The road winds along the ochre cliffsides of Berber country between Marrakech and Ouarzate. This countryside landscape is dotted with sparse vegetation contrasting the barren sloping rocks. Somewhere, hours ahead down the quiet road, lies the vast expanses of the forbiddingly hot Saharan sands. Again and again the switchbacks exchange one parched vista with another.
Unlike Marrakech, the heat here is dry and searing, forcing me to resort to dousing a scarf and occasionally dabbing my skin to cool off. It’s obvious that the locals and some other visitors are much more adapted to this extreme climate than myself. The members of this caravan chatter incessantly in a dull drone, their articulations are indistinguishably drowned out by the blaring Arabic music. As the only lone traveller in the group, at times the silence is poignant and at times I’m consumed by the random musings of my internal dialogue, lost in the remoteness of this forgotten landscape.
Sweat drips off my chin, the shirt on my back is saturated. Yet no amount of water seems to slake my growing thirst. Intermittently, the intense heat lulls me to a lethargic doze; until either a bump in the road or some sharp note jolt me from stupor.
The landscape grows ever forlorn. We’ve long passed the Berber towns, from here out only sparse villages hug the low hillsides. Now and then a lone local will stroll pass in his long flowing gown, leisurely stepping towards the slanting sun. In the far distance trails, a few women folk stand chatting in their shimmering robes; or possibly a merchant astride a donkey (too far to discern) descening a hill. Regardless, the heat is stultifying to all, numbing the mind to the edge of delirium.