Zagora: and a desert tale

Did they ever make it to the Sahara desert, you wonder?  Oh ye of little faith, of course they did.  There were a few detours along the way. (Aren't there always?)  But in the end, there was sand in their hair, sand in their pockets, and shhhh...... sand in their underwear.

But let's back up and start at the beginning.... 

A man in blue wearing a turban (yes, a real turban) who spoke  none of the 8 languages that they collectively spoke, motioned to the group that they were to follow him.  They did as they were told -- they were very polite.

They stopped for victuals of dubious quality along the way and met a genuine nomad (the fake kind just wouldn't do). His purple turban was divine and he wore the most remarkable footwear. Wouldn't you agree?

Frankly, their own footwear paled in comparison. 

They drove and drove and drove.  And then they stopped.  They had arrived in the Sahara desert.  There were real tents.  Well, sort of,  anyway.

Their Czech friend with a multi- sylabic name decided to dress like a desert bedouin.  She looked most charming.   

They unpacked and made themselves at home in the Sahara desert.  There was no electricity or running water.  (Well, of course there wasn't.  What kind of wussy desert dwellers did you think they were, anyway?)  It was soon time to conquer the dunes. The blogging girl peered at the path before her.  Oh my, very high.

Mothers slathered sunburn protection on now-bedouin children, and they all set off with enthusiasm.

They climbed up and up, huffing and puffing but pretending they were all in frightfully good shape.  Then they ran down and down, making loud, foolish whooping sounds, limbs flailing. 

Just before the sun set, they uncorked and made a toast:  To the Sahara desert!  they cried.   clink, clink.

Then they lay back on the most comfortable pillows.  Sand was everywhere.

....and all was right with the universe somewhere in the Sahara desert.