They are so cute, standing in the arid grasslands at the frontier of the Sahara. Dromedary camels, I mean.

It is said that in the South of Morocco, near Dakhla, in order to ask for the hand of a girl, you must gift her father a camel. And if the woman has been divorced, you must gift two camels.

 

 

Day 341

Todgha Gorge → Tinghir → Erfoud → Rissani → Merzouga

I travel with a magic hat. It makes the tip-collector ladies of public toilets so thrilled, it shaded me during my first ever climbs on lead, and during hitchhiking, it protects other passengers from the sun as they pee.

The first ride took Hamza and I so far. Just 50 kilometers from our desired destination. And they found us just steps from our hostel.

The driver was Mohammed. His friend in the passenger seat was Mohammed. Driver Mohammed’s girlfriend was getting too much sun so he put Passenger Mohammed’s scarf on the window for her. And because Passenger Mohammed had no more scarf, I lent him my hat.

We shared nut bars and coco balls. They dropped us by Erfoud.

Our next ride was in the back of a motorbike pick-up with a cage full of chickens and carrots. The carrots were for the chickens to eat.

In the middle of our windy winter journey, our Mohammeds passed us, laughing at us. At that moment I was wearing my hat and throwing peace signs at every passing vehicle.

Surprised, I wondered why they were now going in the same direction as us.

Our current driver invited us to stay in his home for three days.

Then we were stuck for an hour talking with some school boys on bicycles who were skipping their exams and offering us dates and giggling at my bizarre attention-grabbing hitchhike strategies.

 

 

At last a nice man and his friend wearing a cognac jalaba took us under their wings. They turned off the main road which mildly concerned me, but they just meant to show us a more scenic route.

The next town was Rissani. Home of the original medfouna.

Medfouna. “Berber hamburger.” A one-hour, oven-baked monstrosity of bread filled with lamb, almonds, onion, herbs. Flat and round and larger than a pizza. The insides are stained yellow from cumin.

The first restaurant said a medfouna would be 150 dirham. Double the price. Hamza, my empty stomach, throbbing head, and I moved more towards the center.

On our way to the souk, a car suddenly pulled up and Hamza was beaming and waving before I could register what was going on. Our Mohammeds!!

They said that they had just finished eating a medfouna here, and that we should take the rest. A bit startled, we didn’t see why not.

I guess, the entire time we were chilling by the roadside, our destined medfouna was slowly cooking itself to perfection.

 

 

And Hamza and I were walking to the exact spot where the universe would have us meet our Mohammeds who would pass us the medfouna.

In Morocco, it’s perfectly acceptable to show up to a cafe with a box of food and just order a tea. Glancing around, other families were also heavily bent over their cardboard boxes, stuffing themselves silly with medfouna.

So we chowed on the still-warm, carb-y goodness, and drank an empalagoso pitcher of tea.

A taxi driver took us next. Mid-driving, he waved down another taxi and passed us on, which landed us in Merzouga.

 

 

We got hustled to a hotel near the Erg Chebbi Dune just in time for sunset. My shoes became cups of sand. With no shops around, and still recuperating from the medfouna, I mused at how fitting a bowl of red harira, a typical tomato-based soup, would be for dinner.

Sidi Hamid was the most considerate receptionist. Wearing a brown turban, he invited us for a pot of tea (about the fifth invite today).

Another Mohammed, aged 13, sat with us.

Then hot harira was placed in front of us. We brought the bowls to our faces until they were emptied.

 

 

Hitchhiking Hope

Hitchhiking Hope is a concept that began during my hitchhiking adventures through the Caucasus countries with Hamza the Happy Moroccan. We were moved by the love of people helping people without expecting anything in return.

Hitchhiking is humbling and humiliating. It is deep and extraordinarily spontaneous. It connects me with construction workers, truck drivers, physicians, and law students. Discoveries of new music, dances, and foods are made on a daily basis.

The conversations and home-stays we shared with our drivers broke the invisible boundaries of culture, language, and money. Because almost anyone can hitchhike anywhere, we wish to share stories and inspire others to practice one of our favorite ways of traveling.