By sreyavaidya
This past year, I have slept on many things in many places. Trains, planes, and cars. Often, we stayed in the shadiest hostels weaved into the dimly lit alleyways of Kasbahs (Islamic citadel) all over Morocco. When I think bank on these unglamorous times with the dusty furniture, lumpy mattresses, and foreboding journeys to get to them, I’m reminded not of the tiredness I felt from lack of sleep, or the ache in every bone in my body. Instead, I remember the unimaginable experiences and sites they have lead me to discover: The sprawling and vibrant Fes Medina, the largest in the world; The blue streets of Chefchouen; The secluded beaches of Tangier where the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean finally meet, but, to name a few.
This past weekend was another such experience. We were on a bus to Merzouga, a small desert town 50km from the Algerian border, and interwoven with the vast Sahara. On our bus ride there, was supposed to be a 7-hour journey through the Rif Mountains from Meknes, a small northern city. My friends and I arrived in Meknes, and got on the bus, ready for the long bumpy ride. Four hours in, I woke up to find the bus parked in the parking lot, and the bus driver explaining to us, in what seemed like English, that he could not drive any further because of the snow in the mountains and the danger it posed on travel. So there we sat, till dawn, in a parking lot, freezing. I looked over at my friends, and they had the same exact, look…
"Why on Earth did we choose the middle of nowhere for our last trip?”
I closed my eyes and remembered the fancy riads that we had originally considered in Marrakech. Seven hours later, we found ourselves back on the road, going up and down mountainous terrain through a trail of fog. We sat there, watching our breaths materializing before our eyes. Somehow I left the East Coast on a trip to the Sahara and still ended up getting snowed in. After eighteen hours on a cramped and cold bus, we finally pulled into Merzouga. 18 hours. The time it would take my roommate to LA next week.
Tired and exhausted we prepared for a night in the desert under the stars. Enthusiasm was at an all time low. But you may ask, as we asked ourselves, was it all worth it?
3 hours on train, 18 hours on a bus, and a 2 hour camel ride later, it was all worth it. My friends and I had traveled all the way across the country in a long and excruciating journey. But 10 years from now I wont remember the pain or stress I felt that night. I will remember that image, the sand dunes and the sunsets and the people I experienced that with.
Those people, my friends, I wont remember as Italian-American or Jewish or African-American. While identity and where you come from is important, they are like analogous to a train or bus: A starting point, something to build off of and move forward with. Emotions and experiences can be universal, and shared with people without the boundaries of origin. What I will remember is the sunset and how riding camels is not as glamorous as it sounds with five amazing people I am luck to call friends.