Every story has a beginning. Sometimes it is intentional and obvious; the duffle bag thuds on the boat deck and you’re headed for the far side of the world. Sometimes not so obvious, like when my older brother said casually “hold on to this” and suddenly I was flung up high in a tree yelling (again) for my mom.
But this story, a love story, started unmistakably with the deep and unforgiving rumblings of a nervous colon.
There was this girl. Cat. Being with her was a weird combination of comfortable blanket and blindfolded bungee jump. And I wanted to marry the shit out of her. BUT she made it clear from the start that she would never marry again. Not in the “I will never drink like that again” kind of never, but more like the “I ate a filbert once and was on life support for six weeks, never gonna do that again” kind of never.
*sigh*
So talking about it was like when you get crabs in college, you never speak of it again.
But, perhaps, an exotic country like Morocco, in the Sahara desert, under the full Blood Moon? I thought it gave me a fighting chance, and even my best friend Jon told me to give it a shot. (After he said “What, you want to go BACK to Shawshank?!?”)
I called Zayan Travel Morocco (https://www.zayantravel.com), a reputable tour company that specializes in private tours. The tour planner sounded enthusiastic but seemed confused about the proposal aspect. He said in his deep Arabic accent “You’ve been married before. And now you want to do it, again. And this she does not want to do. Do you wish to force her?” He asked. “NO!” I said. “Wait, can I? Just kidding. Um, is that legal there?”.
Cat was game for a trip, but I kept the ring and my rising anxiety secret. Three months later, with our bags packed #redoxx we arrived in Marrakech to kids rolling goat heads across hot coals in the street. We weren’t sure if it was food (I continue to have the same doubts about Lutefisk) or a sport. Turns out we arrived on the first day of the holiday of Eid al-Adha, which commemorates Abraham offering his son for sacrifice (Lord, I’ve been there). The celebration is about giving, where a goat or sheep is sacrificed, dividing among family, friends and the poor. The goat’s head is roasted to remove the hair then cooked as a delicacy. (Interested in a recipe? I most assuredly am not, but it’s a good read: (http://www.tomsfeast.com/2012/04/sheep-head-with-cumin-and-lemon/). Several million goats and sheep are sacrificed on this day, and we could see the skins were piled up around the city in huge malodorous piles, just like our kid’s laundry day.
We met our guide Hafid, and jumped into his car. He made sure we were buckled in, smiled and said “Fast and Furious movie?” We said “Driving Miss Daisy Movie?” He’d obviously never seen the latter. Breakneck dusty miles later he casually mentioned we are passing by his home village, and that if we wish, we could eat the holiday feast there with his whole family. Hell yes, but I kept repeating the Lonely Planet mantra “don’t use left hand, (its the potty hand)” over and over.
The home was an amazing maze of interconnected buildings that expand as the families marry. Entering into the vibrant colored feast room, it was all men. Hafid assured us since Cat was not Muslim she was welcome at the table. It was like a strange game of “duck, duck, goose” only it was “Solemn man, Solemn man, Smiley Cat.” The feast came and I ATE. Since no one spoke English, I communicated by making approving grunts and nodding vigorously. Not much different than home, really.
Meal done, I patted my very full belly and gave a thumbs up (right hand) in approval. Then the next course came (loosen belt). Good Lord, then the next (unzip a bit, untuck shirt). Refusing meat by a host is considered very rude (All left-handed vegetarians take note), and our host was insistent I try everything. Sheep stew. Grilled sheep. Baked sheep with onions. Sheep kabobs. My son calls these bites when you are full “Soul Bites”, and I’m afraid I pretty much promised my soul away in order to not vomit on our very attentive hosts.
We never saw the women, but the children who were shyly poking their heads around the corner were finally brave enough to come in. I had a few Dad Magic Tricks to do for them, which I think intrigued the adults as much as the kids. Then we were speeding off in the sand to the Sahara. (cramp)...uh oh.
Mergouza desert hotel, Auberge Du Sud, https://www.aubergedusud.com/site/ on the edge of the Sahara with a crystal pool overlooking the desert. I felt like Aladdin but without the musical ability. Or youth. Or looks. So really just an older out-of-shape tourist with a loud colon. Tomorrow, off to our desert camp for overnight during the full Blood Moon.
We checked in and went for a walk through the desert, and suddenly I felt the need to return. Fast. (CRAMP). Nothing but dunes. “Um, hey, I’m just going to run behind that dune there and, you know, check it out”. “I’ll come with!” She said with a I’m-up-for-anything smile. “NO!” I said, a little too forcefully. “I mean, um, well, you know...” I stammered (CRAMP!). “Lemme just check it out.” Jesus. I felt like a cat in the worlds largest litter box.
When I came back around the dune Cat was with a young Berber desert native and a dog. He appeared out of nowhere, inexplicably, much like the Seventh-day Adventists do on my doorstep whenever I’m the least bit hung over. We tried to talk, but for the most part he just laughed at Cat as she giggled, played with his dog and slid down dunes. He stayed until the sun set, then faded back into the dunes.
We walked back to the hotel and Cat asked for a glass of wine. “You should not have wine.” was the answer from hotel staff. “Maybe they thought you were pregnant” I said, which earned me a look. We asked Hafid about getting some wine, maybe to take with on our night in the desert. None was available at the hotel but he said reluctantly that it could be delivered by camel but it would be very expensive, almost $40.
“Make it two” she said.
Now I don’t know what Cat packed for our overnight, but as a guy I kept it simple. A ring I desperately hoped she would like, and a roll of toilet paper I desperately needed. The caravan we joined was a dozen camels, winding through golden shifting sands. Incredibly romantic. I was quite sure Cat was impressed with my Arabic as I immediately got the attention of our Berber guide; “Biraz al’iinsan. Biraz al’iinsan!!” (Poop. Poop!) Thank you google translate.
After riding all day, our wine arrived via camel express just as we made it to camp. A traditional Berber meal was made for us and two other travelers, Josh and Sophia. He was an incredibly interesting young adventurer (I really believe that is his actual title) from England she from California. We offered our wine and he said with a great deal of seriousness “Sir, you have offered wine to an Englishman who hasn’t tasted alcohol in 3 weeks. I am in your debt.” Reminded me of the old quote that the reason that Englishmen drink so much is that it makes being British tolerable. He regaled us with fantastic stories of his travels (https://thewildoldroad.wordpress.com/) throughout the meal.
The full Blood Moon was approaching with a speed matched only by my adrenaline-fueled gastrocolic reflex. But I was ready. “Um, hey, would you mind going way over there to that dune with me?” After two days of me constantly telling her emphatically NOT to go with me to the dunes I’m sure she was suspicious. She looked out over a thousand miles of identical dunes. “Which one, exactly?”. “That one,” I pointed at randomly. And this is one of the many reasons I love her. Two days in the desert hiking through endless dunes and at 11 PM I asked her to see one more, and her answer was a cheery “Sure!”
And there, under the blood red moon, my guts churning, nervous damp spots spotting my shirt I got down on my knee and asked.
“Maybe” is the way she now tells me how she answered. But I remember differently. An enthusiastic YES is all I remember. And my colon gave a great sigh of relief, which I apologized for.
We went back to the tent and found Josh and Sophia finishing off the wine. I told him what had happened and he stood up and shook my hand with great sincerity and a sense of dignity that only the English can pull off.
The rest of the trip to Fez, the Atlas Mountains and the blue city of Chefchaouen followed without a peep from my digestive tract, and it has stayed quiet since. But our adventures rumble on...