reflected star patterns on the floor, and glass lights that splashed even more color around the bright rooms.
“Wow, Mark, good job!” I exclaimed, dazzled by the surprises around every corner—not the least of which was the sprawling master bedroom with its canopied four-poster bed, chandeliers, hanging tapestries, woven rugs, nooks, and a huge bathroom with a tub big enough for the extended family. It was certainly a few steps up from camping in the Outback.
“Daddy,” asked James as he peeked around a column, “where are the camels?”
Mark laughed. “Don’t worry—you’ll be seeing plenty of dromedaries!”
“What are those?” James asked, looking at me.
“Your dad’s fancy way of saying camels, honey.”
“For thousands of years, before airplanes and helicopters and cars, the camel was how people crossed the desert,” added Mark. “And for nomads like the Berbers, camels are still their cars.”
The nearest bedroom, where James was to sleep, was disconcertingly far from ours, being across the atrium from the master suite, which took up an entire side of the palace. For the first few nights, we all camped out in the master bedroom. When I tucked James into bed, he was still talking about camels, and wasn’t showing the slightest sign of exhaustion. Cameron, too, was wide awake. The kids had slept en route, and since we’d eaten on the flight, we’d declined dinner when we arrived, but now we were all ravenously hungry.
I tiptoed down to the shadowed kitchen, hoping to find a snack, and let out a scream when I ran right into a stout woman—Minnah, the cook, who greeted me in shrill Arabic, flailing her arms, and making it clear that I was treading on her turf.
I went back upstairs and rummaged through the suitcases—finding a box of animal cookies—and talked to James about camels a bit more. Finally, around three in the morning, we all fell asleep.
The first rays of dawn were streaming into the courtyard, and the smell of baking bread was rising from the kitchen … when we all bolted up in bed. Even Cameron woke up with a start in his portable crib.
“What’s that sound?” asked James.
It was the cry of the muezzin—the Muslim crier—waking up the town at 4:30 A.M. with the Islamic call to prayer. Now aided by loudspeakers, his voice alone boomed so loudly that he didn’t need any electronic help in his beckoning from the minaret, which rose up next to the city’s 12th-century Koutoubia Mosque.
“Al’lah Al Akbar!” the muezzin thundered from the tower, the notes echoing from rooftops. It was a sound we grew fond of over the summer, hearing it five times a day, but that first day it was simply shocking.
“What’s he saying?” asked James.
“God is great!” said Mark. Having arrived three weeks before, he was accustomed to the cries.
“Oh.” James looked thoughtful for a moment. “When can we go swimming?”
We got in a few hours of sleep before that morning’s second call to prayer. Still jetlagged, we shuffled to the central courtyard for breakfast, climbing a few steps into a lovely gazebo with a table in its center.
And then the feast began—honeyed pastries with cashews layered in filo dough, creamy custards, date cookies, porridges, fresh-baked flat breads, homemade jams, dried fruits, cheeses and eggs. For the next three months, plates swirled through the days and the nights: silver trays piled with ceramic bowls brimming with couscous, roasted vegetables, kabobs, tajines (lamb or chicken slow-cooked with olives,
almonds, raisins and lemons in heavy glazed pottery with a domed top) … prune-stuffed pheasant served with fiery harissa sauce … quail roasted with sesame seeds and cashews … Fish filled with citrus fruits, and surprisingly heavenly pastille (pigeon pie stuffed with carrots and oranges) became routine, as did condiments like pickled lemons and ginger-cilantro sharmoula sauce.
Mark and I piled our plates high, and Cameron (between nursing) nibbled on bite-sized morsels, but poor James was overwhelmed by the spices and initially made do with sandwiches, granola, and protein bars until Minnah slowly introduced him to no-spice Moroccan fare.
Breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon teas were usually served in the courtyard gazebo—the scorching sun shielded by the palm trees that stretched up to the sky. But at night, when the temperature dropped to pleasantly balmy, the feasting moved to the lantern-lined rooftop, where the outline of the golden city spread below and the house staff hauled up tray after tray of food, all washed down by fine Moroccan red wine and finished off with mint tea and desserts like warm dates and almonds drizzled with chocolate.
That first afternoon, Mark suggested we check out the souk in the walled Old City, called the Medina.
“What’s a souk?” asked James.
“A market where they sell everything,” said Mark. “It’s sort of a Moroccan mall.”
The minute the outer doors of our palace opened, the boys caught sight of two local children playing with stones in the street.
“Mom, look!” yelled James, running back into the palace and emerging with a handful of toys. As we walked across the dirt street, the two Moroccan boys looked up wide-eyed to see two foreign kids who had cool stuff—like a Sesame Street pop-up toy and miniature cars. While the kids were playing together, our driver, Omar, stood watch.
“Here, you can keep these,” said James, handing the locals some of his Matchbox cars. Cameron followed the lead of his big brother, handing over his pop-up toy.
Omar translated in Arabic. “These boys came over from America,” he said. “They want you to keep these toys as gifts.” The local kids’ eyes lit up and huge smiles overtook their faces.
Personally recommended by the government, Omar proved invaluable from that day on, serving not only as translator but also as our guardian and personal guide—chauffeuring us to mosques, mountain camps, and far-off cities. His English was limited, but he communicated with gestures and his warm eyes, and we felt entirely safe in his care.
With the snow-dusted Atlas Mountains rising as a backdrop, the chauffeured SUV bumped down the hill onto smoother roads. Mark talked on the phone while the boys and I stared out the windows as our vehicle passed rickety wood carts pulled by ponies, herds of belled goats, hundreds of rusty bicycles with live chickens or greens in the baskets, falling-apart cars, heaving buses, leathery-skinned men riding mules, seas of pedestrians, and motor scooters zipping along carrying entire families—father in caftan, mother in scarf, and two or three kids wedged in between. Traffic took on a whole different meaning in Marrakesh: it was more an ocean of moving humanity where lanes and traffic lights were only theoretical footnotes. James appeared to be totally engrossed in the strangely different world that was walking, rolling, and trotting along.
The SUV squeezed through impossibly narrow passages until it could go no farther, and we disembarked near a grove of palm trees. Before we even proceeded through the arches of the 900-year-old pink clay walls, we got a whiff of the market, where the mixed scents of cinnamon and saffron, grilled kebabs, baking breads, incense, and animals permeated everything. Donkeys wandered through, monkeys swung from rafters, and live chickens squawked everywhere. It was a scene out of 1001 Arabian Nights—a dizzying maze of vibrant colors, sounds, and smells.
We sauntered past stalls selling olives, figs, dates, and nuts from open burlap sacks; past those where turmeric, cayenne, cumin, cinnamon, saffron, and chili powder were shaped into cones; past vendors selling shawls and glass lanterns; past hanging carpets and shelves of painted ceramics and hookahs. As we weaved through the serpentine hallways, it struck me that the souk was more of a bustling city: you could get seriously lost.
A donkey brayed as it ran by us. “Pony!” cried Cameron.
Outside of the souk, we turned into the Jamma El Fna—a huge columned square lined with food stalls thick with smoke from the grills. It was filled with jugglers, story tellers, scribes, poets, and healers. There were barbers’ stands with little more than a chair, razor, and a jagged mirror, next to dentist stalls with pliers strung from wires above.
“Look!” cried James, pointing to a man with something slithering around his neck. “A snake!”
“James, want to be a snake handler?” asked Mark, pulling out his camera.
He gulped and put on a brave face. “Sure, Dad.”
As I watched the cobra entwine itself along James’s arms and neck, I realized I hadn’t packed supplies for venomous bites. Happily, we didn’t need anything, but I was plenty relieved when the charmer took back his asp.
“Hey,” said Mark, “let’s get a shot of you guys with the monkeys!”
“Mark, they probably have cooties!” I protested, but he was already placing the monkeys on the kids’ heads and clicking away. Luckily, I’d brought special shampoo just in case.
“That was cool!” said James, clinging tightly to my hand after I’d washed off his hand with antibacterial lotion. I’m a germ freak—the kind who wipes down the airline trays and arm rests, and throughout our stay I insisted we drink only bottled water, even using it to brush our teeth. At first, Mark thought I was being extreme, but by the end, he was bragging that unlike almost everyone else, we never got sick.
As we climbed back into the car, James looked back at the pink-walled souk. “That’s not like the mall at home at all.”
That night after a rooftop dinner of tanjia—beef, lemon, and garlic cooked for hours in a crock—we all fell into such a deep slumber that we scarcely heard the morning call to prayer.
A few days later, we headed to the Sahara.
“We’re gonna ride camels!” James informed Abdul, then Minnah, and finally Omar—none of them fluent in English.
“James,” I said, flipping through a guidebook while Mark worked the phone, “did you know that camels can go for two weeks without water?”
“Wow,” he said, just as we approached the sand dunes.
“And now the fun starts,” said Mark, folding up his telephone. “Omar, hit it!”
For the next 15 minutes, we roared up and down several miles of dunes, the ride feeling like a roller coaster combined with a ship lurching on the high seas. Mark was laughing, the kids were screaming with delight, and I was sure I was going to toss my breakfast. Finally, around the time my stomach felt like it had landed in the backseat, we spotted a herd of massive one-humped animals being led by a Berber shepherd wielding a whip.
“Camel!” cried Cameron.
“Yay!” yelled James, wide-eyed as he took in the beasts, while Mark and Omar negotiated prices for a ride. The camels knelt down, and Cameron and I hopped up on a gentle creature. James rode alone on a sweet-natured dromedary, and Mark followed on a friskier fellow.
“This camel’s hissing at me!” said Mark as we sauntered along. The biggest kick was watching James, laughing away as he rode along the Sahara on his dromedary. I, too, enjoyed the experience—although the end of the ride was a little unnerving. When the camel knelt down for us to descend, Cameron and I nearly took a nosedive into the sand.
“One last picture!” said Mark. “Come on, James, get closer to the camel!”
“James,” I warned, “that’s close enough.”
“Closer, James, come on!”
“James, listen to Mommy. That’s the hisser. Don’t get too close.”
“Closer, James, closer!”
Step by step, James backed up to the camel’s side. At last, when James was millimeters away from the reclining beast, he cracked a wary smile. Mark readied the camera for
the perfect shot. In that instant, the camel leapt up, swung around, and shat all over James.
Mark burst out laughing. Omar ran over with water and towels, and I tried to console James.
“Honey,” I told him, “the French say if a bird poops on you, it’s really good luck. So just imagine all the good luck that’s coming your way!”
James took it in stride. Even though it appeared to barely faze him, he scarcely mentioned camels for the rest of our stay.
That evening, Mark took me to a secluded lantern-lit restaurant in the heart of the old walled city. Omar whisked us through the labyrinthine Arab quarter to a dark alley. There we got out and met a well-dressed man holding a lantern, who escorted us down dark twisting alleys deep into the heart of the Casbah.
“Mark, is this safe?” I asked as the first man handed us off to a second, who led us down another dark alley.
“Di, we’re fine.” He said it was a secret hideaway that even most locals didn’t know of. I kept thinking we were going to get mugged and nobody would ever find us, but at last the twisting walkway dead-ended, and the man gestured for us to go through a door.
I worried that it was a setup, as it didn’t look like there was any restaurant behind that door. But, indeed, there was: a totally swanky high-ceilinged dinner club, like something you’d find in Paris or New York, with live music and wonderful food. We ate course after course sitting on pillows at low tables, as belly dancers wearing bangles and sequined silk get-ups shimmied by. Amazingly, Mark even turned off his phone.
Back at the palace, we checked on the boys and then had a nightcap on the rooftop, looking out over the glowing city lights as the scent from nearby orange groves wafted through the air.
“So, Di, what do you think?” Mark asked, pulling me close in a passionate kiss. “Are you happy?”
“Real happy,” I replied. “In fact, I’m blown away.”
The Road to Reality Page 2