A rumor that Pope Benedict XVI might be stopping by to see their work turned out to be false.  But then another rumor popped up that el Presidente Obama himself might be stopping by.  Either way, they were way ahead of schedule for any visiting dignitaries.

After a private tour of the palace, we were hungry for a certain Portuguese pastry…

Halfway between Marrakech and the seaside at Essaouira, it’s time for the usual ‘quinze minute’ rest break.  The missus couldn’t resist the charms of this Moroccan super-plucker, playing furiously underneath this highly relevant information.

Every rest stop poses a question:  Can you risk that fresh-squeezed orange juice, or espresso shot, knowing the next loo might be two hours away?

Argans are endangered trees native to Morocco.  In olden times, goats would climb (yes, climb) into the trees, eat the fruit, and poop out the pits.  The pits would then be ground by hand to make a delicious and healthy oil even better for you than olive oil.  Modern methods for processing argan oil are boring and sanitary.

Argan oil works for cooking and salads, but also makes its way into cosmetics and anti-aging creams.  It’s full of essential fatty acids and other great stuff.  And the world’s entire supply argan oil is produced by co-operatives of Berber women.  (Though they do allow the men-folk to work behind the scenes or, in the case of this shop, in the attic.)

Twenty or so open-air stalls beside the harbor will grill the catch of the day for you.  All the prices are fixed, so the fierce competition for diners depends on the charm and persuasive powers of the stall-keeper.  Or their ability to push the other touts out of the way.

The piles of bones and fish heads on every table are evidence of good eating on the Moroccan Atlantic.

Our nomad driver, Abdulrahim, told us that he worked as Brad Pitt’s driver during the filming of Babel.  “Brad Pitt is good man, shy man,” he informed us.  We drove up the mountain road where the bus shooting scene was filmed.

Luckily the sand had stopped blowing, so we weren’t confined to our mud huts.  Behind me on the right, you can see where our nomad guides spent the night.  Back and to the left, you’ll find the 100 meter sand dune we climbed the day before, giving us the chance to look across the Erg Chigaga and see nothing but endless sand dunes.

I guess everyone needs to find their desert.

All the nomads we talked to also made a point of noting that the desert was a great place to be because there were “no police”.

Nothing can prepare your rump for its first camel ride, especially a long one.  The first half hour I would best describe as being racked at a slow, steady pace.  The downhills on sand dunes are particularly tricky.  But for those few pain-free moments when you’re riding without consciously thinking about it, it’s a trip.

The experience gave us new-found respect for camel jockeys.  We cannot imagine how to stay on-hump at a full gallop.

Our hosts at the hotel in Ouarzazate took pity on our car-less state and drove us here themselves.  Morocco being Morocco, we had to stop and greet every uncle and cousin before crossing the river (by donkey), where we visited more cousins.

A burning issue that wasn’t resolved during our visit was how the concept of Berber carpets lost its way. How did the the beautiful colors and patterns of desert Morocco become the beige shag of modern day trailer parks?

Normally we try to choose a café with a mixed crowd, but after seating ourselves we noticed it was only guys.  Good thing clueless tourists with broken French can get away with anything, no matter how wrong our behavior.