Morocco, Part 3: Camel Toe? More Like, Camel Crotch.

Alright. Time to finish telling you about Morocco!

After our night at the nomad camp and our breakfast of tea, hard-boiled eggs, and bread, we made our way to the bajillion camels waiting for us outside of the camp.  I wasn’t particularly excited to be going on what we were told was a 2 hour camel trek after my uncomfortable 10 minute camel ride at the pyramids in Egypt. Thankfully, though, these camels were much smaller and the saddles, at first sit, were substantially more comfortable than the other ones had been.

We had a little caravan of four camels. Sarah up front, Pete on the second camel, I got the third, and Alex, wearing his turban-type thing and looking pretty legit, holding up the back. My camel’s name was Azuzu, and he was pretty good. He didn’t make one noise. Pete’s, on the other hand, was going nuts and crapping every two seconds, which I got to watch the entire time.  After about 20 minutes of camel trekking, I was beginning to realize that despite the increased comfort of the saddles, the fact that we were going to be riding the camel for 2 hours was going to leave us pretty damn sore. About halfway through, I decided to break the rules of Camel Riding 101 and sat Indian style on the saddle.  That was probably really dumb, but I didn’t fall off so it was a success!  Our trek ended up lasting about an hour and a half in all, and we were ready to be off of it by the end. 

We got back on the buses, camel-stench and all, and headed back to Marrakech, with less stops this time since we told our tour guide we wanted to get there as quickly as we could.  As we were riding along, I began to see droplets of rain on the windows. All I could think was, is it seriously raining in the SAHARA DESERT?! First palm trees, and now rain?  Did I get jipped on this whole desert thing or what?
Once we got to our hotel in Marrakech, I made a beeline for the shower so I could wash away all the nature/camel nastiness.  From there, my friends and I headed to the supermarket down the street to pick up some snacks.  As we were heading to the register, a Moroccan man approached us with a 100 dirham bill in his hand.  Oh jeez.  Why is he waving his money at us?? Does he think we’re prostitutes?!? Boy, put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and all of a sudden you’re a whore. 

Before we could walk away, though, he asked if we would buy him beer. What the hell? Why does he need us to by him beer? Then, he pointed to the men guarding the alcohol section and muttered, ‘Ramadan.’  Ohhh.  We’d seen them checking people’s IDs before they went into the alcohol section to make sure that they weren’t Muslim because Ramadan was the next day, and they weren’t allowed to drink. Gosh, that sucks.  So, we grabbed his 100, bought him some beer, and went back to his place where we converted to Islam and celebrated Ramadan.  Okay. Not really. More like, we muttered our ‘Hell no’s’ and headed to the register.  It’s not like Ramadan came out of nowhere. If this crappy Muslim didn’t stock up on contraband booze before the religious holiday, then he doesn’t deserve to get any now!  Dumbass. After our supermarket stop, we headed to Pizza Hut, grabbed a couple pizzas, and headed back to the hotel where we spent our last night in port hanging out.