Sahara’s Sands of Time
/Moroccans, with their hospitality (a visitor in need can expect a room for the night; or be asked if they already have eaten) remind us of familiar Filipino behavior – their sense of humor and make-do attitude. In high school, we learned that a Moroccan, Ibn Batuta, almost reached the Philippines before Magellan did. It’s a connection worth exploring.
The idea of setting foot on a piece of North Africa and stargazing under the Saharan night was enticing. Morocco, in our mind, was the most accessible of these fantasies. We also knew a bit of Spanish and French, spoken remnants of the former colonial rule over Morocco. But there’s a hunger among urban Moroccans for English, which is now taught at high school. As such the hospitality industry is fairly conversant in English and other global languages.
Eurocentric narratives credit Magellan with discovering the Philippines. A well-read history teacher will tell you that Arabs reached the Philippines before the Spanish. Prior to Portugal and Spain’s footprints in Asia, Ibn Batuta, a Moroccan Berber, journeyed across the Sahara to reach Asia. His journey, which began when he was 21, lasted 30 years. Traveling the Silk Road, Batuta made his way to India and reached Malacca, a bustling trade center, in the 14th century. Continuing to China, he found a boat that would ferry him across the Indian Ocean to the Arabian Peninsula, then overland to Morocco.
(Courtesy: Office of Resources for International and Area Studies, UC Berkeley)
Although Ibn Batuta did not stop in Mindanao, he would have gained awareness of the Mindanawan or Visayan peoples while in Malacca through a network of Muslim traders. Southeast Asia, known for its spices, teemed with Arab traders trafficking in spices and tropical products who reached Sulu even before Ibn Batuta reached Asia. Here, Magellan purchased a slave who understood Visayan (he christened him Enrique) and became his interpreter when his expedition from Spain reached an archipelago he would name the Philippines.
Ibn Battuta’s name is easy to remember because it resembles a popular Tagalog rhyme “bata-batuta” (a sturdy boy). Although an unschooled 21-year-old then, Ibn Batuta after his travels, was considered the foremost explorer of the 13th century Muslim world, surpassing Marco Polo’s accomplishments. He had traveled the greatest distance. His stories became popular reading during his time. Scholars considered Ibn Batuta's narratives the earliest example of travel writing.
Following his journey to the East, he returned to Morocco and worked as a civil servant for the royal families. He visited Fes, Meknes, and Marakesh, the imperial cities of Muslim royalty, and visited Al-Andalus (Muslim Spain). The Muslim Berbers conquered the Portuguese and Spanish tribes and created a civilization that merged Muslim, Jewish, and Roman art and culture that we appreciate today. These were the places we wanted to visit. We did not realize at once that we had a chance to experience Ibn Batuta’s Morocco.
Exploring Morocco
There is much to see and experience in Morocco. A second visit is necessary to get beyond the touristy surface. For now, I highlight our experience in the great Sahara Desert. Like the glaciers of Antarctica, the Sahara Desert is one of a kind, a place once experienced melds in our psychogeography.
From our point of entry, Casablanca, our bus took us to Chefchaouen where city walls and houses are washed in faded blue; to Tangier’s lime-washed buildings (Ibn Batuta’s hometown), and then to Fez, a place that seems frozen in time. Along the major highways, you see a time reel of Moroccan history – crumbling earthen walls, centuries-old medinas (walled towns), and suddenly, a gleaming university in hi-tech steel and glass.
From Fez (Fes, to locals was the ancient sacred city) our bus drove through an icy rain in the High Atlas Mountains named after Atlas, who was punished by the gods to hold the mountain on his shoulder forever. Beyond the mountain, the Sahara. Our destination, Erfoud, a historical trading town was an oasis at the edge of the desert. In olden times, 1,000-camel caravans would travel from the East and sub-Sahara to reach Erfoud and trade the products of Africa and Asia –silk, gems, spices, and, unfortunately, slaves – in the inland markets and on to Europe.
It took us nine hours. I imagined hundreds of camels trudging through the mountain passes, months on end. Along the road, our guide pointed out where the caravans would rest at an oasis like Erfoud, before continuing their journey. How this channel of commerce, the Silk Road, created so much wealth for Europe, is hard to imagine.
Ibn Batuta, a Moroccan Berber, journeyed across the Sahara to reach Asia.
We arrived at our hotel in Erfoud in the late afternoon. The town was being blasted by wind gusts of fine dust from the Sahara. We had heard about Saharan winds but didn’t realize how strong they could be and typical. Saharan hurricanes, known as the sirocco, are intimidating, but our imagining got the better of us. They were just normal evening wind gusts, although strong enough to kick up tiny dust clouds. The dust found its way into any exposed part of our bodies, especially our ears and mouths. We could even taste the gritty sand on our tongues. Bleh! Disgusting! We retreated into the building, to the dining room and shop to seek relief.
In the shop, we found long poly-silk scarfs for turbans and face covers. I got myself a scarf in deep Moroccan blue. Patricia got a white one. In a short while, the shop lady showed how to wear a turban. I had seen this head wrap before in the Lawrence of Arabia movie. (Traditional headdress by desert travelers were called hata, a cotton scarf with designs that Bedouins and nomads use to shield their faces from desert heat and sand.)
With our head protected, we ventured out with confidence into the windy hotel grounds. The wind frenzy made the date palms sway left and right. Against the wall, the foot lights projected picturesque silhouettes. It was like a scene from the Arabian Nights movie.
At first light, the winds died down. After breakfast, we piled onto 4X4 Toyota Land Cruisers. Our bus remained behind. It cannot traverse the desert. Four white 4x4s sped through the last village with houses built from mud bricks and red earth. An occasional figure in a full black burka strolled along the sidewalk. I took a quick picture of a young child who stood on a threshold, who gave a timid wave as we passed by. I have seen familiar scenes countless times in Middle East-themed TV shows.
Past this village, the tarmac disappeared and turned into dirt tracks with deep ruts made on the hardened sand by other vehicles headed into the desert. Our destination was, Merzouga, where a camp tent awaited us. Sometimes, a 4x4 sped up on a fresh track, creating a trail of dust clouds. Purely cinematic, like a car chase in the desert. Exciting as it was, it made for a bumpy ride as the 4x4 driver struggled to keep its tires in the deep furrow of hardened sand.
After driving for an hour through high and low sand hills we reached our camp. I expected safari tents amid the empty desert, surrounded by date trees and sand dunes, with a camel grazing below.
It was none of that. We were what Californians call glamping (glamour-camping). By hotel standards, it’s a two-star. It had a canopy bed, ensuite toilet and a shower. Not luxurious, but not spartan either; but it kept the sand out. We stepped a few meters away from our tent and surveyed the wide expanse of sand, miles and miles of sand. It soon dawned on us we were in the Sahara! Nothing but sand, some flat, others undulating dunes as far as the eyes could see. It was grand. We felt small in the scheme of the great Sahara. It was awe-inspiring. It was almost spiritual were it not for the drone of dune buggies racing towards their own campsite a few miles away? For a moment, we didn’t feel like tourists.
The harsh noon softened into mid-afternoon light, the dune peaks cutting sharp shadows and making silhouettes that looked like the serrated teeth of a handsaw. The first time I set foot on a sand dune was on Paoay beach, Ilocos Sur, which stretches along the West Pacific Sea for about 90 km. Its sand dunes have become popular attractions for dune buggies. While sand is sand, there is a difference. The overcast sky at Paoay, especially during the rainy months, gives the dunes a grainy, dull, and sad look. In the Sahara where it rarely rains, the powder-like sand, looks joyful, a brilliant yellow with shades of orange and red in the late afternoon sun, looking like mounds draped in silk.
After a heavy dinner of Moroccan tagine chicken, couscous, and freshly baked bread, we staggered out of the dining tent. The Saharan wind picked up in the early evening, sending gusts of fine dust across the camp. We pulled up our neck gaiters over our nostrils and struggled to our tents, heads down to shield our eyes. So fierce was the wind. The loose flaps of the tent made sharp cracking sounds as it struck the sides of the window. Not a storm, but we were told that by morning the wind would have formed mini-dunes by our doorway.
We looked forward to the camel ride to Erg Chebbi in the morning. It’s said to be where you find the tallest sand dunes on this side of the Sahara. We might have been tempted to walk to get a sense of its magnitude, but camels sounded a better option in traversing a wider expanse of sand. After all, these creatures had centuries of evolution as desert transport. Mules of the desert to some. Ships on sand to romantics. From what I’ve read, camels (ours were the Dromedary single hump specie) have developed hooves and legs adapted for sand travel. Their hooves were flat enough to serve as wide saucer-like paddles over fine sand, keeping them from sinking. Their knee joints work like pneumatic pistons that absorb the unstable sandy floor.
Along the road, our guide pointed out where the caravans would rest at an oasis like Erfoud, before continuing their journey.
My camel handler’s name was Abdul. He had a friendly face made ruddy by the desert air and sun. He held the bridle while the camel knelt on the ground as I hoisted myself with great effort onto a very wide saddle. A camel’s girth is almost twice that of a horse, so it causes your legs to be splayed out. There was no stirrup. The padded woolen blankets on the saddle reduced the stiffness of the seat but was smooth so that you slid forward and back as the camel walked. Probably not a good thing on a long ride. A metal T-bar takes the place of a pommel. The T-bar was my best friend throughout the camel ride as we jostled forward, backward, and side-to-side. Once in a while, the camel handler would shout “uphill” and we would respond by leaning back with a hand gripping the T-bar. If the other hand was free, you grabbed a piece of the saddle at your behind for more stability.
Falling off was not an option. A camel from hoof to head is over seven feet tall. Even though you may fall on sand, it would still be a painful drop, aside from the humiliation. Since I had one hand on an iPhone camera (could ’t miss that selfie!), I was extra cautious and kept an iron grip on the handlebar. With the camel’s slow-motion gait, the awe-inspiring view in front banished any discomfort or fear.
The sheer thrill of sitting atop a camel effortlessly climbing up sand hills brings back memories of a first ride on a roller coaster as it pulls up the top. You hang on to the safety bar. On the slant, the saddle is at least 30 degrees. A Sahara dune could be at least 50 feet. (Who knows how high it was before the last blast of wind?). The long legs of the camel traverse that distance in 10 minutes. You reach level with relief. The camel then descends downhill languidly, as camels do, swaying from side-to-side, its long neck nodding back and forth. You grip the back of the saddle until you reach level ground. You glance back and watch the camel tracks vanish as a whisper of a low-lying sand breeze blows over your recent impressions.
We dismounted from our camels with mixed feelings of excitement and slight muscle ache from the uncomfortable saddle. As we made our way back to our 4x4 vehicles, we took in a moment of the memorable experience.
The 4x4s drove further into Erg Chebbi and parked in a circle at a dune gully. We spilled out towards the dunes. The sand beneath our feet shifted and slid as we reached the top of a towering dune that must be at least 50 feet high. A cool breeze swept through. As we reached the peak, we settled down in silence, our eyes fixated on the breathtaking horizon before us.
The Saharan dunes stretched out like ocean waves, their golden hues contrasting with the vibrant orange of the setting sun. The sand shimmers in the fading light, creating a mesmerizing spectacle. In awe, we watched as the orange dunes gave way to a rich purple hue that stretched out to an eternal expanse.
Centuries ago, on this same great Sahara Desert, Asia beckoned to the young Ibn Battuta.
(Note: We are grateful to our gracious hosts who, in spite of Ramadan, were very accommodating).
Dr. Michael M Gonzalez after decades of classroom teaching in Philippine and American colleges, retired in 2022. He is looking forward to devoting more time to his nonprofit activies with the Hinabi Project, the NVM & Narita Gonzalez Writers’ Workshop, the Kaisipan.org as an outreach to the culture and arts communities. Outside of that, he is an avid student of fiction and nonfiction writing; and the classic guitar, and indigenous music.
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