AFFAIRS OF THE HEART

I haven't blogged for awhile. I had a reason. It's not that I haven't had adventures to write about. Matter of fact, I've recently been on one of the biggest, scariest adventures of my life.

Eight weeks ago, I suffered a heart attack. Believe me, when I called my ‘medical power of attorney’ and told her she might be needed we were both REALLY surprised. I’m only 62. I consider myself an ‘active’ senior. I hike regularly, backpack when I can, have been practicing yoga for years, and cycle in the annual El Tour de Tucson road race. I rarely eat packaged foods and really love my fruit and veggies. How could this possibly be a heart attack? The hardest call I had to make was to my 26-year-old son who would shortly be leaving Tucson for seminary in Washington DC.

I’ve always prided myself on my rather intimate relationship with my body. I can scan my body in the morning and know just what yoga poses would help me limber up in preparation for the day. I have a good sense why a particular muscle hurts or exactly which muscles I need to keep in shape to keep those torn ligaments from hurting so much. I’ve exercised or yoga’d my way out of chronic back and shoulder injury. I opt for physical therapy instead of pain relievers. By god, I am active. But I soon realized I had no such relationship with my heart. I'd always taken it for granted.

Now I am living with a history of ‘heart disease’. I’m eight weeks out now and have just recently got the diagnosis. In my case, the diagnosis is really important because I don’t ‘fit’ the demographics or the common medical signs for people living with heart disease. And I didn’t have to be shown how to properly perform a squat the first day in cardiac rehab. I already can do a pretty decent standing row. I could easily plank for 30 seconds and immediately pushed it up to 60 seconds while most of the newbies to rehab were being taught how to sit in a chair safely without crashing over.  And all along, my EEG’s have been showing nice even little mountains and absolutely no valleys. Zero heart disease, especially of the common clogged artery type – at least until the heart attack.

I've thought a lot about whether I would publicly give any details but since the diagnosis is kind of an equal opportunity diagnosis I thought it might be helpful for the people I hang with and other family members and friends who are generally also healthy and some quite fit. My diagnosis is exertion- or exercise-induced hypertension. Great. A diagnosis that is just becoming more common and is still not well understood. Just like me to wind up with something a little out of the ordinary and susceptible to 'trial and error' treatment.

Generally, when exercising or climbing mountains or hiking up and down with 30 pounds on your back, your body sends signals to the heart to relax its arterial walls in order to accommodate an increased need for oxygen which is delivered by blood volume going up. For some reason, my heart no longer can respond to this signal so when I reach a certain level of exertion (IMHO not a very high one at that), my blood pressure literally spikes through acceptable pressure limits. So it's kind of like a big flood coming through a small culvert. Something's got to give.

This type of hypertension can be treated somewhat with ordinary heart drugs prescribed to a person with hypertension caused by more normal reasons but ultimately ‘treatment’ is about finding a 'new normal' for exertion - one which will not cause the culvert to burst. This entails a lot of exercise and exertion under very controlled circumstances in cardiac rehab to help the patient better ‘read’ his or her heart’s signals that things are about ready to blow.

In the meantime, I'm working VERY hard on becoming fitter than I've been since my 20s and 30s in the hopes that this, too, will help. It's unknown and perhaps unlikely whether this will have much of an effect but it certainly can't hurt, especially since I am constantly monitoring my blood pressure as I exercise to determine where the heck my 'new normal' is.

So if you are healthy and like high exertion sports that may go on for fairly long periods of time (running, backpacking, hiking, cross country skiing, cycling, etc.) and begin to experience shortness of breath, redness in your face, pain in your chest, or angina that does not go away during or after periods of high exertion that you think is ridiculously out of sync with your overall condition, please visit your doctor and get a stress test.

It's amazingly apparent once you know what to look for. Your blood pressure will be going up as to be expected during exertion then BOOM it hits pressures over 200. You do not have to have super high cholesterol levels or resting blood pressures for this to happen. Pay attention please. Don't wait like I did until a heart attack brought this problem to my attention. By the way, doctors might miss it if you don't press them on this issue. I was in urgent care with what I thought was some pretty serious angina but because my bloods were acceptable and I have a history of activity, I was sent home. That night I had the first serious heart attack. Three days later I had my second heart attack in the emergency room of the hospital.

Recovery takes time and patience (yup, I'm also not good about patience). Depression often accompanies a heart attack. I experienced a little of that at the beginning but then I realized my addiction to the endorphins I was not getting sitting on my ass on the couch for a week was likely to be one reason for my ‘blues’. I negotiated a different get-well regime with my primary care doctor (she says every appointment is a ‘negotiation’ with me) and then I got up and went for a walk along the Rillito. I bought a Fitbit to shame me into getting up and moving the days I am not hiking or in cardiac rehab. I am not yet confident I will be able to backpack down and back up into the Grand Canyon but I am working my heart out to get there. I promise you - I'll see you down the trail.

A SOUTHWESTERN SMALL TOWN 4TH OF JULY

I heard the splash before I felt the droplets. I turned to see my friend Patty and her children armed and ready. A steady stream erupted from yet another fire truck. Patty was fairly soaked by the larger stream of water emitted from the fire fighters bravely manning their stations. She was plainly outgunned. Her fault, really, being armed with her small single-stream water pistol; she was David in a losing battle with a Goliath armed a water bazooka hooked to a hose which lead to a tank of water.

Oh well, it’s the Fourth of July in Patagonia and veteran parade goers (I am one) know you best wear quick-dry clothes if you are right on the street during Patagonia’s 4^th of July Parade and Festival. Patagonia is a pretty little village nestled between the Patagonia and the Santa Rita Mountains, along Sonoita Creek. It is basically a two main street affair. A row of artsy shops and yummy restaurants in addition to its only general store sits along the north road and a large historic hotel, its local craft store, more yummy restaurants, a coffee shop and a beautiful church line the south road.

Patagonia is now a place people move to get away from the big city (the biggest nearby being the millionopolis of Tucson) or ranch lands that have been in families for generations. There are organic farms along the verdant Sonoita Creek bed and Spiritual Retreat Centers in the hills above the town.

There are several mining ghost towns on the dirt roads up in the Patagonia Mountains, quiet reminders of a booming industry that left a train station turned into Civic Center on a generous patch of park that stretches the two long blocks between its two main streets. It’s a place where neighbor absolutely knows neighbor and with that comes the civility of having to live next door to people you might not exactly agree with. It’s one of my favorite places to be on the 4^th in these United States.

Patagonia’s 4^th festivities are pretty downhome. Families arrive plenty early to stake out their canopy spots on the grounds of Patagonia’s generous central park. The Senior Center’s volunteers arrive early to organize the brat and root beer float concession in the Center’s spotless cafeteria. The Tombstone Vigilantes drive up in their colorful period costumes and noisy pistol replicas.

Sonoita horse ranchers show up with their horse trailers and their best-looking and calmest steeds for the Parade. The floats, fire engines and trucks, a flotilla of historic and really cool looking Model T’s and A’s and whatever else there are line up behind them and somewhere near the middle those adorable 4H kids tote the flag and sometimes drag their fairly well-behaved goat or dog or other 4H project turned life-long friend along. On July 4^th, Patagonia is a western Norman Rockwell painting.

Patty, her two children, my own grown son Daniel and I got there an hour later than usual but there was still plenty of spaces down the block in the Post Office lot. It was Patty’s first time but she had done her research (she is part of my adventure group and we all tend to do research before we head somewhere – it’s just what we do). We both had our snacks and our drinks. We had a camp chair for each of us. Patty and her kids had three water pistols plus a gallon of water for recharging the ammo. We all had sun screen which we forgot because that’s what one does in Arizona when the clouds provide some cover and your skin is not broiling from the sun.

We walked up the north road and started hunting ‘our spot’ along the long line of revelers already waiting in polite lines all the way down the three-block northern part of the loop around the City Park. In front of a beautiful villa-style stone house, I spotted an unattended sidewalk space big enough for our raucous group of five. The lone gentleman sitting on one of a row of patio chairs assured me it was just waiting for my group to come along. His name was Eric and he and his wife were LA transplants, migrating to Patagonia to escape the overwhelming busyness of the big city. It was his second Patagonia Parade. I could tell from his constant stream of visitors that he had already embraced the small town friendliness that comes with living in Patagonia.

To protect our ‘spot’ I added a couple of our own camp chairs to the line barricading the vehicle parking lane and got down to business of waiting for the parade to start. The other four, this being their first time in Patagonia, explored the Park where Dan investigated the many tasty food options at the Festival grounds on the other side of the Senior Center. Mexican foods are naturally a big favorite here in this village that might have been around since before it was even part of the United States.

Finally, we could hear before we could see the Parade color guards marching down the street. Then came the Parade Marshall followed by fire trucks and engines from pretty much all the volunteer and professional fire departments

in a 50-mile radius. A Navajo Hot Shot crew walked in front of the trucks carrying their pulaskis, picks and shovels. Firefighting is an honored tradition in these dusty hills and mountains and every year, and to thank them, these firefighters are given the special honor of being one of the first groups to lead the parade.

Float after float came drifting by. Many of them had water-soaking bandits hiding out in the interiors or on the decorated buckboards. Water, another of the village’s precious commodities, came raining from both the spectators and participants alike. Patagonia knows how to throw a really good water fight.

It didn’t take Patty and her kids long to realize blasts from their small streams of water usually was followed by perhaps a larger response from the parade participants but that was quickly followed up by the traditional wrapped candies now so ‘not allowed’ in other parades across the country. Patagonia trusts its neighbors to deliver safe candy and to stick around to pick up the mess.

Finally, the last float drifted by and the crowd began to collectively move toward the Festival grounds. A side trip back to our parked cars to stow our camp chairs made us a little late getting to the ‘hanging’, a skit with volunteers from the crowd being ‘tried’ by a judge from the Tombstone Vigilantes with trumped up charges being attested to by a ‘sheriff’ intent on having justice served. With ice cream if possible. After the hanging, we were treated to the music and dancing by the Redhouse family, proud Navajo traditional dancers Lenny and Tony with their musical sister Mary. Mary sings, chants, drums and plays the Native flute while her brothers celebrate Navajo culture with ritual dances.

 

As the festivities continued, our group headed to the cars and to the Patagonia-Sonoita Creek Preserve, a beautiful 873 acres of the richest riparian habitat left in Southern Arizona which is home to the first 2 miles of the permanently flowing Sonoita Creek. The kids (even my 25-year-old who might just be more of a kid than Patty’s tween boy) hunted crayfish in the meandering stream and watched the four indigenous and tiny fish species play out the ancient circle of life with the crayfish. Barefoot and bareheaded, it could have been a scene from Huckleberry Finn’s days.

Everything about Patagonia and that day remind me of what’s best of the United States – friendly and patriotic people willing to lend a hand to the community, happy people offering thanks for their freedoms and gratefulness for their families.

On our way back to Tucson, Dan and I saw a fountain burst somewhere near “A” Mountain, the official firing site for the Tucson 4^th of July firework display. Heading toward the parking garages at the University of Arizona, we parked and hiked up four levels to the top where an entirely different group of Americans waited patiently on the camp chairs with their coolers, dogs and kids for the traditional explosion of patriotic feeling we call the 4^th Fireworks. It’s tradition. It’s what we Americans do to celebrate ‘the bombs bursting in air (that) gave proof through the night that the flag was still there.”

I hope I continue to do something like this every Fourth – get away to a small town holding a celebration of being able to do small town things, then meet up with friends who come from all parts of the country and even other countries to view the 4^th of July fireworks. I hope I never lose the magic of patriotic music and flags and 4H kids with goats. I believe in what America has come to stand for and the reason so many people from other countries (including my own forefathers and mothers) float, fly, drive and even walk into this country.

The United States of America’s freedom is disorderly. Often my freedom impinges on someone else’s. But in the United States, our traditions would have us settling these disputes in legislatures and courts rather than by bullets. Of course, we Americans have the right, which we so often and deeply rely on, to disagree on how we want to live. And sometimes the far left or the far right act in ways which, although sometimes fueled by honest and heart-felt beliefs, take their resistance way too far into violence like the recent shooting in Charleston. But I don’t see a system out there that has been able to manage the great Melting Pot in the same way we have. Freedoms for one to be extended to all has meaning. Even just this past week our freedoms were expanded as gay couples finally were given the green light by the freedom arbitrator of our country – our Supreme Court - to marry who they love and with whom they want to be celebrating their 4th of Julys.

Freedom has a forward trajectory in our country. We are a messy and loud bunch of people where the beliefs might not all be the same but the love of freedom is constant. Living under our flag means being able to sew it on a pocket of my jeans in college just so I could sit on it as a protest against what I thought was wrong with these United States. Even then, I viewed the flag as important and I treat it with respect, but I’m glad I can live in a country that does not require me to think of it as a sacred icon, one that would wave at me as I hobbled to the jailhouse because I had a different way of believing than others. Long live these United States and its community celebration called the 4^th of July.

THE SOUL OF MAROC

I wrote much of this just a few hours before leaving Maroc, the name Moroccans give their ancient land. From the first moment of arriving, I felt its great welcome. I was asked am I tired? Am I hungry? How could my hosts help me feel better right in this moment, these first moments in Marrakech? It had not been a long flight from Madrid but the lines through immigration and customs made me both hungry and tired.

My hosts listened with ears that heard my needs and immediately began to address them as their guest in their beautiful country. And from that moment of arrival, they were constant in their desire to see my needs were addressed. I experienced many, many news things in Morocco and I have written about them in other blog posts.

My experiences in Morocco's South has made me believe that the desert, the great golden Sahara, has been a constant and guiding influence in the long history of Morocco and might just be its heart. The constant threat of danger formed a culture in which hospitality became the key to survival.

When I first pulled up Southern Morocco on Google Earth, I saw great swaths of mountains and plains (which I learned were called hamadas) slashed with stripes of verdant green. Southern Morocco's desert may be it's heart, but the life-giving rivers coming from the Atlas Mountains in the South's verdant and cultivated valleys are its blood, providing water for homes and crops in this otherwise seemingly inhospitable landscape.

But surely, it is the Moroccans themselves that are its soul. Moroccans, and particularly Amazigh Moroccans (who the English called Berbers) are very modest people. They are kind and thoughtful; they are clean and tidy, always ready to receive a guest as commanded by the Koran and the exigencies of an unforgiving desert. They are justifiably proud of the gifts their country can offer - the exotic adventures, the ancient kasbahs, the beautiful dunes of the desert, the stunning gorges cut by constant waters, the green and productive river valleys. But this pride does not make them arrogant. They are a humble and loving people. In writing this, I hope I do not offend their sense of modesty but how can I possibly explain why I think its people are the soul of Morocco without offering my readers a chance to meet some of the wonderful people I have met there?

For some, I have kept their names since they are businessmen and women and would love for my friends who might be traveling through Morocco to consider them for goods or services. For others, I have changed the name so that it might be less easy to identify them. For any offense, I beg apology.

As I was repacking and trying to cram my gifts into the one small suitcase I brought, my host Adrienne told me she hoped I wasn't 'disappointed' that we hadn't made it to Fez, one of the oldest and most historic of the Royal Cities. I was actually taken aback by the thought that I might be disappointed and took a few seconds to gather my thoughts about my stays in Boumalne Dades and areas further south. I finally settled on the truth of my visit which is even without tourist sites that surely must be listed in every guidebook known to the traveler, I had been given far more than memories and beautiful pictures to show my friends. I had given me the gift of getting to know its people, surely a gift far more valuable.

My last night in Boumalne, my hosts and I went from new friend to friend so I could say goodbye as would be proper in the desert where friendships mean a great deal. Almost all of these people had given me a small gift or a memory that is irreplaceable. Spending my last few hours seemed the courteous way to thank them for taking time to not only meet me, but to let me know they felt getting to know me was the most important thing they had to do whenever we spent time together.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would not have met Masu, my driver up and into the Tanghir Gorge (the subject of another blog post to come) whose smile is as as wide as the ocean and whose sense of humor exceeds the restrictions of the lack of common language. The three of us, Adrienne, Masu and I had a lively conversation all about the lack of common language and we laughed at our ignorance while acknowledging how much fun we were having together regardless. Masu reaffirmed my belief that lack of a common language is only a barrier if you NEED something but if your intent is to have a good time, to enjoy common experiences, common language is down the list of important ingredients.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have gotten to know Odmane, the general director of Xaluca Dades, the luxury hotel that was the site of my blog post HOT IN THE HAMMAN. When our overnight stay in the nomad encampment in the Sahara Desert was aborted due to an impending sandstorm, Odmane assisted us by making sure we had rooms in another Xaluca Hotel, Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, outside of Merzouga and right under one of the Sahara's enormous collection of dunes, Erg Chebbi. Before the sandstorm hit, the hotel staff helped us hire camels and a camel guide to fulfill my deepest Moroccan wish - to sink my toes on the top of a sand dune in the Sahara.

Back in Boumalne on my last night in Marocco, we told Odmane of our experience riding our camels into the dunes to return to the hotel where the sandstorm rattled the doors on their hinges and sent sand drifting under the door, affirming our gratitude that we could still experience the desert but safely. Odmane, whose entire family had been in the Sahara tourism trade for generations, told of his first wild drive through a sandstorm, at 16-years-old, after the driver of the vehicle he was in refused to continue in the blinding storm. Feeling a heavy responsibility for his guest, he took over the wheel even though he was a very inexperienced driver, intent on finding a safe place in which he and his guest could weather the storm, only knowing he really was on the dirt road when he felt its washboards under his feet. From Odmane, I learned how deep runs a sense of responsibility in desert families for their guests.


Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Odman, the merchant, a lanky, good-looking Amazigh (Berber) who invites his customers to Moroccan 'tea' right outside the door of his shop, one of the many doors down one of the many narrow alleys that form Boumalne Dades. I would not have met his beautiful sister who brought us tea with just a bit of saffron, a luxury spice even rare and valuable in Marocco. From Odman and his sister, I learned that Moroccan merchants take an interest in their customers needs and are willing to spend whatever time is necessary to fulfill them. I learned that a transaction with a Moroccan merchant provides an opportunity that goes beyond the purchase into friendship.

 



Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would not have encountered a traditionally-raised woman, whom I shall call Fatima whose marriage had been arranged as it was at that time in Marocco at the very early age of 13. She lost the husband of her 4 children also very early and, without any education, she has managed to raise a family of professionals - a lawyer, two sons certified to work in the tourist trade (very important in Marocco), and a budding mathematician who was studying for her finals during my visits. Now, with all of her children only home for visits, she lives in her spotlessly clean house in the family's kasbah and grows fruit and vegetables in the family plot along the river. She is younger than me. Fatima's happiness, peace and strength are palpable. From her, I learned the Moroccan family relationships, especially her right to bring her children to live in her family's kasbah, mean men and women are supported by their extended family in whatever way is needed. An offshoot of this strong family relationship (to the extent family members are not denied housing) is that homelessness is practically unheard of in Marocco.

Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Aziz Bolouz , who is a sports trainer that offers his family's stunning Kasbah Assafar perched high above the Valley of Roses to groups of athletes wanting a special place to train. Aziz, a runner, takes them up and down the mountains and valleys of the High Atlas, knowing every nook and cranny. Aziz told me he has met so many different kinds of people he wanted to know how people come to believe what they believe so in addition to his study of sports training he took a degree in philosophy. The night we were guests in his family's kasbah was spent dancing and accompanying the two Asafari who sang traditional songs until I could no longer keep my eyes open at 2am.

Aziz and I understand each other's need to be more outside than inside. We both constantly check the sky and track the sun on the mountains' many canyons. I hope to put together an adventure hike in the High Atlas in 2017 with Aziz as the provider of tents and other support. From Aziz, I learned of secret places in the High Atlas and of the great and ever-changing beauty of the sweeping Valley of Roses below his kasbah. He also reinforced the multi-faceted character of the Amazigh, living both in the modern world yet respecting very old fashioned traditions of respect for nature and for hospitality.

These are the people that are the soul of Morocco. Strong, resilient, honest, trust-worthy and reliable. Proud of their heritage but humble by nature. Important and honorable characteristics. I'm sure I would have loved seeing the ancient university in Fez or the great palaces in the other royal cities, but if my trip had not been exactly the way it was would I have made friends like these? I think not and for that I feel very blessed indeed.

CAMEL RIDING IN THE SAHARA

Riding a camel is a lot like riding a mechanical bull.  I think. My time spent on a mechanical bull was pretty short and a long time ago after a few beers in a Country Western bar near Boulder CO in the 70s. But from what I can remember, sometimes it’s kind of fun but other times it is just plain terrifying. Nonetheless, after taking my one and only camel ride in the actual dunes of Erg Chebbi in the Moroccan Sahara, I still recommend camels as the best transportation vehicle for the monster dunes of the Sahara Desert.

For one thing, camels don’t take a lot of fuel to go many miles. For another, you don’t need to pack spare tires; their feet are leathery pads with two toes that spread out on the sand, easily overflowing a standard dinner plate. Unlike other four-footed animals, camels move both feet on the same side forward when they walk so riding one is like sitting astride an overturned kayak on a sometimes stormy sea. Camels have huge doe-shaped eyes with long lashes that either make you think they are the ‘soulful’ animals of Lonely Planet’s musings on the 'Desert of Dreams', or remind you of some cartoon. Camels seem to be a bit self-centered and stubborn to me, but they eventually follow the lead of the camel herder and provide the function they have provided for millennia – taking wanderers across the great expanse of the mother of all deserts – the Sahara.

When I headed to Morocco, I already knew I would miss the Royal Cities to the north, choosing instead the wide open barren spaces to the south. I have an addiction to wide open spaces having lived in the USA’s Desert Southwest for nearly 35 years. If the choice is between desert and city, I’ll most always opt for desert. And that is where I headed, the day after my plane landed in Marrakech.

My first stop was Boumalne Dades and Tanghir, the subject of another post. That far south in Morocco, even though Boumalne is in the Dades Valley, just south of the imposing High Atlas Mountains, the land is already dry and scrubby, looking not unlike my own desert, the Sonoran Desert, but with different vegetation. The contrast of the verdant and well-tended gardens along the rivers in the valleys coming down from the High Atlas to the scrubby hamada is striking. But then it seemed everywhere I looked I could spot incongruencies like this that added to the surprise of Morocco.

As my hosts and I traveled from Tanghir even further southeast into the desert, the hamada became even more sparse and empty. We saw camel herds and camel herders on the hills. My hosts pointed out what looked very much like the top of ancient kivas but turned out to be underground watering holes (think ‘rest stops’) for the Amazigh (Berbers) living their nomadic lives in this dry, inhospitable country. The further south we drove, the smaller the villages became; autos often replaced by all manner of wagons and carriages drawn by donkeys and horses.

Finally, Erg Chebbi, one of the two enormous dune systems of the Moroccan Sahara and looking just like it did in the 2005 movie Sahara, appeared. I could not take my eyes away. Here was the stuff of my travel dreams. I so wanted to stick my toes into the Sahara sands. I’ve climbed some pretty impressive dunes in my own Desert Southwest and I know what climbing mountains of sand can do for unused muscles. I just hoped the dunes weren’t quite as high as they looked from my window at the Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, one of the beautiful Moroccan Xaluca Hotels.

This trip was supposed to end up with a 4WD ride up and over the dunes to a Amazigh encampment for two days but because of the real threat of a sandstorm (even the camel herder who sleeps with the camels in a small shack mentioned that sandstorms are the least favorite part of his job), an overnight stay in this beautiful hotel with a sunset camel ride and walk into the dunes was Plan B. Not a bad Plan B at all.

After settling in and having tea (you are always offered ‘tea’ here in Morocco and you should always accept – it’s just polite and the cookies are generally quite good), we met our camel herder in back of the hotel at the base of the Erg. I wasn’t too concerned about mounting the camel. The camel was cushed (lying down) and my camel was the smaller of the two. To mount a camel, you literally throw one leg over the saddle and pull yourself up onto it. The saddle has no stirrups but does offer a smallish ‘rod’ tied in the middle to the saddle directly behind the camel’s rather large head. This operates as your ‘saddle horn’ and believe me, you are going to use it as a drowning man hangs on to his life ring buoy.

The camel herder then shouts camel-type commands to the camel, the camel responds in kind (although it seemed my camel was saying “nope it’s late and I’m staying right here jerk”) and this continues until the camel herder wins. Or at least mine did.

Remember that little rod? It is going to keep you from tumbling over the camel’s head when the giant beast pushes off the ground with his back legs to stand up. Your entire body is suddenly vertical to the ground and your feet are desperately hunting for the afore-mentioned missing stirrups. But in the end, you are up in a pretty comfortable saddle feeling pretty good about not making a complete fool of yourself. Until you realize your legs are further apart than they ever were when you birthed your firstborn.

The camel's front end goes up a bit easier; this movement will bring the saddle parallel to the ground, a much more comfortable position. And then, your ‘ship of the desert’ (called so because of the rocking motion of your camel as it moves both legs on one side forward) begins its slow plod up and into the erg.

A camel going up into the dunes isn’t too bad. The camel’s giant dinner-plate feet are perfectly designed for walking in sand. I could feel my core muscles moving and reflected on how much more fun this was than pilates. Yet, once up a dune, the other side usually goes down. This means that occasionally a camel has to go down too. Once more I had the notion of impending tumbling over the camel’s head-except from a higher plane. I tightened my grip on the rod and gripped with my inner thighs, inwardly thanking my fitness trainer for those thigh strengthening exercises using one of those inflatable exercise balls.

After riding the camel for what was all too short a time, we were several dunes back into the Erg and ready to climb up to the tallest dune around for the sunset. Getting off a camel is pretty much the reverse of getting on one. Same feeling of insecurity, same sense of the imminent foolishness of tumbling over the camel’s head onto the soft, forgiving (thank god) sand.

Climbing your way up a dune entails a good amount of work. But once on top, we could see the massive Erg Chebbi with its continuous flow of dunes all the way to the horizon in three directions. I nearly cried. I had asked my host to leave time for me to give thanks to the Maker and closed my eyes so I could affect a graceful and grateful posture and listen to the sound of the sand constantly shifting around us.

Almost before I had enough time to express my gratitude, sand started providing me an unwanted microdermabrasion. Fortunately, my host had stopped in at a roadside ‘strip center’ in order for us to purchase the necessary length of cloth from which to make a Berber turban.

Following his instructions, I had wound my turban around my head, leaving a ‘tail’ I could tuck into my turban’s folds in case the sand got there before we got down from the dune. That ‘tail’ quickly found its way across my face.

There is something incredibly unique and mystical about sitting on top of a giant dune at the very beginning of a sandstorm. We stayed just a bit longer, watching the orange-red Sahara sun slide slowly down over the hamada to the west, until the camel herder and my host felt we really needed to leave because of the blowing sand. It is quite easy to lose your sense of direction in a sandstorm. But if you are ever provided an opportunity to safely experience the swirl of sand around you on a darkening dune before riding your camel back to civilization, it is an experience that I can truly say might just be once in a lifetime.

HOT IN THE HAMMAM

It's not easy getting virtuallly naked in front of a perfect stranger who doesn't speak the same language. Even if it is a professional massage therapist in a Moroccan hamman. Especiallly if you are with your girlfriend who also doesn't speak the language and there's two massage therapists. If one of them says anything to the other you are just sure it's going to be like "I hope my skin isn't this wrinkled when I'm her age." Or "Hmmmm.....she could lose a few kilos, heh."

But I love massages. I love saunas. So when I read about the Morrocan version of a Turkish bath, I couldn't wait to try it. The fanciest resort in town, Xaluca Hotel, offers the 'tourist' version for guests in a spa not unlike those in the resorts in my home town of Tucson. The moment you enter the spa, you feel its humid heat. It smells of rose water, the favorite scent of a region that grows roses for a living. My massage therapist gave me a quick tour of the spa then showed me to our dressing room.

In the dressing room, we stripped down to our undies and wrapped bath towells (that felt all too small) around us as one of the therapists came in to direct us further into the spa to a very warm room that reminded me of a sauna. We were invited to drop the towell and lay faceup on what looked like yoga mats on a vinyl-covered bed. My therapist deftly began smearing some kind of goo on my legs and tummy after which I was instructed to "Over". The goo-smearing continued on my bare back and legs.

After this short ritual we were instructed by the therapist that spoke the best English to "Rest. We be back." Adrienne and I 'rested' getting hotter and hotter in the steamy little room. We talked of our families and mutual friends while the heat of the room and our bodies warmed the goo into a liquid that our bodies began absorbing. It felt really warm and really good. I think if one were alone, one might be tempted to nap.

In about thirty minutes our therapists came back. Each had a big bucket and a black mitt. I had heard of the 'scrubbing' part of a hammam visit and was used to 'polishing' my skin with a loofa every once in awhile but had never experienced anything quite so rough. I began to feel sorry for the rough wood tables that undergo sandpapering in order to be made into a fine table. Under the scratchy pad, gobs of dead grey skin peeled from my body, the therapist constantly dipping her hand into her hot bucket to rinse her mitt. I concentrated on how beautiful the wood looks after all that buffing.

Adrienne, thank goodness, knew what to expect having been there before. She had warned me to bring dry panties because we would be 'getting wet'. But I still didn't anticipate the large bucket of hot water splashed over my mostly naked and prone body. "Over." Came the command. Hot water crashed down my back, spreading out over my exposed back and legs. Actually, it felt really good. I was being 'washed' and was enjoying being washed instead of washing myself.

"Sit." Hmmmm, wonder what's going to happen. Splash came the hot water, soaking my head. My therapist reached for some wonderfully smelling shampoo and proceeded to wash my hair and scalp. Splash, again the hot water. I felt like my dog must have felt when I washed her funny face. I also felt very, very clean.

After helping me with my towell, my therapist crooked her finger at me. I wasn't exactly sure that meant 'stay' or 'follow me' but in instant fear of being left in a very small towell half-naked, I followed her on her heals. She led me to a room not unlike the room of my massage therapist at home. Low lighting, good smells, soft music. This tme the music was a bit Morrocan-exotic. That was a nice change.

The rest of the massage was not much different from a Swedish massage in the States. There wasn't a head rest but I rolled my towell up in a 'U' and placed my face on it. It worked just fine. The massage therapist worked confidently over my body, draping my 'bits' with a fresh towell as needed. I relaxed, smelling the scent of rose water and feeling the tension I didn't even know I had flowing out of my body and into her capable hands.

When my therapist had finished, she told me to 'relax' and I took the opportunity to lay still for just a few more minutes before sitting up and finding a new barely big enough towell to cover my now oily body and underpants, still wet from the bath. My therapist must have been right outside because the minute she heard noises, she politely came in to the room, crooked her finger, and commanded me 'Come'.

Back to the dressing room where my friend Adrienne was waiting. Remember the dry underwear? At this point of the hammam experience, it was time to blot off the excess oil with more fresh towells, dress in dry, comfortable clothes and retire to the Xaluca Hotel terrace, high above the city, to enjoy the wonderful view of Boumalne Dades and have that refreshing glass of Morrocan rose'.

DRIVING ME MAD IN MOROCCO

After only three days in Morocco, I believe I have come to understand the Moroccan driver just a little. I firmly believe it is not that Moroccan drivers are necessarily agressive; rather I believe they are opportunitistic, seeing every little possible hole in the constant wave of pedestrians, donkey carts, horse-drawn buggies (called caleches), bicycles, motorbikes, other cars and delivery trucks all walking and driving fearlessly and directly through town with a number of Moroccan curses  and a constant stream of honking to alert all others that YOU have been the clever driver to have spotted that tiny hole in traffic first.

Now add the ever-present roundabouts and seeming lack of math ability (there is a speed limit but it is rarely posted and no one seems to pay attention to it) and you basically understand the traffic situation in Marrakesh. Frankly, driving in Marrakesh takes balls. I think that is why driving is almost solely done by male Morrocans. Not that women do not travel by vehicle - you see them in their lovely djellabas sitting side-saddle, confidently hanging on to their chosen gladiator with their backs very straight but completely relaxed on said gladiators' motorbikes. Meanwhile, you, the visitor to this madhouse, sit perhaps in the front seat and wonder why you let your life insurance lapse.

My hosts, Massine (his Amazigh name) and Adrienne, a friend relocated from my home town of Tucson, picked me up from the Marrakesh airport and the drive to 'have some lunch' was my very first adventure in Morocco. Then it was another adventurous drive to the middle of town and its ancient souk. I wonder whether these trips are somewhat preparatory for travelers for the initial souk adventure of having a writhing snake pushed in your face by the first snake charmer you might encounter.

By the time I passed the snake charmer, one of the first sights you might see at the entrance to the souk, perhaps my danger limit had been exceeded and I was just on autopilot. I didn't even blink, to the dissatisfaction of the snake's 'manager', who expected to extort a tip from me by 'protecting me' from having the snake wrap around my neck. Heck the snake wasn't even a viper; those - four of them including 2 cobras and 2 others that looked very much like my own native Diamondbacks - were undulating on the ground a few feet away to the beat of the snake charmers' drum and flute.

After walking around in the colorful souk, tempted by all the beautiful scarves and purses and spices and olives and...... it was once more time to board our BMW chariot and head to ' have a rest' before dinner. It seemed that only more gladiators had joined the melee as it was nearly sundown and locals, tourists and travelers alike were arriving at the entry of the souk for a Sunday night's entertainment.

The art of parking is very much part of the art of driving in Morocco. To park, one must first find a reltively empty hole in the line of cars lined up wherever cars are lined up but with an attendant wearing a yellow vest to signal that HE would be the protector of your car, helping you slide your car into the available spot after having everyone exit the passenger's side, and then colluding with street merchants to set up temporary shop right in back of your bumper in order to keep other drivers from damaging your vehicle. Then of course on your return and payment for his excellent service, your watcher (or his colleague) is there to help you squeeze out of your spot and merge with the line of traffic which he so gallantly stops with his very own body.

Believe me, this all works. The reason I know it works is because I am alive to pen this post - not only after this adventure but an even more challenging one up and over the Atlas Mountains. Have you ever been in a bumper car ride with some really challenging kids intent on passing everyone ahead of them all along misjudging the distance between, in front of and in back of the other cars? Think of this and you will almost have the picture of what happens on the National Highway from Marrakesh up and over the mountains to Ouarzazate.

Normally, I would reference the number but it does not show up on the two maps I managed to find. The thing is, this National Highway simply does not meet the standards of the American Association of State Highway and Transportation Officials in any way- you know, the folks who wrote the book on what you can and cannot build for the highways in the States. I'm sure the engineers from AASHTO could hardly wait to get out their pens and calculators if they saw the winding, narrow two-lane highway that carries most of the freight and tourists from busy Marrakesh to and from the verdant river valleys on the other side of the Atlas Mountains.

The first thing I noticed was the lack of decent shoulders (as in mostly none), then I noticed how far apart were the pullouts. I suppose the first time we came up behind a lumbering truck I remembered I hadn't seen anything like a passing lane. So when our driver decided he had tired of the scenery the back side of a delivery truck presented and began looking for that 'opportunity' to pull around it, I took careful notes, should I would ever need to do the same.

First, just like in States, if you are a careful (or at least smart) driver, you will have been observing oncoming traffic from the many twists and turns that provide you that view. Second, when you think you have an opportunity to do so, you pull slightly into oncoming traffic in order to cross-check your opinion that there is sufficient room to get around the truck before being driven off the road or possibly coming into contact with a vehicle bigger than you (the philosophy of chicken is to exhibit more bravado than your opponent). In those few seconds, it is also important to have checked for possible unknown curves or side roads from which an unexpected vehicle could pull into the lane traveling opposite of you.

Pulling out to check on your passing status seems to be a signal for the observant and cooperative truck driver in front of you to put on his left turn signal, affirming that you are free to pull around. I found that signal reassuring at times the mountainside on the other side or next to my seat in the front dipped immediately below my view. Our driver sometimes found it helpful to call other drivers rude Morrocan names in order to convince them they needed to slow down so he could maneuver the vehicle around or in between two trucks.

Another driving tip - it is useful to stay as close as possible to the posted speed limit unless you feel driving faster might help under the current road conditions. That, and calling the other drivers rude names, seem to assure safe passage on that tiny, twisty road. I also noted that having the passengers frequently and plaintively remind the driver to slow down or be careful around a curve does very little to change the driver's strategies.

One final tip. You might want to practice holding your breath before you attempt to drive or ride on Moroccan National Highway between Marakech and Ouarzazate. Driving that road for the first time is probably not the best time to find out holding your breath makes you pass out as you or your driver powers around that big truck in front of you.

A FEAST FOR MY EYES

Today I saw one of the most famous paintings in the entire world. Picasso's Guernica, his commissioned painting for the industrial Exhibition in Paris of 1937, depicts the carnage of a unprevoked bombing of the civilians of a town in the Basque region of Spain by the combined forces of Germany and Italy. The painting is huge; I doubt I have any uninterrupted wall space which could house this painting. It dominates the gallery of the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid where it is displayed.

I am not really a student of art nor an artist myself. I can only tell you what I experience when I see a particular piece of art. I do not know anything about the tools every artist uses in order to elicit the emotion for which they are striving with their work. But I can tell you that Guernica makes me angry at those who would give reason for such art to be painted. Images have power and this image not only made me angry but it prompted me to want to know the circumstances behind its commissioning.

The painting was completed at a time Hitler was tightening his noose around 'undesireables' and the Spanish Civil War was in full swing. In order to shore up Franco's war efforts in Spain, Germany and Italy bombed the Basque town of Guerneca, beaking the previous rules of war. The civilian deaths were not collateral damage from the bombing but its intended mission. Picasso use of powerful images and symbols elicited horrow at such an event and drew attention to Spain's struggles.

As I reflected on this painting trying to put it into my own perspective, the closest thing to this image I could remember in my lifetime were the stark black and white photos coming back from the cameras of the photojournalists from New York Times and Life Magazine in the 1960s in the United States. These images of our boys dead and dying on the battlefield turned the tide of support against the Vietnam War. Images have power.

Yesterday, I spent several hours at the Prado, viewing paintings not only from Picasso but from such Spanish painters as Goya, Valeques, Murillo and El Greco. The Prado collection of Spanish masters is massive. It holds (and displays) so many Goya and Valeques, I was able to trace the evolution of their art. I could sense there was a profound shift in the type of art being commissioned - from religious subjects and portraits of the monarchs and cardinals to more secular subjects. I wondered just how historical events influenced art and of course, whether art had returned history's favor.

Frankly, I don't know if the Prado's collection contains much more than the paintings on the second floor as I took so much time here, it was time to close by the time I was ready to begin the first floor. But the floor I covered most thoroughly had already given me a glimpse into the history of Spain which I was eager to pursue at the Reina Sofia Museum today.

The Reina Sofie holds Spain's collection of 'Modern" art, including the core works of Picasso and of surrealist Dali. Like the Prado, its collection of Spainish artists' work was comprehensive. Even with my limited knowledge of art, I could see the progression of Picasso's styles fromThe Seated Harlequin to Guernica. I could see the growing confidence of Dali's work including the giant surrealist dream self-portrait 'The Great Masturbator'. I was also pleased to see artwork of non-Spaniards whose work I admire, like Diego Rivera, Alexander Calder and Mark Rothko.

I like surrealism and modern art so I particularly enjoyed the Reina Sofia, even though many of the films shown to explain how modern culture informs art and vice versa, were difficult for me to understand with my limited Spanish. But over all, the museum attempts to encompass more than painting and sculpture media for modern art to expand one's understanding of what exactly art might be were thought-provoking and interesting. My limited perusal of the Prado and my more thorough visit to Reina Sofia left me with a lot of questions about how the art in these two immensely popular museums (the line for tickets was still very long at 7pm, only 2 hours before Reina Sofia's closing) informed the culture of Spain and, of course, how Spain's culture informed the art.

Particularly in the Reina Sofia, I was very conscious of how my lack of knowledge of the history of Spain impeded my ability to fully appreciate the art within its galleries. Did subtle differences between decades even in the prodigious portraits of those in power indicate certain historical trends - such as the waning influence of the church and the increased acceptability of socialist ideals? I wnted to know more and walked away with a book on the History of Spain in the late 19th and 20th Centuries.

My biggest disappointment was the almost complete lack of female artists. Not even in the Reina Sofia would I see the work of female Spanish painters although Dora Marr's photography was represented. I find that deeply unsettling but don't know enough about Spanish culture to interpret the conditions under which this lack came about. I sincerely hope this does not represent an invisibility of female participation in all aspects of Spanish culture. Perhaps the book I am reading will help fill in these gaps.

I actually have one more day in Madrid on my way home and, armed with newly informed understandings of Spain in the last century, perhaps my trip to the last of the museums in Madrid's 'art triangle' will help me see the last pieces a little more clearly. I'll certainly be back to Madrid because after art there is also Madrid's music, architecture and history to explore!