Page 175 - WDT MAGAZINE PORTUGAL

I have driven across the desertic expanses of
the Tafilalet countless times, the latest in April
2019. The mere thought of viewing the pre-Sahara
plains stretching into infinity always rekindles my
sense of excitement. I am no longer among the
“privileged” few. The “trail” of old, where Sahara-
bound vehicles were an anomaly, now ferries a daily
stream of tour buses that often cover the exotic
two-hundred mile stretch in one day from the
northernmost point at Erfoud to its southern end at
Ouarzazate.
On one of my visits in the late 1990s, a plume of
white water surged from the Sahara floor and
arched over the heads of awed onlookers, who
stared at the “miracle,” mouth agape. Many had
walked the eight miles from Erfoud to view the
extraordinary sight, a first, that King Hassan II,
father of present-day King Mohammed VI, had
named "The Gift from God“. Sadly, the waters never
proved potable. To this day, only a rust colored
stream gurgles timidly onto the dry soil. Yet, the
hope of tapping into the life-giving water table
springs eternal. On my latest trip, water bubbled
feebly onto the bare soil, though the miraculous
“gift”— water suitable for irrigation — had yet to
materialize and quench the thirst of this bone-dry
landscape.
My latest journey along the Kasbah Trail, better
known for its desert panoramas than for its flowing
streams, began in Erfoud, once a major crossroad
for trans-Saharan camel caravans that originated in
the Sudan and Guinea. While Erfoud prospered,
only scattered ruins remain of neighboring
Sijilmassa, birthplace of the reigning 1000-year-old
Alaouite dynasty. The historic outpost welcomes
archaeologists from around the globe to unearth
Sijilmassa’s legendary splendors.
Erfoud once thrived on the cultivation of
Medjool dates, the main sustenance for Tuaregs,
the Blue Men of the Sahara, so called because the
natural indigo blue dye of their turbans rubs off
onto their skin. A traffic light regulates traffic in
Erfoud, though life in the oasis follows the same
rhythm it has for centuries. Donkeys laden with
bales of mint trot along narrow paths delineating
tidy family plots of alfalfa, fava beans, or squash.
Many women drape a corner of their black haik
over one eye, as is the custom, and will turn their
back on photographers.
On my last visit, our goal was to reach the
dunes of Merzouga, about an hour south, by sunset.
We parked our car in Erfoud, and transferred to the
air-conditioned van awaiting us at the Hotel Xaluca.
Yallah! Let’s go!” cried out our turbaned driver,
before stepping on the gas in a cloud of sand.

174 WINE DINE & TRAVEL MAGAZINE 2019